The first person to laugh was a billionaire. The second was a senator.

The spotlight operator scrambled to find the source of the voice, finally panning the beam to the back of the room. It landed on Silas. His plain brown coat looked even more absurd under the blinding white light.

Marcus shielded his eyes, peering into the glare. When he realized who had spoken, his confident smile curdled into a sneer. "You. The vagrant. Security should have removed you an hour ago. Turn his microphone off."

"I don't need a microphone," Silas said, projecting his voice effortlessly. "My question is about your logistics, Mr. Sterling. You claim a thousand-percent return. But your math relies on the assumption that the Pan-African Infrastructure Bank will underwrite the local debt. Have you secured their cooperation?"

Marcus scoffed, gripping the podium. "We don't need their cooperation. When we inject two hundred billion into the market, they will bow to us. It's basic economics. Something you clearly know nothing about."

"Actually, it's basic arrogance," Silas countered, taking a step forward. The crowd parted around him as if he were carrying a contagious disease. "You’re assuming the bank is driven solely by localized greed, just like you. But if the bank rejects your predatory terms, your entire supply chain collapses before a single shipment of lithium leaves the port. Your 'Apex Fund' will become a financial sinkhole. You aren't offering these people a monopoly. You're offering them a sophisticated Ponzi scheme."

The silence in the ballroom was absolute. You could hear a pin drop. Nobody spoke to Marcus Sterling like this. Ever.

Marcus’s face turned violently red. "How dare you," he hissed into the microphone. "You wander in off the street, wearing rags, and lecture me on global finance? I manage a sovereign wealth portfolio! I am buying this very hotel by the end of the fiscal quarter! You are nothing!"