Magnus’s head snapped up from his phone the instant Leo’s voice crackled through the speakers.

The sound seemed louder than it should have been, filling every corner of the room.

His pulse kicked hard beneath his skin, each beat heavier than the last. Turn it off. The command screamed through his mind, sharp and desperate, but his body remained still, locked in place.

"I want to use this opportunity to apologize to Roman Whitehall for lying against him," Leo began, his voice unsteady but clear enough. "It was never my intention. My family was coerced into it."

A faint static hissed under his words.

"I want the world to know that even though a fight happened between Roman and me, I only sustained a few bruises. Nothing more."

Across the table, Roman slowly shifted his gaze away from the screen. He looked at his father instead, not fully, just enough to catch it.

Magnus didn’t blink. His eyes were glued to the screen, his expression stretched too tight, as though sheer will could stop the words from continuing.

"I would have named names," Leo went on, swallowing hard, "but I’m afraid of this person. He’s powerful, dangerous, and very close to the seat of power in the NHL."

A pause followed and the room seemed to lean forward with it.

"My life could be ruined," Leo added, quieter now. "My family’s safety too."

"Your life is already ruined." A second voice cut in from the background, low, impatient, and unmistakably real. "You might as well drag him with you."

Brows lifted around the table. A ripple of murmurs followed, soft but charged.

Magnus’s grip tightened around his phone, the edges pressing into his palm. Damn bastard.

On screen, Leo flinched. "Stop it," he muttered, turning slightly as if trying to block whoever stood behind the camera.

"Just tell them," the voice insisted. "Say the name. The authorities will protect us."

Magnus’s foot began to tap faster beneath the table, an uneven rhythm now. Don’t do it. His jaw clenched. Don’t you dare say it.

"Say it," someone at the panel whispered under their breath, barely containing the anticipation.

"If you won’t speak, I will," the unseen voice pushed again.

Leo’s face crumpled for a moment. He dragged both hands over it, breathing hard, caught between fear and something that looked dangerously close to surrender.

Then he lifted his head, his eyes meeting the camera.

Across the table, Roman leaned back slightly, watching both the screen and his father in quiet tandem. The satisfaction settled slowly in his chest, warm and steady.

He didn’t need to act. This was unraveling on its own.

On the screen, movement broke out, shadows shifting, someone stepping closer.

In the room, Mr. Saunders shook his head faintly, his lips pressed tight, as if willing his son to stop through sheer force.

"It was him!" Leo’s voice rose, cracking under the weight of it. "That bastard Ma—"

The screen went black. Just like that.

The audio cut with a sharp click, leaving behind a hollow silence that rang louder than the confession itself.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then—

"Where is the rest of the video?" someone demanded, pushing back their chair slightly. "He was about to name someone."

Another voice followed, sharper now. "Why was it cut off?"

Roman’s gaze slid, slow and deliberate, back to Magnus. He didn’t want to miss this.

Magnus sat rigid, his face flushed, the color rising unevenly beneath his skin. His brows were still raised from the abrupt cut, his expression caught halfway between relief and exposure.

For a split second, just a second, it looked like he believed it was over. That the name had almost been said. That everything had almost collapsed.

And that flicker? That was all Roman needed.

A low wave of murmurs rippled through the room, thick with irritation and curiosity. Chairs creaked softly as a few members shifted, leaning toward one another, voices overlapping in hushed speculation.

Everyone reacted. Everyone except Magnus.

He let out half the breath he had been holding, slow and controlled, careful not to draw attention. The tension in his chest eased just enough to think again.

"That boy must have been terrified," one of the members muttered, shaking his head.

"He was about to mention a name," another added, tapping his pen lightly against the table. "It started with ’Ma.’" He paused, frowning as he replayed the clip in his head. "If we follow that thread, someone close to the NHL power seat, name starting with Ma."

The words lingered, hanging in the air like smoke.

A few heads tilted. Someone exhaled sharply. Another leaned back, eyes narrowing in thought.

Then—

"The father is sitting right in front of us," a voice cut through the speculation, firm and impatient. "Why are we stressing ourselves to decode clues? He can simply tell us what his son was about to say."

The shift was immediate. All eyes turned. They landed on Mr. Saunders. Even Magnus looked at him, his gaze sharp, heavy, carrying a silent warning that didn’t need words.

Do not dare.

Mr. Saunders felt it. His eyes moved slowly across the room, meeting one face, then another, reading the expectation, the pressure, the quiet hunger for answers. Finally, his gaze settled on Magnus.

That was enough.

The rest of the room noticed and their brows furrowed. Whispers sparked again, softer this time but more pointed, like sparks catching dry grass.

"Why are you looking—" someone began.

"I promised my family I wouldn’t say anything about the person behind all this," Mr. Saunders cut in, his voice calm but carrying weight.

He clasped his hands together on the table, steadying them. "Not out of fear," he added, lifting his chin slightly, "but because their safety matters more to me than my son ever playing hockey in this country again."

A faint stillness followed his words.

Magnus studied him for a beat, the tension in his jaw loosening just a fraction. Good.

"Whatever punishment is given to my son," Mr. Saunders continued, quieter now, "we will accept it. It’s the least we can do after everything we’ve put Mr. Whitehall through."

"No." Magnus’s voice cut in, sharper than before, the word landing like a crack across the table. "Your son will face something far worse," he continued, leaning forward slightly, his fingers pressing into the polished surface. "He tried to destroy my son’s name, my family’s name. That is not something that goes lightly."

Mr. Saunders’s jaw tightened. For a fleeting second, something dangerous flickered in his eyes, something that looked like it might break loose. But he held it back.

"I don’t think threats are necessary," he said instead, forcing the words out evenly. "If I decide to speak, even this room won’t be able to contain the chaos that follows."

"Then go ahead," one of the panel members said, leaning forward, her elbows on the table, her voice edged with challenge. "We all want to hear the name you’re so reluctant to say."

Silence fell. Not gradual, sudden.

The kind that pressed against the ears, thick and suffocating, as every breath in the room seemed to pause at once.