That was how he handled most things that were supposed to please him.
He started them.
He acquired them.
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He left them untouched.
His apartment was immaculate in a way that felt less impressive than eerie.
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No photographs.
No souvenirs.
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No framed degrees.
No visible history.
Forty tailored suits hung inside a backlit closet in shades of gray, navy, and black.
The leather chairs in his office were expensive enough to start arguments and comfortable enough to put a man to sleep, but he only ever sat in one of them long enough to sign papers.
Every surface shone.
