My Founder's Revenge: He Was A Janitor, I Was A Bully — Then The Whole Board Bowed

The Janitor's Wrath

The air in the luxury hypercar showroom hung thick with the scent of expensive leather and ambition. Midnight had fallen, but the space pulsed with an artificial dawn, born from the stark, moody glow of cyan and tungsten spotlights. Circular neon halos traced patterns on the mirror-polished obsidian floor, reflecting a blood-crimson carbon-fiber supercar that spun slowly on a motorized turntable. The only sounds were the low hum of ventilation and the distant whisper of rain against the panoramic glass walls.

Into this opulent stage strode Damian Knox, a man who commanded attention like a storm front. At 34, his jet-black hair was slicked back, accentuating a sharp jawline and eyes that held a perpetual, condescending sneer. Clad in a bespoke charcoal Italian wool suit, his gold signet ring glinted under the lights. He moved with the predatory grace of a wolf, accustomed to owning every space he entered.

Beside the spinning masterpiece of engineering, he confronted Arthur Vance. To Damian, Arthur was just part of the background, an elderly janitor, 68 years old, his face a roadmap of weathered lines, his receding silver-streaked hair dulled by smudges of buffer wax. His faded navy coveralls spoke of a life of service, not power. But behind the wire-rimmed spectacles, Arthur’s gaze was a piercing steel, calm and unblinking.

Damian’s voice dripped with venom. He grabbed Arthur’s frayed collar, his white-knuckled grip a testament to his rage. “Know your filthy place, old dog,” he snarled, his sneer deepening. “You are disposable trash in my empire!” Arthur remained silent, his mouth closed, his weathered hands clutching a damp cloth. His silver brows furrowed slightly, but his eyes held Damian’s fury, refusing to flinch.

Then, the blow. Damian recoiled his arm and struck Arthur across the face with an open palm. The sound – a sickening, thunderous crack – echoed off the marble. Arthur’s spectacles flew from his face, shattering on the floor as a crimson welt bloomed on his cheekbone. “Bleed on my floor and lick it clean!” Damian taunted, his malice a palpable force. Arthur’s jaw clenched, his gaze unwavering, locked onto Damian with a glacial resolve that belied his frail appearance.