Comhroinn Fuaime

His name was Mark, thirty-eight, broad-shouldered and thick with muscle from years of early-morning gym sessions he refused to skip. He owned a mid-sized logistics firm in the city—nothing flashy, just steady contracts that paid the bills and kept twenty-three employees on payroll. Twenty of them were women in their mid-twenties to early thirties, sharp, ambitious, and perpetually glued to their phones. Mark didn’t mind. His wife, Lena, loved it.