The penthouse was a sterile monument to Victor Sinclair's ego. Gleaming marble floors reflected the city lights like a fractured mirror, showcasing the opulent artwork and minimalist furniture designed to impress, not comfort. Ethan ignored it all, his focus laser-locked on the man standing at the far end of the room, silhouetted against the panoramic view.

Victor Sinclair. The architect of his downfall, the orchestrator of his parents’ demise, the reason for every scar – physical and emotional – that Ethan now bore. Sinclair, however, seemed unperturbed. He stood with an air of casual arrogance, a glass of amber liquid swirling in his hand. He wasn't in a suit, as Ethan had expected. He was dressed in a surprisingly casual silk robe. He looked less like a corporate titan and more like a bored emperor in his decadent palace.

"Ethan," Sinclair said, his voice smooth, almost fatherly. "I must say, I'm impressed. I didn't think you had it in you to get this far."

Ethan said nothing. He felt the weight of the épée in his hand, the cold steel a familiar comfort. The adrenaline coursing through his veins was a sharp contrast to the icy calm he forced upon himself. He wouldn't give Sinclair the satisfaction of seeing him rattled.

"Such a waste, really," Sinclair continued, taking a sip of his drink. "All that potential… squandered on vengeance. You could have been part of something great, Ethan. We could have rebuilt Sterling Industries together, stronger than ever."

"Rebuilt on lies and blood?" Ethan finally spoke, his voice low and dangerous. "My parents deserved better. *I* deserved better."

Sinclair chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Sentimentality. It's a weakness, Ethan. I thought I had bred that out of the Sterling line. Your parents were… collateral damage. Necessary sacrifices for progress. And you? You were simply an inconvenience, easily dismissed."

"You dismissed me too soon," Ethan said, taking a step forward. The marble floor echoed the click of his boots, each sound a drumbeat of impending reckoning.

Sinclair finally set down his glass. His eyes, cold and calculating, narrowed. "So, you've come for revenge. How… predictable. You think you can defeat me, a man who controls empires, with a glorified toothpick?" He gestured dismissively at Ethan’s épée.

"It's not the weapon, Victor," Ethan replied, raising the épée, the tip glinting under the dim light. "It's the wielder."

A smile touched Sinclair's lips, a cruel, predatory smile. "You think you're ready? I've had preparations, Ethan. I knew, eventually, you'd be here." He clapped his hands once, and two figures emerged from the shadows – hulking men in black suits, their faces impassive, their hands clenched. They were clearly professionals, not mere security guards.

"Leave us," Sinclair commanded. "This is a family matter."

The men hesitated, glanced at each other, then retreated back into the shadows, leaving Ethan and Sinclair alone in the opulent penthouse.

Sinclair reached behind a sculpted bust and pulled out a long, thin object. A sword. Not an épée, but a foil, gleaming silver. It was clear this wasn't just for show. Sinclair knew how to use it.

"You're not the only one who trained, nephew," Sinclair said, testing the weight of the foil. "I always believed in being prepared for any eventuality. I was a fencer in my youth, and a rather good one, if I recall." He adopted a fencing stance, surprisingly graceful for a man his age.

The air crackled with tension. Ethan shifted his weight, his senses on high alert. He knew this wasn't going to be a simple brawl. This was a duel, a dance of steel, a final confrontation years in the making.

"Let the requiem begin," Sinclair said, lunging forward.

The foil flashed, a silver blur aimed at Ethan's chest. Ethan parried instinctively, the clang of steel echoing through the penthouse. Sinclair was surprisingly fast, his movements precise and economical. Years of corporate maneuvering had clearly honed his strategic mind, and now he applied that same intellect to the art of fencing.

Ethan retreated, studying Sinclair's style. He was aggressive, relying on speed and direct attacks. But there was a stiffness in his movements, a lack of fluidity that betrayed his age and lack of recent practice.

Ethan began to circle, probing for weaknesses. He feinted with a high attack, then dropped low, aiming for Sinclair's leg. Sinclair parried, but Ethan pressed the advantage, forcing him back towards the panoramic windows.

The city lights blurred behind Sinclair, creating a disorienting backdrop. Ethan pressed his attack, driving Sinclair relentlessly. He used everything Marcus had taught him – the footwork, the parries, the ripostes – all fueled by the years of pent-up rage and grief.

Sinclair, despite his initial confidence, began to falter. He was breathing heavily, his face flushed. He parried Ethan’s blows with increasing desperation, his silver foil a shield against a storm of steel.

"You can't win, Ethan!" Sinclair gasped, his voice strained. "I'm too powerful! I control everything!"

"Power means nothing when your conscience is bankrupt," Ethan retorted, his voice cold and unwavering. He launched a flurry of attacks, each one aimed with deadly precision. He wasn't just fighting for revenge; he was fighting for justice, for his parents' memory, for the life that had been stolen from him.

He saw an opening – a slight hesitation in Sinclair's parry. He lunged, extending his épée, the tip finding its mark. Not a fatal blow, but a disabling one. The épée pierced Sinclair’s sword arm, sending a jolt of pain through him.

Sinclair cried out, dropping the foil. He clutched his arm, his face contorted in agony.

Ethan stood over him, his épée poised, the tip hovering just inches from Sinclair's throat. The penthouse was silent except for Sinclair's ragged breathing.

"It's over, Victor," Ethan said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Your empire is crumbling. Your lies are exposed. And your reign of terror ends here."

Sinclair looked up at him, his eyes filled with a mixture of hatred and fear. "You wouldn't," he whispered. "You can't kill me. You're not a murderer."

Ethan hesitated. He had come here for vengeance, to make Sinclair pay for his crimes. But as he looked into the man's eyes, he saw not just a monster, but a broken, desperate individual. The rage that had fueled him for so long began to dissipate, replaced by a weariness he hadn't anticipated.

"No," Ethan said, lowering his épée. "I'm not you."

He stepped back, holstering his blade. Sinclair, still clutching his arm, watched him with disbelief.

"The authorities are on their way," Ethan said. "Your crimes will be brought to light. Justice will be served, but not by my hand."

He turned to leave, but Sinclair wasn't finished. With a snarl of rage, he lunged forward, grabbing a shard of glass from the broken liquor bottle on the floor.

Ethan reacted instantly, turning and deflecting Sinclair's attack with the flat of his épée. The glass shattered, and Sinclair stumbled back, clutching his bleeding hand.

This time, Ethan didn't hesitate. He kicked Sinclair's feet out from under him, sending him sprawling to the ground. He pinned him down, his knee pressing into Sinclair's chest.

"Enough!" Ethan roared, his voice filled with righteous anger. "I've given you a chance to face justice. Don't make me regret it."

Sinclair, defeated and broken, lay still beneath him, his eyes filled with a mixture of pain and humiliation.

The sound of sirens grew louder, approaching the tower. Ethan knew his time was running out. He released Sinclair and stood up, taking one last look at the man who had destroyed his life.

"This is not the end, Ethan," Sinclair hissed, as police officers burst into the penthouse. "This is just the beginning."

Ethan didn't respond. He turned and walked away, leaving Sinclair to face the consequences of his actions. As the police swarmed around him, Ethan slipped out of the penthouse, disappearing into the night. The Steel Requiem had begun, but its echoes were just starting to resonate. The fight for justice, he knew, was far from over. The victory felt hollow, incomplete. He had won, but at what cost?