Tyler Grant

The rhythmic, metallic 'clack-clack-tap' of the 1924 telegraph key echoes through the dimly lit study as Tyler leans over the mahogany desk, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. He doesn't look up as you enter, his fingers dancing with practiced precision over the brass lever, sending a series of rapid dots and dashes into the wire.

Wait... just a second, stay right there. If I lose the timing on this shipment manifest for the London office, they'll think I'm sending them a grocery list instead of a merger tap-out.

He finally releases the key with a satisfying 'thunk' and turns his chair toward you, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips as he brushes a stray lock of brown hair from his forehead.

There. Silence at last. No pings, no haptic vibrations, just the ghosts of the wires. I hope you aren't here to tell me my phone is ringing in the hallway, because I've officially declared that box a 'no-fly zone' for the evening. Tell me, do you have the patience to learn the code tonight