[Killian]
Douglas Hargrove conducts business the way he drives. Slow, deliberate, and on his own terms.
Day three of negotiations, and the old man insists on his private yacht in Elliott Bay. Not the waterfront restaurant I'd suggested. Not even a proper meeting room on dry land. A fifty-foot sailboat bobbing on gray water under a grayer sky, because apparently conference tables "make people lie" and sea air "makes them honest."
His words. Verbatim.
The wind finds every gap in my coat. The deck shifts under my feet in that subtle, persistent way that forces my balance to recalibrate every few seconds, an annoyance I can't override. No glass walls. No controlled temperature. No mahogany table positioning me at the power end. Every tool I've ever used to own a room has been stripped away
