The invitation arrived differently this time. No official letterhead, no government courier, no traceable origin. Just a folded note slipped under Elian's apartment door sometime in the night, written in elegant handwriting on paper so expensive it felt like fabric.
"I know you don't trust easily. Good. Trust is for fools. But interest—enlightened self-interest—that's something else. Meet me at the Wheatbaker. Thursday, 8 p.m. Table for two under the name 'Opportunity.' Come alone. Come curious. Come ready to listen. — An old rival."
Elian read it three times, then called Chiamaka.
"Someone slipped a note under my door. I want to meet you. Calls themselves 'an old rival.'"
"Could be anyone. Could be a trap."
"Could be. But the phrasing—'enlightened self-interest'—that's not coalition
