The hand-delivered envelope waits on my desk like a serpent coiled in expensive cream paper, its presence transforming my office from sanctuary into violated territory. The messenger must have arrived while I was at Westbrook Industries, delivering his payload with the precision of someone paid to ensure maximum psychological impact. My enhanced senses detect the lingering chemical signature of expensive cologne and something else—satisfaction, perhaps, or the particular scent of someone who enjoys delivering unpleasant surprises.
The paper tears with surgical precision beneath my fingernails, which extend slightly beyond their normal length before I force them back to human proportions. Inside, an engraved invitation announces the Metropolitan Bar Association's annual dinner, where Arthu
