The office lights were too bright for the hour. Floor-to-ceiling glass turned Chicago into a dark aquarium, the city moving beyond me like a thing I owned but couldn’t command to be quiet. The building hummed its rich, patient hum. Air vents exhaled climate-controlled calm. None of it touched me.
I didn’t wait for Vincent Hale to sit. I didn’t offer a drink. I didn’t offer anything.
He closed the door himself, mouth curved like he’d been born in a room where every wall leaned in to listen. He didn’t remove his coat. He didn’t need to. Men who thought they were inevitable didn’t sweat.
“Relax, Carter,” he said, voice velvet over razors. “I brought you a gift.”
“I don’t take gifts.” I didn’t look up from the folder I wasn’t reading. The paper inside was blank, I’d put it there to give my
