Chase drove his Acura TLX back from El Viento Securities. The meeting had bled into his afternoon, turning a quick lunch break into a strategic absence.
Bumping into the senior partner, Geoffrey Wagner, on the sidewalk wasn’t part of his lunch plans. Chase was caught between Michael & Cole and Summers Brew.
“Wright,” Geoffrey said, checking his watch. “Long lunch? I hope you were billing the hours.”
“Client relations,” Chase replied.
“Good man. Speaking of relations, corporate wants us pushing the new El Viento recruitment drive.” Geoffrey glanced toward the coffee shop window. “Think anyone in there has a pulse and a tolerance for paperwork?”
Chase followed his gaze. Through the glass, he could see Tabitha behind the counter. She was dressed in her signature black, looking like she was actively plotting a witty obituary for the next person who ordered a decaf soy latte.
“You should definitely ask the barista,” Chase said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “The gothy one. She has a deep, spiritual respect for authority. I bet she’d jump at a corporate benefits package and the chance to file memos.”
Geoffrey nodded, completely missing the joke. “We just need someone who isn’t a conspiracy theorist. I’ll leave some literature.” Chase watched as the partner pushed inside, armed with a stack of glossy Secure Your Future flyers. He saw Tabitha look up, her expression shifting from boredom to sharp, defensive aggression. Don’t touch the sweetener, Tabs, he thought. I know how much you hate artificial things.
By the time Chase reached his desk, the afternoon had settled into its typical Monday face—phones ringing half-heartedly and printers jamming in protest. He opened his inbox to find a parade of identical subject lines, but one at the bottom caught his eye. It was an internal memo regarding the termination of an associate named Gunther W.
The reason was listed as “Gross Breach of Fiduciary Duty,” but the context was stranger. Gunther had been lead counsel on a case against the Mayor’s office but had allegedly begun channeling documents to the defense. Upon confrontation, the associate claimed he’d witnessed “undeniable evidence” of supernatural coercion within the city government, all tied to El Viento interests. The firm called it a delusion. Chase called it a warning.
People who looked too closely at El Viento machinery didn’t get corrected. They got deleted.
Vincenzo’s office was quiet as he wound down his private session. The neon dimmed, and the silence filled the studio like a returning tide. His assistant, Tori, poked her head in, checking her tablet.
“The board liked the new VIM venture,” she said.
“They always like new ways of managing the public’s attention,” Vincenzo replied, spinning slowly in his chair. “Edit and send the clip to the social media team. Tag it ‘Birth of VIM.’ I want the outreach to feel organic.”
Tori hesitated in the doorway. “You’re sure about pushing Wright toward the camera? He’s… hesitant.”
“Chase has spent his whole life trying to be the good guy in a room full of people who already cashed out their souls,” Vincenzo said, looking at a darkened monitor. “He’s going to burn out, Tori. Quietly and honorably. And he’ll call it character. He doesn’t even realize he’s a self-made man.”
He leaned forward. “Did you know he didn’t even go to a traditional law school? Everyone assumes he did, and he lets them. He taught himself. Online courses, open-source materials, forums. He built that degree sideways. He didn’t reject the system; he just refused to kneel to it. That kind of tenacity is dangerous if you leave it unguided.”
He smiled, a high school memory of a gym-floor wrestling match flashing through his mind. “It’s endearing. We just need to steer him toward the life he’s too proud to see. Once he realizes he can lift the weight off Amelia’s shoulders, he’ll do the math. And he won’t even know I’m the one who gave him the push.”
At 3:00 a.m., Chase gave up on sleep and reheated a cup of coffee. He sat by the window, watching the city breathe, his mind drifting back to a study room at Orangeside Community College. He remembered the smell of prop gunpowder and the weight of a fake gun in his hand.
They had staged a “shooting” to trick a nosy Dean—a layered gambit to cover for one of Chase’s made-up classes. It was supposed to be a lesson on conspiracy theories. But he remembered the part that wasn’t in the script. Amelia, standing among their “dead” friends with tears in her eyes that looked far too real.
“But Chase,” she had cried, “I only did it because I love you!”
She’d claimed it was just improvisation later, a brilliant bit of acting to sell the con. But Chase had seen her face. He’d done what he always did when things got too heavy: he made a joke, deflected, and spent the next two years maintaining a respectable distance. He looked at his phone, the cursor blinking in a text thread. He couldn’t run this time.
Wednesday’s still on? he sent, hoping her phone was on silent.
The reply came back almost instantly. Up late too? Or is it early? Noon. I’ve already made an agenda. We have a lot of GROUND to cover. I want the truth about the announcement. No spin. No silver tongue.
Chase smiled, the word “deal” hanging in the quiet of his apartment. Outside, the dawn began to roll over the skyline.