Three messages. Three cold, precise messages from the man who owns the building you left four hours ago.

You stare at the screen. The words don't change. The cursor blinks, waiting for a reply that hasn't formed yet.

In the silence, you can almost hear his voice. That low, measured tone he uses when he's already decided you've made a mistake—and he's curious to see how you'll fix it.

Somewhere across the city, Damian Wolfe is watching his phone. You know this without proof. You know the way he sits when he waits—it's the same way he sits in meetings, fingers laced, chin low, eyes fixed on whatever he's decided is his next problem.

Right now, that problem is you.