Three days after I put the contract in front of Zane, a courier delivered a sealed envelope to my office. Inside was a single sheet of paper. The signed signature page. Zane’s familiar, loose handwriting was at the bottom.

He had taken the deal.

I filed the paper without feeling anything. It wasn’t a win. It was a step in a plan.

That evening, I was in my apartment, trying to eat some toast I didn’t want, when my phone rang on the counter. The screen lit up with a name I knew by heart, a name I hadn’t seen call me in weeks: JOVI.

I stared at it. The...