The Roswell Grand Hotel smelled like money.
Not real money. Not crumpled bills or sweaty coins. The kind of money that was wire-transferred at 3:00 a.m. by people who wore silk robes and threatened each other with lawsuits instead of knives. The lobby was all white marble and bronze accents, a kind of sterile luxury that made Leon instantly aware of how out-of-place he looked.
His thrift-store jacket still had a burn mark on the sleeve from a microwave incident he refused to talk about. His shoes squeaked. The collar of his shirt had lost the will to live.
But no one stopped him.
Rich people places were like that. The more confident you looked walking in, the more invisible you became. Leon strutted through the lobby like he was carrying a suitcase full of severed thumbs.
The bar was tucked into the back of the lobby, a low-lit lounge with velvet booths and a glowing counter that looked like it was carved from molten lava. Smooth jazz floated overhead, just loud enough to make you lean in when you talked. The kind of place where deals happened in the open, but truths never did.
Leon sat at the bar.
There were five people there.
And just one man who looked like he wanted to disappear entirely.
Tall. Grey streak in his hair. Jaw clenched so hard it looked like his molars were threatening to unionize. He stared into his drink like it had personally insulted his family. Every few seconds, he glanced at the door, then at the mirror behind the bar, then at his phone. Sweating, but trying not to dab at it. Suit perfect. Nerves wrecked.
That had to be Julian Kort.
Leon waited a beat, then slid onto the stool next to him, taking his time.
The bartender drifted over, and Leon ordered the only thing he recognized on the menu.
"Uh… I'll take the—what's that one? Old Crow?"
"Old Fashioned," the bartender corrected, already judging him with his eyes.
"Right. That one."
Drink served.
He waited. Sixty seconds, just like she said.
Then Leon turned.
Julian stiffened before Leon even said a word. His eyes met Leon's in the mirror, and the breath he took was so sharp it could've sliced bread.
Leon spoke, trying to keep his voice low and cool. It came out somewhere between "sleep-deprived conspiracy theorist" and "slightly drunk philosophy major."
"If the shipment doesn't leave port by tonight," he said, "the deal's off."
Julian's hand jerked. A drop of liquor spilled on the counter.
Leon finished the line. "And you can tell the fox it was my decision."
He stood up. Walked out. Just like she said.
No one stopped him.
No gunfire. No alarms. No men in sunglasses tackling him.
Leon walked back through the marble lobby, out into the night air, and let out a long breath.
"...That was easy."
He had barely made it to the sidewalk when his phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
He picked up.
"You did well," the woman's voice said. "Come around to the side entrance. I'd like to thank you in person."
"Right now?"
"Yes."
Leon looked down at his drink-stained jacket, then up at the massive hotel structure looming above him like the lid of a fancy coffin.
"…Sure. Why not."
The side entrance was near the loading dock. Less marble, more concrete. A private black car sat idling, windows tinted darker than Leon thought was legally allowed.
The rear door opened.
She was already sitting inside.
Leon slid in, hesitated when the scent hit him—jasmine and cold steel. That was the only way he could describe it. A perfume that suggested expensive knives and betrayal.
The woman looked young. Late twenties, maybe. High cheekbones, sleek black bob, eyes like sharpened glass. She wore a navy coat tailored like it was molded to her body and gloves she hadn't taken off despite the warmth.
"I'm Elira," she said.
"Leon," he replied.
"Yes. I know."
She studied him. Like he was a painting someone told her might be worth billions—but looked like a scribble at first glance.
"You were… convincing," she said slowly.
Leon laughed. "I thought I sounded like a guy doing improv badly."
"Exactly."
She didn't elaborate.
Leon glanced out the window. "So, what now? You said you'd pay me the rest."
She didn't answer immediately. Just watched him. Then, softly:
"Who are you really, Leon Vale?"
He blinked. "Uh… a guy who ate expired Pop-Tarts for dinner?"
A flicker of something—confusion? Amusement? Paranoia—crossed her face.
"No affiliations? No employer?"
"I freelance," he said, hoping that sounded cooler than it was.
Another silence.
Then: "Tell me something. Did you authorize that port strike last week?"
Leon tilted his head. "I don't even know where the port is."
A beat.
Then she smiled.
A small, slow, unnerving smile.
"Right," she said. "Of course."
She reached into her coat, pulled out a black envelope, and handed it to him.
He opened it. Inside: cash. A lot of it. Neatly stacked hundreds. Easily a thousand bucks.
"You'll be contacted again," she said.
"Wait, that's not what we—"
"Things are in motion now, Mr. Vale. Don't worry. We'll handle the details."
Leon opened his mouth.
She raised a gloved finger. "And one more thing."
"Yeah?"
"Next time you send a message," she said quietly, "use someone less recognizable."
The door clicked open behind him.
Dismissed.
Leon stepped out into the night with the envelope in one hand and the feeling he'd just been drafted into a sport he didn't know existed.
Behind him, the black car vanished into the dark.