Jet Colgate pressed a VP9 to the base of a former employee's skull. The polymer grip custom fit to his hand.

  The man at the end of the barrel squirmed underneath the black sack over his head. He held up his bound hands as if in prayer.

  “Please—I didn’t start the strike. I’m loyal. I’d sacrifice my children for the company.”

  “Sorry, Steve but Virolex has terminated your employment. It’s not personal. It's just Reaganomics.”

  He clicked the trigger—the bite closed the deal. The trigger’s handshake.

  He wiped the smoking barrel with a handkerchief with his initials embroidered in gold nanofibrils.

  For a second, he thought of his first termination. One second was enough.

  His pocket buzzed.

  He checked the pager.

  “Shit. I got to buy a new suit for the merger.”

  He sighed and fished out a pack of Dunhills. The warehouse air was stale, like a team-building exercise that no one asked for.

  He flicked his Dupont lighter. Flame kissed the paper.

  He exhaled, smoke curled from his nose. Another day, another quota.

  He checked the time. Enough margin for a fitting.

  He took a beat and scanned the stock. About 3 tons of nanodrugs–mostly recreational. Roughly 359 million Reagans.

  Enough clams you’d think corporate could afford a specialized termination room. Efficiency gets good airtime in the quarterly meetings. But old habits die expensively.

  He paced to the door. His boys parted it for him. Jet tipped his hat.

  “Take care of the fella on the floor, eh.”

  Bronson nodded. “Sure thing boss.”

  He took a breath of the outside air. Petrochemicals and melted plastic—a happy byproduct of industry. Sunlight smothered under a thick coat of smog. Smog tempered everything—even the shine of his boots.

  The hum of the factories was an ever present song.

  The streets were a perfect kind of empty. Everyone was working. Everything was working.

  A man in a slate-gray suit waited beside a black gold rimmed Bearcat. Coat crisp, tie centered, sleeves folded just enough to flash his watch.

  “Sir, the tailors confirmed your fitting at 1200. The board expects your merger brief by 1500.”

  Jet exhaled smoke through his nose and flicked the stub into the gutter. “What’s your name again?”

  “Tallon, sir.”

  “Right, keep reminding me, I like to keep it formal.”

  “Of course sir.”

  Tallon opened the door.

  Jet climbed in and made for the minibar.

  Mixed an espresso martini. Sipped it slow. The city crawled by. Towers like concrete ghosts drifted past the window. Statues of dead men corroded like pennies. Only the name survived: Virolexia.

  The tailor worked out of the downtown patch, wedged between a Judeo-Chinese fusion place and a sushi joint that only served bluefin to executives.

  The shop was called Management Material.

  The Bearcat rolled to a smooth stop. Tallon opened the door. Jet stepped out and entered.

  A bell chimed overhead. The man behind the counter put on his smile.

  The racks were a disciplined rainbow of gray, black, and navy. The ties, where ambition lived, dared red, black, and gold.

  Jet leaned on the counter.

  “I need a suit.”

  “Yes, Mr. Colgate. I’ve been expecting you.”

  The tailor led him into the fitting room. Measured his shoulders with a laser caliper. Nodded.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Jet spoke. “Single-breasted. Nano-fiber lining. Stops a nine to the ribs. Doesn’t crease at the waist.”

  “Excellent choice, sir.”

  The specs were fed into the synthesizer. The suit printed in under two minutes. The tailor added the hand-stitched monogram and selected the cufflinks himself.

  Jet changed in the back. Left the discard on the floor.

  As he exited, the tailor called after him, “A pleasure, as always.”

  Jet didn’t look back.

  Next stop: Virolex HQ.

  The nucleus was entrenched behind the ebony membrane of the financial district. The black walls were smooth and sheer—not to keep people out, just to remind them they didn’t belong.

  The HQ looked like a concrete wedding cake, frosted in Tennessee marble. Anti-air turrets topped it like candles.

  The gate peeled open like a shredder's maw, ready to chew through a million-dollar audit. Jet didn’t flinch. He sipped his martini through inspection. Blackbook access had its perks.

  Security didn’t ask for ID. One scan of the windshield’s shifting barcode, and they waved us through.

  Beyond the threshold, the view changed. Concrete blocks and exposed rebar gave way to glass-and-steel lances piercing ashtray-black clouds, stock options flickering across mirrored towers in the fog.

  The car scraped to a stop, before the stairs of the HQ. Jet took his brief from Tallon as he walked out the door.

  At the top, a flat marble courtyard stretched before the entrance—toned down for the gala, less oppressive than the inner sanctum but still dressed to impress. Once the suits finish their smoke break and handshakes, they’d be inside before they can say ‘pleasure doing business’.

  Once Jet wrapped up glad-handing the Belltex suits, he took his place at the head of the sanctum—front and center for the contract exchange, a show of good faith between enterprises.

  It was a position of prestige—like a seat next to CEO John Virolex himself in the boardroom. Tim was retiring. That seat was about to be Jet’s. This was just the ceremony before the coronation.

  He fixed his eyes on the altar’s right flank. The stained glass bore Reagan’s crystal face, blood light spilling across white marble.

  Jet kissed his ring and raised it. The guests followed.

  The CFO stepped behind the altar. He gestured to the groom, John Virolex, then the bride, Margaret Belltex. They looked like gods—symbols of youth and wealth—gilded by the invisible hand with blessings beyond reason.

  The CFO lifted the sacred monocle from its velvet cushion and placed it over his eye.

  “By the scripture of Friedman, as he ordained, these two enterprises shall enter into sacred and litigious union—a marriage of CEOs, where both become one in mind and capital.”

  He turned the pages of the altar ledger.

  “In demonstration of good faith between these formerly competing houses, let us kill our war with truth. Proceed with the exchange of audit and financial documentation.”

  Jet presented the brief. The lady attorney from Belltex offered hers. They bowed, traded folders, and returned to their places.

  The CFO raised the champagne bottle and popped the cap. Its sticky effervescence baptized the newly merged union, christening the CEOs as they kissed beneath its sparkling spray.

  He filled champagne flutes—two for the litigation team, one for Jet, and one for the lady attorney. Interns distributed the rest to upper management in their tiered seats.

  The CFO raised his voice. “I declare these two enterprises merged. No longer Virolex and BellTex. In union, they are Vellirotex. May its prosperity reign.”

  The audience repeated the closing line in perfect unison.

  This was the beginning of a new age. Monopoly wasn’t the endgame—it was the birthright.

  A sticky hand landed on Jet’s shoulder, champagne staining the fabric.

  John Viro—no, Vellirotex—leaned in and whispered,

  “Meet me in the boardroom. Twenty-hundred sharp.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Jet washed his grin down with a gulp of champagne and wiped his shoulder with his handkerchief.

  Promotions always came with dirty work. Dirty work usually meant blood.

  As the merger fizzled into impotent platitudes and polite exits, Jet checked his watch again.

  Time to go.

  Jet Colgate tapped his watch. He was five minutes late. About right.

  The Boardroom smelled like old smoke and spilled bourbon. Leather arm chairs crouched about the table—Jet took his seat next to the head.

  A poster by the window caught his eye—a bloodshot gaze fixed on a cradle.

  “Keep a steady eye. It’s easier to kill a strike in its cradle.”

  He heard the boss's steps from the corridor. The cadence was familiar—like his father’s.

  Slow, firm, deliberate.

  He made you wait,—not out of laziness, but because waiting was a lesson in control.

  When he entered, cigar smoke followed like a cloak.

  He’d just replaced his lungs, and he was already set on ruining them again.

  A man of means. A man that could afford anything.

  His skin was fresh too—could’ve passed for twenty-five. His smile bit down on the cigar.

  “How’s it going, Jack? I mean Jet. Sorry, you look old like your father.”

  “No apology needed, sir. My father was a handsome man.”

  Mr. Vellirotex laughed— a second too long. “Indeed. Still, wouldn’t hurt to have Dr. Zanobech patch you up.”

  “Soon, sir. I like a couple wrinkles in the skin. Adds texture.”

  “You always were a traditionalist. And loyal. That’s why I chose you, y’know.”

  Jet lit up before he answered. “What’s the job?”

  Mr. Vellirotex tapped ash into the tray. “Not a job. A project. Big one. You’ve worked the Virolex branch for fifteen years—and well. Time to see if you’re ready for something bigger.”

  Jet puffed. “Give me the lead, and I’ll bite.”

  “Always the man of expedience, eh?” He leaned back. “This merger? Disruptive innovation. Board’s shaken. They won’t feel secure after this. We need to expand—”

  Jet’s eyes widened. “You’re attacking another board member? That would destroy the—”

  “No, no. We’re not attacking board members.” He inhaled. “We’d bust if we tried that. Currently. But with a little vertical expansion, there’s a probable chance. So says my accountant.”

  Jet narrowed his eyes. “What then?”

  “A few months ago, I bankrolled a campaign for Quincy Washington of the Continental Union. He promised favorable terms on components. Now he’s ghosted. Left our receivables bleeding. If this gets out—”

  “Bad for business.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You want me to pay it back in blood.”

  Vellirotex grinned. “Not his. His children. One by one. We give him an ultimatum. Three chances. Three kids. All he has to do is keep his word.”

  Jet sighed. Smoke followed it. “What’s the catch?”

  “They’re tucked in tight. Oldest boy’s a general in the Republican Army. Daughter’s a senator, guarded by the Liberty-Bound. The youngest—off the grid. We’ve got no intel.”

  Jet stubbed his cigarette. “What’s my cut?”

  “A big slice. I’ll give you the Vexitium branch.”

  Jet nodded. “When do I start?”

  “As soon as your surgery and attire are ready. Give it a week—then your training starts.”

  Vellirotex ground out his cigar and walked out.

  Jet ground his cigarette out in perfect sync.

  Promotions always came with dirty work.