Wildcard was starting to enjoy the sound of his own voice.

  Not in the annoying, self-important way—he wasn’t Grunt—but because every time he spoke now, people listened.

  Boosted Intimidation was useful in ways he hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just about scaring people—it was about making them feel the weight of his words. When he spoke, it stuck.

  And in the Sinkhole, influence mattered more than muscle.

  He had tested it twice since Callow—a quick chat with a couple of low-tier Dominos thugs, nothing major. But the way they reacted? It was different. They heard him, remembered him.

  He wasn’t just another nameless grunt anymore.

  He had no idea if that was a good thing.

  The market district of the Sinkhole was a grimy mess of makeshift stalls, flickering neon signs, and the thick scent of overcooked meat. People traded, bartered, whispered deals in shadowed corners.

  Wildcard moved through the crowd, keeping his posture relaxed but his senses sharp.

  He wasn’t on a job right now, which meant he wasn’t being followed. No Isla. No Grunt. No Dominos watching his every move.

  That made him a little uneasy.

  It also meant someone had gone through a lot of effort to make sure they could meet him alone.

  Because Wildcard wasn’t here by accident.

  A message had found its way to him—a small note slipped under his cot, written in clean, deliberate handwriting.

  "Walk the market. Alone. You’ll know when you’ve found me."

  That was it. No name. No threats. Just confidence that he would come.

  And here he was.

  He spotted the man before the man acknowledged him.

  Sayer was sitting at a rundown café stall, sipping from a battered tin cup like he had all the time in the world. He was young, maybe mid-20s, sharp features, eyes that never rested.

  Not restless. Just always thinking. Always running a calculation.

  Wildcard had seen a lot of dangerous people in the Sinkhole. Sayer didn’t look dangerous.

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  But Wildcard had a feeling that if you let him, he’d talk you into your own grave.

  He slid into the seat across from him, arms resting on the table.

  "You’re either brave or stupid," Wildcard said, "getting my attention like this."

  Sayer took another slow sip, not answering right away. He seemed to enjoy the silence. The tension.

  Then, finally, he set the cup down.

  "I wanted to see what kind of man you are," Sayer said, his voice calm, measured.

  Wildcard smirked. "And?"

  Sayer tilted his head slightly, eyes scanning him, processing.

  "You’re not what I expected," he admitted. "People like you—people with shifting abilities—you’re usually erratic. Wild. Unreliable. And yet…"

  Wildcard exhaled sharply. "And yet?"

  Sayer smiled faintly. "You’re still alive. Which means you’re smart enough to survive. Or lucky. And luck is just another form of pattern recognition, whether you know it or not."

  Wildcard let that sit for a second.

  Then he leaned back, stretching slightly. "You could’ve just asked around, gotten my life story from any number of gossipy bastards. But instead, you wanted to talk to me yourself. Why?"

  Sayer tapped a single finger against the table. Not impatient—just making a point.

  "I watched you handle Callow."

  Wildcard raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? You enjoy the show?"

  Sayer’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "You made an impression. A man’s words can carry weight. Yours now carry more than most. That’s an asset. A rare one."

  Wildcard nodded slightly. "That sounds like the setup to a proposition."

  Sayer didn’t deny it.

  Wildcard sighed. "Alright. Lay it on me."

  Sayer took another slow sip of his drink, considering his next words carefully.

  "You work for Cortez," he said. "For now."

  Wildcard didn’t respond.

  Sayer continued. "The Dominos are useful. But they are… short-sighted. Violence, fear, control. Effective, yes, but blunt instruments wear down over time."

  Wildcard rolled his fingers against the table. He could already see where this was going.

  "And I suppose your people," Wildcard said, "the walking calculators—"

  Sayer didn’t rise to the bait. He just nodded. "We play the long game."

  Wildcard chuckled. "See, that’s cute and all, but you’re being real vague. What exactly do you want from me?"

  Sayer studied him for a moment, as if deciding how much to reveal. Then he reached into his coat and slid something across the table.

  A small device. Looks like a comm unit, but modified.

  Wildcard frowned. "What’s this?"

  "A line to me," Sayer said. "For when you’re ready to start thinking bigger."

  Wildcard turned it over in his hand. It was a simple thing, unmarked, no logos, no serials.

  "You’re assuming I’ll call," Wildcard said.

  Sayer smiled. "I don’t assume. I just recognize inevitabilities."

  Wildcard exhaled through his nose, rolling the device between his fingers.

  Sayer wasn’t making a hard sell. He wasn’t pushing, wasn’t forcing a deal. He was just putting the option on the table.

  Which was smarter than half the people Wildcard had dealt with in his life.

  He pocketed the device. "I’ll think about it."

  Sayer didn’t look disappointed or victorious. Just… as if he already knew the outcome.

  "Of course," he said simply. Then he stood up, dusting off his coat. "One more thing."

  Wildcard raised an eyebrow.

  Sayer met his gaze. "Don Cortez already suspects you aren’t just another grunt."

  Wildcard felt his stomach twist slightly.

  Sayer’s voice remained calm. "You’ll want to be careful."

  Then, without waiting for a response, he walked away, disappearing into the market crowd like he’d never been there at all.

  Wildcard sat there for a long moment, fingers tapping against the device in his pocket.

  Cortez was watching him.

  And now? So was someone else.