The rental space is quiet, save for the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. I dismissed everyone hours ago; no one else needs to be here for this. The air feels colder now, heavier, and I can't tell if it's the old building's failing HVAC or my nerves finally catching up with me. The table in front of me is bare except for a folder and a small bottle of water--presentation matters, even if I have no idea what I'm walking into.

I don't hear him come in. One second, I'm alone in the room; the next, he's filling the doorway like a shadow come to life. Big. Looming. A dark military jacket stretches across his broad frame, combat boots heavy enough to crack the cheap laminate flooring with every step. His beard, thick and neatly braided, ends in a gold cap, like a bottle lid--or the finishing touch on some old-style Pharaoh.

"Porcelain," I say, keeping my voice steady as I stand. I make a point not to extend my hand; something tells me he isn't the type to shake on things. "Welcome. Can I get you anything?"

He steps fully into the room, and it feels like the walls shrink in response. "I'm fine," he says, his voice low and deliberate, as if every word has been weighed before leaving his mouth. Accented. Middle-Eastern, although I can't quite pin it down. Not Iraqi. Not Iranian. Jordanian...? He doesn't sit, doesn't move to the table. Just stands there, looking at me like he's already calculating something.

I gesture to the chair opposite me, the only other one in the room. "Please. I'd prefer we didn't stand the whole time."

Porcelain nods once, a slow, deliberate motion, and moves to sit. The chair creaks under his weight and visibly bows down but doesn't give way. He places his hands on the table--calloused, scarred, and leathery. "Thank you for making time," he says, like this meeting is for my benefit, not his.

"I'm happy to," I reply, sitting down across from him. "Though I have to admit, I wasn't expecting such a high-ranking member of... your organization to come in for little old me."

His mouth twitches--almost a smile, but not quite. "We don't operate like the Kingdom. Your Upper Management is free to hide in his office all day with his secretary. I handle my own affairs."

Right. Because Red Calf doesn't operate like the Kingdom. Or Rogue Wave. Or anyone else who plays this game. Not really a crime syndicate. Not really a supervillain team. Not really... anything. Just a coalition of the world's best killers.

"I heard about the Mudslide and Nothing extractions," he says, leaning back in his chair so delicately that it looks like he's trying not to snap it in half. "Efficient work. Clean. No collateral beyond injuries. That's good. It means they won't come after you as hard."

"That's the goal," I say, watching him carefully. Compliments from someone like Porcelain aren't compliments; they're leverage, groundwork for whatever he's about to ask. "But I doubt you're here to talk about past successes."

"No," he says simply. "I'm here to talk about what comes next."

The air feels heavier. I fold my hands on the table, a picture of calm I don't feel. "I'm listening."

Porcelain tilts his head slightly, as if weighing how much to say. "I need someone extracted from Daedalus."

I feel the noose tighten around my neck.

I keep my face neutral, but my thoughts are already racing. "That's a tall order."

"You've proven you can handle tall orders," he says evenly.

I hold his gaze. "Why her?"

Porcelain's expression doesn't change. "She's valuable."

"She was valuable," I correct, keeping my tone even. "The Kingdom got what it needed from her. She's burned out. Dangerous, sure, but unpredictable. Unreliable. There's no more return on investment. She's a totaled car. A spent shell casing."

Porcelain leans forward slightly, just enough to make the room feel smaller. His fingertips rasp against one another audibly as they touch. "That's not for you to decide."

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

The words aren't a threat, but they carry weight. My jaw tightens. "I'm not questioning your priorities. I'm questioning the logistics. Breaking into Daedalus isn't just risky; it's catastrophic. Even if we got her out, there's no way to do it without heat. It would make global news in minutes. And that's if we succeed."

He doesn't flinch. "You're capable."

"And you're asking me to risk everything I've built in Philadelphia for a single asset," I say, my voice sharper now. "That's not strategy; that's hubris."

Porcelain's gaze doesn't waver. "You're thinking too small."

I want to snap back, to remind him of my bona fides, my long-term plans. But something in his tone stops me. He isn't condescending. He isn't even challenging me. He's stating a fact, as if he genuinely believes I don't see the bigger picture. That I'm incapable--and all I need is tutoring.

"Enlighten me," I say, leaning back in my chair.

"She's not just an asset," he says. "She's a demonstration. A weapon. There are men out there who could kill me. One of your own incapacitated Captain Plasma like she was stealing candy from a baby, it was so easy. I'd like to make sure my asset is in the right hands, learning the right things, being trained the right way."

"And whose hands are the 'right' ones?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

Porcelain's mouth twitches again, that almost-smile. "Ours."

The simplicity of the answer makes it more unsettling. He isn't trying to sell me on a vision or ideology. He isn't even asking for my agreement. He's just... stating it.

I take a breath, keeping my composure. "Let's say I agree to this. What's your plan for when the entire world notices we've cracked open Daedalus?"

"My organization will reward you with whatever necessary aid," he says. "In our usual way. If necessary."

I almost laugh. That means killing people. Killing many people. Even worse for business. "What if I say no to your help? I'd prefer not to turn this into an F-rank mission of Assassin 2."

Porcelain shrugs, a slow, deliberate motion. He doesn't react to the video game reference. I imagine a guy like him is a little too busy destabilizing small countries to play video games in his free time. "Then you deal with the fallout. Are you not the best in the business? You're a city councilwoman, Mrs. Zenith. You don't become a politician without knowing how to handle a crisis."

The casualness of it makes my skin crawl. This isn't a negotiation; it's an order wrapped in a polite suggestion.

"I'll need time," I say finally, choosing my words carefully. "To assess the risks. Plan accordingly. And consider the second-order effects. Work things into my plans."

"Of course," Porcelain says, standing. The chair groans in relief as he rises to his full, towering height. "Take all the time you need."

The implication is clear: as long as "all the time you need" doesn't take too long.

He moves toward the door without another word, his footsteps heavy but unhurried. At the threshold, he pauses, turning back to me.

"You've built something impressive here, Zenith. Don't let it go to waste."

The air seems to grow heavier as he lingers, like he's not quite done yet. "I've also heard about your recent ventures," he adds, his tone measured. "Hypeman, was it? Efficient. Functional. The rollout's been... impressive."

The compliment feels more like reconnaissance than praise, but I incline my head slightly. "We've had success," I say, keeping my tone even.

Porcelain's dark eyes lock onto mine, assessing. "I'd like to make a purchase for my people. Field testing. Who handles your procurement?"

I pause, my mind already flipping through the logistics. This isn't a small ask, but there's no point in saying no. Not to him. "Hold on," I say, standing and moving to the small desk against the wall. I grab a blank legal pad and scrawl an address and a phone number in clean, deliberate letters. No hesitation, no second thoughts. Just the cost of doing business.

Tearing the sheet free, I walk back to him, folding it once before slipping it into the pocket of his jacket. I know trying to get him to grab a piece of paper would probably just result in it disintegrating. "This will get you in touch with the right people. They'll handle everything from there."

Porcelain looks down briefly, the faintest hint of a nod acknowledging my gesture. "Thank you."

He doesn't say more. His presence lingers in the room even as he turns and finally steps out. The door clicks shut behind him, the sound sharper than it should be, and suddenly the room feels larger. Or maybe I'm just smaller.

I stand there for a moment, staring at the closed door, letting the weight of the conversation settle over me. My fingers brush against the edge of the table, a small, grounding gesture as my mind races.

I've survived bigger risks than this. I've outmaneuvered people just as dangerous than Porcelain. But that doesn't make him any less of a threat. The only reason he's not getting her himself is because he's trying to test me - to recruit me? Maybe. But I know he could just walk through Daedalus like it was made of cardboard. So I have to start considering his ulterior motive - but what? Why?

I exhale slowly, moving back to my seat. The legal pad is still on the desk, a single sheet missing but the imprint of my handwriting visible on the page beneath it.

The thing about power--real power--is that it's never just yours. It's borrowed, leveraged, pulled from everyone around you. Loaned, with interest.

I lean back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly, the only sound in the otherwise silent room. My mind keeps circling back to his parting words: Don't let it go to waste.

I reach for the water bottle on the table, twisting the cap off and taking a long sip. It's lukewarm, flat, but it steadies me. Because tomorrow, the game continues. And I'm not about to lose.