The Dallas morning had the kind of crisp energy that promised productivity—or at least the illusion of it. The downtown skyline loomed in the distance as Duncan Nenni maneuvered his car through the early traffic. His midnight blue suit, immaculately pressed and paired with a matching tie, was an intentional choice. It wasn’t just about appearances; Duncan believed in dressing the part. The quiet confidence of his tailored attire set him apart from most of his co-workers, who favored more casual business wear: wrinkled dress shirts, loose ties, and pants that hadn’t seen an iron in months.

He pulled into the underground parking garage of the bank’s office building, the echo of his car doors shutting bouncing off the concrete walls. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted faintly from the breakroom as he stepped out of the elevator onto the 10th floor, where the investment banking division was located. The open floor plan stretched out before him, cubicles arranged in tidy rows, desks cluttered with monitors, coffee cups, and the occasional stress ball.

“Howdy, Mr. Nenni,” came the cheerful voice of Sandra, the receptionist, from behind her desk at the floor’s entrance. She was a middle-aged woman with neatly styled hair, a kind smile, and a way of making everyone feel welcome. Her desk was decorated with pictures of her grandchildren and a small cactus in a painted clay pot.

“Sandra,” Duncan replied with a polite nod, tipping an imaginary hat as he passed by.

She motioned for him to pause, shuffling through some sticky notes before looking up. “Mr. Davidson wants to check on those reports about the Carraro account. Says there’s a new fund he wants to discuss with you and some analysts. And after that, he wants you to take a look at a corporate bond proposal—make sure the company’s legit. You’ll be workin’ with Mr. Donovan on that.”

Duncan adjusted his tie, his expression calm but focused. “Fine. I’ll meet Davidson. Where’s he at?”

“Meeting starts in thirty minutes,” Sandra replied, glancing at her monitor. “John, Ray, Pablo, and Paco are already in the room. They’re waitin’ on you.”

“Great. Good,” Duncan said, his drawl still prominent despite years spent in Dallas. “I’ll be headin’ there.”

He walked briskly past the cubicles, his polished black shoes clicking against the tiled floor. Around him, the office buzzed with the sounds of ringing phones, clacking keyboards, and hushed conversations about market trends. The air was cool, almost sterile, save for the faint smell of paper and toner.

The conference room was at the end of the hallway, its glass walls offering a clear view of the analysts already inside. Duncan stepped in, greeted by a mix of familiar faces and the faint hum of a projector displaying charts on the wall.

“John, Ray, Paco, Pablo,” Duncan greeted as he entered, his tone neutral but polite.

“Duncan!” John said, a wide grin on his face. He was a tall, lanky man in his early thirties with a head of unruly brown hair that always seemed one step away from complete chaos.

“Hey there, cowboy,” quipped Ray, a wiry man with sharp features and a perpetual smirk. His rolled-up sleeves and loosened tie gave him the appearance of someone who thrived in the chaos of deadlines.

“Oil-man,” Paco teased, leaning back in his chair. He was shorter, stockier, and always had a slight five o’clock shadow, no matter the time of day.

“Duncan,” Pablo said simply, offering a polite nod. He was the quietest of the group, a meticulous worker whose neatly organized notes and spreadsheets always impressed during presentations.

Duncan smirked faintly, setting his leather portfolio on the table. “Howdy fer y’all too, boys. Has Mr. Davidson arrived?”

Ray shook his head, pointing toward the door with his pen. “He’s still talkin’ to one of the company reps. Should be here soon.”

“Good, good,” Duncan said, pulling out his earbuds from his pocket. “I’ll wait then.”

He popped in the earbuds and leaned back slightly, scrolling through his phone as the others chatted among themselves. He caught snippets of their conversation—something about last night’s game and complaints about a new software update—but tuned most of it out, focusing instead on double-checking his notes for the presentation.

A few minutes later, the sound of the door opening drew everyone’s attention. Mr. Davidson, the department manager, entered, his stocky frame and perpetually tired eyes giving away his long tenure in the banking world. He wore a crisp white shirt and a gray suit, his tie slightly loosened. Behind him followed the company representative—a man who immediately stood out from the typical polished corporate types.

The representative looked rugged, with short auburn hair and a weathered face that spoke of years stress.His gray suit was well-fitted but unremarkable, and his movements carried the confidence of someone used to commanding respect. There was something slightly unsettling about him, a tension in the set of his jaw and a sharpness in his brown eyes that made Duncan’s instincts prickle.

“Morning, gentlemen,” Davidson said, his voice gruff but polite. “This is Mr. Kane, representing the company behind the corporate bond we’ll be reviewing. He’ll be assisting with any questions you might have.”

Kane offered a curt nod, his gaze sweeping the room like a hawk surveying its prey. “Morning,” he said, his voice low and steady, with a faint edge that hinted at impatience.

Duncan studied Kane for a moment, something about the man’s demeanor making him uneasy. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but the polished corporate exterior didn’t seem to sit naturally on Kane. There was a sense of something concealed beneath the surface—something dangerous.

Davidson clapped his hands together, breaking the silence. “Alright, let’s get started. Duncan, you’ve got the Carraro report handy?”

Duncan nodded, pulling a neatly organized stack of documents from his portfolio. “Yes, sir. Got everything ready.”

“Good,” Davidson said, motioning for everyone to settle in. “Let’s get to it.”

As the meeting began, Duncan’s mind was half on the presentation and half on the nagging feeling that there was more to Mr. Kane than met the eye.

The conference room buzzed with the low hum of professional focus as the group pored over financial reports, balance sheets, and market analyses projected on the large screen. Charts and graphs dominated the room, their sharp lines and colorful markers outlining the performance metrics of the company Mr. Kane represented. The air smelled faintly of coffee and printer toner, as if the weight of the morning’s business hung tangibly in the room.

Duncan Nenni sat at his place at the table, his fingers flipping through a printed report. His keen eyes scanned the financials with practiced efficiency, noting the seemingly solid balance sheet, steady cash flows, and predictable revenue growth. The company was positioned as a private security services provider, specializing in surveillance, tracking, and high-end monitoring systems—a sector that had seen increased demand in a world of ever-heightening tensions.

It all looked good on paper. Almost too good.

One thing caught Duncan’s attention, buried deep in the report’s appendix: a series of substantial transactions with Trask International, a name that carried a peculiar weight. He glanced at the others in the room, but no one else seemed to take note of it.

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John was leaning back slightly in his chair, doodling on a sticky note while occasionally nodding at the presentation. Ray, with his sleeves rolled up, was scribbling something onto a notepad, his head bobbing slightly as though he were listening to music only he could hear. Paco flipped through the pages lazily, his pen tapping rhythmically against the table. Pablo, ever meticulous, was highlighting specific lines in his report, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Duncan cleared his throat, breaking the rhythm of the meeting. “Mr. Kane,” he began, his drawl cutting through the hum of the projector. “I reckon there’s a lot of transactions involvin’ Trask International here. Trask provides technology on many fields, but what exactly is it y’all buy from ’em?”

Kane didn’t miss a beat. He straightened slightly, his pale blue eyes locking onto Duncan’s with a calm, almost practiced demeanor. His voice was smooth, with the faintest hint of amusement. “Oh, pay no mind, Mr. Nenni,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Trask International makes a lot of the trackers and other surveillance equipment we use. They have really high-end solutions to many problems.”

Duncan nodded slowly, his expression neutral but his mind racing. The answer was vague, intentionally so. The kind of answer that sidesteps scrutiny without outright lying. “I see,” he replied, leaning back in his chair.

The room shifted focus as Mr. Davidson, the department manager, took the lead again. “Well, gentlemen,” Davidson began, his voice commanding attention, “it seems everything checks out. The rating agency has already classed this company as AA, which gives me a good level of comfort. Solid cash flows, low leverage. It’s all very promising.”

Kane’s lips curled into a faint smile, his confidence radiating across the room. “We pride ourselves on our creditworthiness,” he said smoothly.

Davidson adjusted his glasses, pointing to the screen. “So, we’re probably goin’ to ask for 5% on these bonds when we issue them to the market, no?”

Kane chuckled lightly, tilting his head. “I wouldn’t mind classin’ it to 3.5%.”

The room collectively raised eyebrows. Duncan’s mouth twitched into a faint smirk, though he said nothing yet. Davidson’s head snapped up, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly.

“3.5% real?” Davidson asked, his tone tinged with skepticism. “That’s a bit low, now. For this amount of risk.”

Kane leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. “I think we’ll have amazing buyers for this issue,” he said smoothly. “We’ve already lined up substantial interest from some institutional investors.”

Davidson frowned, glancing at Duncan. “Still too low,” Davidson muttered, shaking his head. He turned back to Kane. “Y’all might want to consider meetin’ us halfway. This 5%, or at least 4.5%, makes more sense given the market conditions.”

Kane’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes grew slightly colder. He nodded slowly, his tone calculated. “We’ll settle on 4.5%.”

Davidson nodded, satisfied. “Great. We’ll proceed forward with the origination of the bonds.”

“Excellent,” Kane replied, rising to his feet. “I appreciate the opportunity, gentlemen. I’ll leave the finer details to your capable team.”

The group stood as well, a chorus of polite goodbyes filling the room.

“Thank you, Mr. Kane,” Davidson said, shaking his hand firmly.

“Bye, Mr. Kane,” John said with a small wave.

“Much obliged, Mr. Kane,” Duncan added, his tone polite but neutral, his sharp eyes studying Kane’s every movement.

Davidson grabbed his folder and gestured for Kane to follow him. “I’ll walk with you, Kane. We’ve got some things to discuss about timelines and logistics for the issuance.”

“Of course,” Kane replied, his voice smooth as ever.

As the door closed behind them, the room fell into a brief silence. The faint hum of the projector filled the space, the charts on the screen now irrelevant. Duncan tapped his fingers on the table, his mind turning over the details of the meeting.

“Something about that guy,” Ray muttered, breaking the silence. “He’s smooth, but…”

“Too smooth,” Duncan finished, his eyes still fixed on the closed door.

Paco shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “Eh, probably just some corporate suit. They all act like that.”

Duncan didn’t respond. His instincts told him there was more to Mr. Kane than he’d let on. Those transactions with Trask International didn’t sit right, and the vague explanations only deepened his suspicion. As the group began gathering their things, Duncan’s mind was already racing ahead, piecing together fragments of information and trying to see the bigger picture. He returned to his room to work on other statements.

The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the occasional ding of a notification. Duncan worked methodically, reviewing client portfolios, drafting market updates, and finishing his reports for the day. Yet two thoughts loomed in his mind, breaking his usual focus.

The first was the Carraro account. Something about them didn’t add up—their heavy reliance on Trask International as a supplier raised questions. Trask wasn’t the go-to for private security companies. Their specialty was Sentinel technology and government contracts, not trackers or general surveillance equipment. Why would a firm like Carraro have such deep ties to them?

The second was Midland, the echoes of his parents’ words from the night before. He could still hear his father’s gruff voice and his mother’s melodic tone, their words urging him to do more. Should he be content with being an investment banker? Should he strive for something bigger? Something with purpose?

Duncan shook his head, trying to push the thoughts aside as he finished a report. But they lingered, refusing to be ignored.

Hours of spreadsheets and statement reviews later.

When lunchtime rolled around, Duncan grabbed his wallet and phone, stepping out into the bustling office cafeteria. The space was bright and open, filled with rows of tables, vending machines, and employees chatting over sandwiches and salads. Duncan spotted Pablo, one of his closest colleagues, sitting near a window overlooking the downtown skyline. Pablo was meticulously slicing his sandwich with a plastic knife, his glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose as he read something on his phone.

Duncan approached with a grin. “Howdy, Pablito. Can I sit down?”

Pablo didn’t look up but smirked faintly. “Sit down, Oil-Man,” he replied, gesturing to the seat across from him.

Duncan chuckled, setting down his tray and taking a seat. “Still callin’ me that, huh?”

“Always will,” Pablo said, finally glancing up. “You can’t expect me to let the Texan cowboy thing slide. So, what’s on your mind? Or are you here to discuss the wonders of Tex-Mex cuisine again?”

Duncan leaned forward, his voice lowering slightly. “What do you think of the Carraro account?”

Pablo blinked, setting his phone down. “Way to start a conversation, Duncan. Could’ve at least pretended to care about my day first.”

“Sorry, my bad,” Duncan said, raising his hands in mock apology.

Pablo sighed, sitting back in his chair. “They look fine, I guess. It’s good business. I do think the interest they asked on those bonds might be a bit too low, though. Maybe they’ve got some great buyers lined up, but I doubt it. Firms like theirs—private service companies—they usually struggle in the bond market.”

Duncan nodded slowly, his brow furrowing. “Yeah, sure. I agree 100%. But what about Trask?”

Pablo raised an eyebrow. “What about it? They make security equipment, just like the guy said.”

“It’s a private security company,” Duncan said, leaning closer. “I’ve never seen a security company buy so much stuff from Trask.”

Pablo tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. “Yeah, that’s true. Usually there are better companies—Hammer Industries, Stark Tech, y’know. If they’re serious about their equipment, they’d go there. Trask is… specific.”

“To Sentinel technology,” Duncan said pointedly.

Pablo’s eyes narrowed as realization dawned. “Yeah. That’s right.”

“It’s a monopsony,” Duncan continued, his tone steady but intense. “Trask’s biggest buyer is the government. Those big orders? They’re almost always tied to federal contracts. A private security firm buyin’ from Trask in these quantities? That doesn’t happen.”

Pablo nodded slowly, his fingers drumming against the table. “Doesn’t seem like it, but Carraro does buy a lot of Trask.”

“Yup,” Duncan said, leaning back in his chair. “I wonder what they’re really up to.”

Pablo shrugged, his skepticism creeping back into his voice. “Probably nothing, Duncan. You’re overthinking it. It’s just a regular, run-of-the-mill security company.”

Duncan chuckled dryly, shaking his head. “Yeah, in EBITDA, in net profit, ROE, ROI… but somethin’ still sounds fishy. I read their reports, Pablito. They have a lot of employees. But not many of ’em seem to work in the same place.”

Pablo frowned, tapping his plastic knife against his plate. “Are you investigating them?”

Duncan shrugged, his tone casual but deliberate. “Yeah. A little.”

Pablo’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “That’s not bad. Davidson will like it.”

“Sure,” Duncan said, though his voice carried less certainty. “Sure.”

The conversation lulled for a moment as they both returned to their meals. The buzz of the cafeteria surrounded them: colleagues chatting, the hum of the vending machines, and the occasional clatter of trays. But Duncan’s mind was elsewhere.

The Carraro account wasn’t sitting right. He couldn’t explain it, but his instincts—honed through years of analytical work and an almost obsessive need to dig deeper—were telling him there was more to this company than met the eye.

And then there was the other thought, the one that had been nagging at him since Midland. His parents’ voices echoed faintly in his mind: “Don’t waste your potential, son.”

For a brief moment, Duncan wondered if they were right. Should he be doing more than just spreadsheets and financial projections? Should he try to turn his skills, his powers, and his ideas into something greater?

Or was he destined to be just another desk jockey?

“Hey,” Pablo said, breaking the silence. “You’re overthinking again.”

Duncan blinked, snapping back to the present. “Maybe.”

Pablo smirked, pointing his plastic knife at him. “Don’t let it eat you up, man. Sometimes a security company is just a security company.”

“Yeah,” Duncan said, though he wasn’t convinced. “Sometimes.”