"Go when you're ready."

I nodded, took a few breaths to center myself, and mentally directed a prayer to the Dice Gods. It was funny; I hadn't been half this nervous at the Kingfisher.

I started whistling the Pengies Chocolate jingle, triggering my Acting roll. This was the take of the day, the last and most important, and if I fucked it up, then my earlier double-digit Successes on the backup shots would be a small solace. Pengies, or the cheap marketing firm they hired, had only brought the one prop car for this commercial. We'd shot a few where I crashed into some hedges, but those wouldn't be nearly as fun to watch, no matter how well I'd performed earlier.

Thank you, Dice Christ!

Considering it had taken an unanticipated extra hour to cover all my scars in make-up, I really needed to wow the team to not look like a total asshole, but Nine Successes were more than enough.

I was kneeling shirtless in messy jeans and a hard hat on a platform that had been made to look like the roof of a suburban house. Below me on a mock driveway was cheap steel and foam that had been shaped into something resembling what James Bond would drive. Whistling, I put on my best 'dumb guy at work' expression and fired my empty pneumatic nail gun at the line of shingles, going from right to left, kicking up dust into my face, dashingly dirtied with a single smear of grease but otherwise immaculate. Hollywood had, at some point, decided that inexplicable grease marks on the face were the only way the audience could recognize a laborer. And, of course, all construction workers wore hard hats, regardless of what was above them.

Six shots of the nail gun later, I reached the end of the line and frowned, pursing my lips at my left hand. The glove I was wearing on it had been nailed to the shingle below. I tried to lift it up, but despite how much I was flexing my muscles and glowering stupidly at my hand, it wouldn't give. Finally, I pulled hard, freeing my glove but taking the shingle, which had been cleverly Velcroed to the roof, with me. I stumbled back, windmilling my arms for balance but got tangled in the pneumatic hose of the nail gun and tumbled cartoonishly off the roof, slamming back first onto the supercar beneath. Little shards of sugar glass went flying off, and the prop guy hit the trigger for the side mirrors, leaving them to dangle from wires that spat little sparks and smoke.

"Cut!" yelled the director after a few seconds' pause. "And that's a wrap, people! Great job, James! You alright?"

The reaction shots and anything with dialogue had already been filmed before I'd arrived at work and would be stitched together in post-production. The ad's premise was simple; a man watched non-plussed as various calamities occurred to his property, too happily distracted by his chocolate bar to care. I'd gotten to play a plumber who somehow lit his arms and the sink he was fixing on fire, an extremely clumsy chandelier cleaner, and finally, a roofer. All in all, it was a fun day and would hopefully net me about fifteen seconds of solo screen time in the final edits. That could be huge for me; all my past gigs involved sharing the spotlight or putting me inside mascot costumes.

"I'm good."

I rolled myself off the hood of the car and onto my feet, bowing as the small crew clapped for both me and themselves. Commercials, for as artistically vacuous as they were, were always great fun on set. There were no egos involved; we were all just here to make money doing a job we were privileged to be able to be paid to do.

The producer for this and a few of my past credits, Domingo, clapped me on the shoulder as I hopped off the sound stage. "If being almost an hour late to set is what it takes for you to pull off a performance like that, then I never want to see you on time again."

I smiled sheepishly. There was a line at the café, and it took them longer to make my drink than I'd expected. "Careful what you wish for."

Jackie, the make-up artist for the commercial fast-walked up with an eager look behind her horn-rimmed glasses. "Want a hand removing the cover-up, James?"

"God, please. That shit takes forever in the shower, and I don't keep any wipes at home."

Domingo laughed. "This I've got to see, very curious to know how many scars you got in the month and a half since we've worked together. Let me go grab you your check."

Jackie and I moved to the make-up booth, and Domingo returned five minutes later. I saw him pale in the mirror, left hand reactively seizing the crucifix dangling from his neck. I was about a half-dozen alcohol wipes through getting the cover-up on my chest off the scars Kuze had given me, but Jackie was really taking her time on my back, savoring the view and the contact as much as she could. That was for the best; Domingo might have passed out had he seen the full damage.

"Holy Son of God, what the hell gave you those? You look like you lost a fight to an entire zoo."

"Domingo!" chided Jackie. "Don't listen to him, James. I think they look very distinguished, sexy even. You look like you walked off the cover of a historical romance novel."

"Thanks, Jackie." I chuckled, taking my check from the stunned producer, and did a double take at the numbers. Two thousand two hundred fifty dollars was about two thousand more than I was supposed to make today. "Woah, you sure this is for me, Domingo?"

"Standard Guild rate, bud. Extra bonus for the fire stunt, too, you get those now," He said, shrugging. "Congrats, by the way. I mean, we all knew you were a shoo-in, but I figured it would take the SPG another few months to figure out what they had on their hands. They're always sleeping on the Black Harbor scene, same with the Producer's Guild. Some of those guys, I swear, they think the only two cities in the world are LA and New York."

A 'few months' was being extremely generous to the Stunt Performers Guild. Normally, it took between one and four years to finally get approved for entry, and that was after you had the prerequisite supervised hours under a Guild-approved mentor. With a base pay that started at over three hundred dollars an hour, dental, healthcare, and a pension, just about everyone capable of doing backflips was dying to get in. You could accelerate that by grinding like crazy, living off poverty wages, and getting lucky with jobs, but barring nepotism, the most common strategy these days was to get yourself a million or more followers online, which was how Annie planned to get her union card. For me, a tech-illiterate scion of a martial arts clan, my best chance had been to make a name for myself in sport fighting, like my mentor, Kas, had done before me.

Domingo must have misread a post from Kas or something. "I hate that I'm about to do this to myself, but I only hit the pre-req hours last week. I didn't actually get in yet."

"That's not what your new management said, and they were real fucking clear about that, let me tell you. It was a bit of a shock to read the email this morning, but I'm not trying to piss off GLB. At least we only had you on for a half-day; an extra two grand still puts us under budget."

Jackie gasped excitedly. "Ooh, yes! That's so smart, James, you were born to model. Are you going to walk during Fashion Week, or did you get picked up too late?"

"Sorry, what is happening?" I said, already reaching for my phone. I really needed to start checking my emails in the morning. "New management? Who are GLB?"

"Are you serious?" Domingo leaned in, smiling as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Germain Lavigne Blanc? How the fuck do you get signed to the biggest modeling agency in Europe without knowing?"

"That's what I want to know," I muttered, pulling up my email.

"Don't look so put out, man. They've got other talent on their rosters too. Trust me, you're in good hands."

"Thanks. I'm just surprised to hear about it."

Sure enough, I had missed twelve messages, starting from last night and going to this morning, an hour before I was meant to be on set. The giant modeling agency had bought my little local greaseball of a manager's company from him in cash around when I was having dinner at the Kingfisher and sniped my contract without so much as a signature from me. I couldn't recall minute to minute how everything had played out during my meeting with the Cranes, but I estimated the first email had come through while I was either still talking to Uncle Hou or just before then.

A modeling agency – was this enemy action, or had Davis pulled off a miracle? There were only two weeks until Black Harbor Fashion Week, it followed that he would make a move before then. Or, she, rather – I didn't know what Davis's new pronouns were, but they were probably not he/him. Good for him. Fuck, good for her. And/or them. That was going to take a little bit to get used to.

Davis had made a spy archetype, someone who would have been able to tell that my communications were being monitored. Was that why they hadn't reached out yet? Surely I had managed to catch them in my net when I'd followed what felt like every model/ballerina in England. There had to be some reason that hadn't worked. How many professional ballerinas could there even be in one country?

All that was assuming Paul Occam hadn't been lying to me about my comms being watched, too, and that hadn't been his excuse to meet me in person for some nefarious reason. It was difficult to trust a man who showed up to your work unannounced and declared himself a journalist for what was essentially a private domestic intelligence service. Huh, putting it like that, my new wizard was a bit of a loose cannon, wasn't he? It kind of made me trust him more, though that might have been my inherent desire to have a buddy-cop dynamic with a wizard. Stuffy British magic detective and reckless New Jersey martial artist was gold.

I mused all the way home, extending the trip by stopping and picking a new, random direction every few minutes. If anyone wanted to waste their energy trying to follow or predict my path, then they were free to do so. I'd be damned if I was going to let the Tigers or other non-specific shadowy entities take the simple joy of movement away from me. Nothing beat a meandering journey through the city to aid with a good think; it was the mental equivalent of a digestif.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

The grander questions of this morning would take more time, but I did get back to my apartment determined on a few things. For one, even if I had somehow secured my union card, I was still competing in the Qualifiers. They were still my best opportunity to garner some global attention, and Kas had put an irresponsible amount of money on me winning them. I wouldn't be too torn up if my degenerate gambler of a mentor lost his bets, but I cared about him enough to at least try to help him out of the mess he'd made.

Two, I had to meet with Paul Occam. Davis was in 'Arcane Britannia' as it was called in the starter pamphlets; they simply had to have some connection to each other. That was great news because it was something I wanted to do anyway for the aforementioned buddy-cop reasons. Plus, I might have had good cause after the Flesh Puppet attack, but I had practically suffocated Occam with killing intent when I was checking his Qi network. I owed the poor guy a cup of tea. Maybe I'd swing by Old World Imports in Chinatown and pick him up some of the good shit from the mainland.

With the few hours I had before my date with Shania and her friend, I took the time to do some much-needed housekeeping. I video-called my former manager/agent first, Macadam, who picked up while very inebriated and in a hot tub with a prostitute. That was typical for him, but what was unusual was the quality of the hot tub and the attractiveness of the college-aged boy on his arm. He was at a penthouse suite downtown instead of the usual motel outside of the city that he used to avoid his wife and children. He confirmed that his company had been bought out last night via an after-hours wire transfer and congratulated me on the come-up. This was hopefully the last I'd hear from the man.

Next was a call to my new manager, who, despite having a French country code and, as it turned out, living in Paris, picked up immediately. Cherie was a consummate professional and assured me that she and my new agent, Guy, were practically nocturnal and that I wouldn't have to worry about the time difference. She was also happy to charter a jet for me, her, or Guy at a moment's notice if an in-person meeting was called for. According to Cherie, they had bought out my former agency in an effort to expand into America, and I had played a prominent role in the discussions to do so. Though, that was exactly the sort of lie that agents and managers told their clients all the time, and her poker face easily triumphed over my ability to read her on a video call. All in all, she hadn't raised any outright red flags, certainly fewer than Macadam had the first time I'd met him, but with all the goddamn terrors in this world, someone saying that they were nocturnal was definitely suspicious.

Finally, I shot a text to Kas asking if he'd heard that I'd been accepted into the Stunt Performers Guild. He video-called back immediately and was surprisingly not as drunk as I expected, considering it was almost midnight in the Swiss Alps. In the background was a pool overlooking the mountains, with water vapor rising like mist through the clean mountain air.

"Holy shit, kid. Did I read your text right? Wait—hey!" His phone was snatched away by a blonde in a bikini. "Honey, it's a work call," I heard him protesting in the back.

"James Li! Papa was just telling me and my mother all about you," slurred Kas's daughter. I recognized her from the family pictures. She was a medical student in Stuttgart, last I'd heard.

I smiled politely. I'd clearly interrupted a family reunion of sorts, which explained Kas's relative sobriety. "Hi, Sonje. It's nice to finally meet you. Kas talks you up all the time."

Another blonde woman popped her head in. Her features were sharp, with high cheekbones and a face that screamed of either incredible genetics or phenomenal plastic surgery, but her eyes were kind and warm. "And what has he said about me, Mr. Li?"

I laughed at Kas's groan in the background. "Hello, Ms. Messer. I think he said something about fumbling a ten? Ain't that right, old man?"

Katrina Messer, Kas's ex-wife, had a hearty, boisterous laugh, ill-fitting for the beauty but charming in its contrast. "Ah yes, he's been very apologetic since he's been here. In fact, I've been considering finally visiting that city of his and yours, though," she purred, "I would need a place to stay, and I won't be caught dead staying with my ex-husband. Perhaps I might stay with you. You wouldn't mind that, would you, Kassem?"

Kas snatched his phone back and extricated himself from the pool as the two drunk women continued to heckle him in German. "Sorry about that," he said, sounding more tired than I'd ever heard him. "They're only teasing. What the hell do you mean you got into the Guild?"

"I won't keep you long, don't worry. I just wanted to check if you'd heard anything. The SPG apparently approved it last night. I've got my doubts, but Domingo Alvarez just handed me a check for two thousand dollars, so I assume it's legit."

"Fucking news to me, man, and they're supposed to reach out to confirm with mentors before sending the card out, too. What do you think sparked it?"

"Shit." I mussed my hair. "This is definitely weird, then. Could GLB have expedited things? They bought out Macadam last night with an after-hours wire transfer."

"Germain Lavigne Blanc, the modeling agency? They bought out that meatball Macadam? Well, I guess you are outrageously handsome…but after-hours and out of nowhere? I don't know, James. Never heard of a single stunt actor with GLB, and I've done a ton of work in Europe. There's not a huge crossover with couture fashion and people who routinely get their shit rocked. Even with meditative healing practices, we still accumulate scars."

"Okay, so I'm not wrong to feel off about this whole thing."

Was this a message from Davis, or was it continued fallout for the Peach Incident? There had been that dark presence watching me from atop St. Lucia's Cathedral, and Li Tieguai was self-admittedly trading the story around as much as he could for 'treats' from other immortals.

It could've been a ploy by the Tigers or the Cranes, too. Falling Leaf Lin's student had been living in France, specifically Paris, if I recalled correctly. And there had also been that mysterious 'hedge fund guy' who spooked Cory back at the Kingfisher. The timing did line up with him noticing me and when the first emails showed up in my inbox. But that was way too quick, right? It would have been minutes between him turning to nod at me and the business deal going through. Could money even buy that sort of service?

Nor could I forget about the Yakuza leader who had covered my bill at Tamaki Grill before the exorcism, either. Christ, I really needed to get on top of their invitation, especially since I'd gone to the Kingfisher on opening night. It would be extra disrespectful to put off dinner with the Yaks now.

God, I was so doomed. Save me, Davis.

Kas sighed. "Shit, kid, it's objectively great for your career – fucking GLB, holy shit. If it helps, I've heard rumors that they're basically a state actor, or at least heavily connected to government in some way or another. Too many models deciding to 'date' older politicians for a few years before getting their golden ticket, if you get my meaning. Just do me a favor and keep your guard up. I'll ask around, but I don't exactly have in-roads in those circles, never been pretty enough."

"Thanks, Kas. And for picking up too. I'll let you get back to your family. Oh, wait," I added quickly, "have you heard of a wizard named Paul Occam?"

"I've met one or two Occam's at parties over the years. Pretty…eccentric, even as mages go, but generally okay enough from first impressions. Not familiar with a Paul Occam, but I got the feeling that most of the family don't get out much." He paused, chewing on his words for a moment. "I maybe can't stress enough how deeply strange most wizards are. I think the magic cooks their brains or something."

"They'd probably say the same about us."

"True."

"Anyway, that's good enough for me. Thanks again, Kas. Enjoy your Swiss chateau and the company."

"Ha. You're doing me a favor, kid. Sonje and Katrina are a hell of a tag team," he grumbled. Then, as if realizing something, he paused, somewhat embarrassed. "So, uh, you still planning to fight in the Qualifiers? No pressure, of course."

I smirked. "Huh, I don't know. What was that about your ex-wife staying at my place again?"

Kas looked genuinely thrilled by the comment. "You'll take Katrina off my hands, and you'll fight in the Quals? Deal! No takesy-backsies! Hey, mind showing Sonje around for a few nights here and there, too? I told her I wouldn't go to the casino the whole time she was visiting."

"Jesus Christ, Kas. Have some dignity, old man. All you do is play five-dollar blackjack all night anyway."

"Come on, be a pal. I didn't know Sonje was thinking about staying for over a month when I promised that. She watches all of your videos, you know? If we make it look like I set up a date for her as a favor, I'd get major dad cred. Would be a pretty swell way to thank your mentor for helping you get your union card, just saying."

"There are so many better hobbies. You ever watch anime? You have, like, the mathematically perfect build for cosplay."

"It's important me time, James. Helps me keep it loose and sexy."

The words 'keep it loose' triggered an eerie sense of déjà vu, but I put it out of my mind; déjà vu never had a satisfying conclusion.

I chuckled. "Have fun with your family, pops. We'll talk soon."