The Plaza Bar might have been on a different planet; gleaming chrome, polished dark wood, and ambient light shone like hard currency. Reid arrived at exactly 10:00 p.m.
The bar was teeming with the usual crowd: tech guys laughing loudly over craft cocktails; tourists taking in the scene with smartphones; a handful of willing dolls sitting close to the entrance; and the rest a mix you'd find in any watering hole.
Reid, in his worn-out jacket, stood out like a smudge on a newly cleaned screen.
He cast a lonely gaze over the bar, hoping a face would pop - none did, and nothing seemed out of place. Who was he meeting? Then, his cheap phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. A new text message eyed him. New instructions:
Buy a copy of Tech Magazine at the kiosk
Order a bottle of beer at the bar
Use the card in your back pocket (PIN 0000)
He fumbled in his back pocket and fished out a Visa card. How and when it had gotten there puzzled him. Something wasn't right. He became instantly alert, every nerve screaming: was that guy in the corner watching him? The woman at the end of the bar? Paranoia crept in, and he felt as naked as a bug under a microscope.
Five minutes later, he settled comfortably at a corner table with a clear view of the entrance, flipping through the magazine and sipping the beer he'd bought with the card.
Time crawled: 10:26… 10:53… 11:53. No one approached. Apart from the card earlier, nothing else. No signal.
The overwhelming wave of stupidity began to wash over him. Of course, it was a trap. Or a prank. Or nothing at all—just another dead end in a life already overflowing with them.
He drained the bottle, the last drop tasting of disappointment. He'd had enough. He pushed away from the stool, shoulders slumped, and made for the exit door—ready to retreat back to his mucky apartment of anonymity.
A hand brushed his arm—light but deliberate. He turned, his heart banging against his ribs. He braced for Vaughn's smirk or worse, the glint of a gun. Instead, he found himself facing a woman that might have been carved from ice. In her late sixties, smartly dressed in a charcoal tailored suit, her silver hair swept back into a sleek low bun. Her eyes held no warmth—only cold and calculating intensity.
"Mr. Brecken" she said. Her voice was low, cultured, invested with the unmistakable authority of someone accustomed to issuing commands. It sliced through the murmur of the bar like a blade. ", I'm Celia Sterling of Sterling Dynamics. And I believe we have a problem that only the real genius that built CipherCore can fix." She paused deliberately, allowing the implication of her words to sink in. "And we are willing to make your revenge very, very productive."
Before Reid could recover from the shock—the implications of her words, the sheer audacity—a sleek black luxury car rolled quietly to the curb beside them.
Its windows were deeply tinted, opaque. The back passenger door slid open, revealing a cavernous, plush interior. Inside, illuminated by the glow of a softly lit screen, sat a man.
Dante West.
He did not require an introduction. Power exuded from him like a physical presence—icy, contained, and utterly ruthless. He was impeccably dressed, his face sharp and unyielding, his eyes were like dark wells that seemed to draw in light. He regarded Reid not as a human but as a wretched object of appraisal—asset or liability.
"Get in, Mr. Brecken," West commanded. It wasn't a request but a decree. His voice was even, without accent, yet it carried the finality of a vault door slamming shut. "Your life of obscurity ends tonight."
Reid, still dazed, stood motionless on the rain-soaked sidewalk. City lights smeared across the wet pavement. The woman—Celia Sterling's promise of vengeance – very assuring -battled the primal fear screaming in his bones. West's presence wrapped around him like an iron cocoon.
Reid was in a dilemma, a man heading into the jaws of a monster. Step forward, and every shred of control will shatter. Step back—but to what? Into eviction, junk meals, and the slow death in obscurity?
He glanced once more at Celia Sterling's cold eyes – they offered no comfort, except the promise of consequences. Then he stepped toward the open car door-- a portal to power? Or to ruin? To Chloe's and Marcus's destruction? His fists clenched at his sides.
The door began to close on its own, a silent countdown.
Chloe's laughing face at the gala exploded in his mind: security guards gripping his arms, his world crashing down. The fury caged for years unleashed itself. It wasn't hope that propelled him but desperate, savage rage. With a low, hoarse cry drowned by the city's noise, Reid lunged.
He dove into the dark leather interior just as the door sealed with a soft, final thunk. The locks engaged in a deafening snap. The car slid away from the curb—smooth, silent—swallowing him in Seattle's drizzling night.
West watched him with a mirthless, lean smile. "Welcome onboard, Mr. Brecken," he said, every word measured. "Do not disappoint us as you have disappointed yourself."
An opaque, smoked-glass partition rose from the console, sealing Reid in the sound-proofed compartment. Outside, city lights blurred into a watercolor smear of neon and shadow.
On the gleaming bar surface, unobserved by anyone, Reid's cheap phone buzzed urgently. The screen glowed with one last message before fading:
DON'T AGREE! IT'S A TRAP!