Chapter 3: Mistaken Boss

Leon woke up the next day expecting regret.

He expected to feel the creeping nausea of someone who might've accidentally committed a crime for pocket change. Instead, he felt... rich. And slightly bloated from celebrating with a microwaved burrito and expired wine cooler.

The black envelope was still on his desk.

He opened it again just to confirm he hadn't hallucinated it.

Still there.

Ten crisp bills. Hundred-dollar notes. Probably real. He resisted the urge to sniff them.

Leon turned in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

"...I am now," he said aloud to no one, "an elite freelance line-reciter. A paid professional of vague threats. A one-man community theater crime syndicate."

His phone buzzed.

He jumped.

Unknown Number. Again.

He hesitated for a beat, then picked up.

"This is Leon," he said, trying to sound like someone who had ever been confident on the phone.

"You're free tonight," said Elira's voice.

Not a question. A command dressed as a statement.

Leon scratched his neck. "That depends. Is this about another fake mob line? Because I'm gonna need a union rate if you want dramatic pauses this time."

"Meet me at the rooftop lounge of the Estelle Tower. Nine o'clock."

"Do I need to bring anything?"

She paused.

"…No. Just don't be late."

The line clicked off.

Leon lowered the phone and frowned at it.

"Cool, cool," he muttered. "Definitely not being pulled into a cult."

---

Estelle Tower — 9:00 PM

This place was richer than the last rich place.

The rooftop lounge glittered like a crown of glass and chrome above the skyline. Heat lamps pulsed golden warmth over private tables. String lights danced overhead. Music low and moody. Couples clinked crystal glasses and laughed like their parents owned continents.

Leon stood out like a beer stain at a wedding.

He walked in, scanning for her.

Elira was already seated. Private table. Wine glass untouched.

She wore a high-collared coat again—this time deep emerald—and black boots that looked sculpted, not made. She didn't wave. Didn't gesture. Just watched him approach with the stillness of a snake deciding if it's hungry.

"You came," she said, tone unreadable.

"You called," he replied, sliding into the seat across from her.

She gave him a long, measured look.

Then: "Who are you working with?"

Leon blinked. "Still no one. I mean, technically I work with my microwave, but we're not on great terms right now."

"You're not going to be straight with me."

"I am. You just don't like the answer."

Elira leaned forward slightly. "Then why were there cameras at the Roswell last night?"

"What cameras?"

"You tell me."

Leon frowned. "I mean, it's a hotel. Cameras are kind of the default, aren't they?"

Elira's eyes narrowed. She studied him again—like she was trying to see through him, peel back whatever disguise she thought he was wearing.

And that's when it happened.

The mistake.

A single thought crossed her mind.

What if I was being tested?

Leon's awkwardness. His nonchalance. His total lack of explanation. It all clicked in her head—not as incompetence, but as strategy. As someone pretending to be stupid… because he didn't need to prove anything.

A power move.

And he didn't correct her. Because Leon didn't even realize there was something to correct.

She sat back slowly.

"You don't trust me yet," she said softly.

Leon shrugged. "I mean, no offense, but you paid me to say one line and then dipped like a Bond villain."

Another slow breath.

Another mental calculation.

He's too casual. Too sloppy. Which means he's not sloppy at all.

She reached into her coat again, but this time, it wasn't money.

It was a small velvet pouch.

She slid it across the table toward him.

Leon picked it up. Heavy. Inside: a silver keycard with no markings and a coin. Old. Ornate. Foreign writing on both sides.

"What is this?" he asked.

"An invitation," she said.

"To what?"

"Let's not pretend either of us believes in coincidences, Mr. Vale."

He looked down at the card. Then back up.

"...I have no idea what's going on."

She smiled again.

That same unsettling smile from the night before.

Which, to Leon, read as mild approval.

But in Elira's mind?

He's playing me. He's letting me think I'm leading—while he pulls the strings.

"If you're going to operate in this city," she said, rising from the table, "you'll need people who can keep up."

She turned to leave.

Then paused.

"By the way," she added without turning back, "don't take any meetings with the Mossari family."

Leon frowned. "Who?"

But she was already walking away, heels clicking like gunshots on glass.

Leon sat alone at the rooftop lounge, holding a coin that felt cursed and a keycard that probably opened a vault, a bunker, or a bathroom in hell.

He looked around.

Then muttered under his breath, "Why do women keep giving me expensive stuff and vague warnings? Is this what dating is now?"

He looked at the card again.

Then slowly pocketed it.