The Weight of Paper
Jonas Merrow sat with his back straight, though every instinct begged him to shrink. His hands itched where they'd held the dossier. He could still feel the phantom heat of the serpent seal on his fingertips, as if it had burned through the page.
He glanced around the table. These were men and women who moved billions with signatures, who toppled markets with careless words. He'd spent years studying their strategies, their legends, and yet sitting here he realized something unsettling: they weren't as unshakable as their reputations suggested.
They were afraid.
But not of Michael Rivers.
---
The Specter in the Room
Jonas had noticed it the moment the serpent-sealed envelope appeared. The way Maggie's hand trembled almost imperceptibly. The way Whitcombe's cane gripped tighter. The way Klein — a man who had once overseen assassinations — avoided eye contact with Catherine Haldane.
The Serpent.
The name slithered through his mind, splitting into pieces: the Viper, the Adder, the Coil, the Fang. He'd heard those whispers before, in corridors he wasn't supposed to linger in. A mercenary recruit once muttered it on a train. A journalist's notes he'd glimpsed before they were shredded. Different names, same fear.
What terrified him wasn't that such a man existed. What terrified him was that titans like Whitcombe bent beneath his shadow.
---
The Pawn's Dread
He swallowed hard. The board debated philosophy, empire, survival. Jonas thought of something simpler: his name was on the assignment slip that had compiled Rivers' file. If the Serpent knew what he carried…
What if pawns aren't only sacrificed on the board? What if they're the first to go?
He thought of his wife, asleep in their small flat. Of his daughter's half-finished drawing taped to their fridge. What would happen if he vanished? The world wouldn't write epitaphs for him. There would be no monologues, no smoldering cigars. He'd be a line item: "Analyst. Missing."
---
Echoes of the Monologues
As Whitcombe spoke of wasted time, Jonas thought of the hours he'd lost to overtime.
As Maggie dissected wealth, he thought of bills stacked on his counter.
As Klein gloated about epitaphs, Jonas wondered what his would read.
As Daniel warned of sparks, he thought of his daughter's laughter, fragile as tinder.
As Lucien sneered about history, Jonas felt the weight of obscurity pressing on him.
He realized then that their philosophies weren't meant for him, but they pressed on him anyway, like boots grinding a pawn into the board.
---
The Glance
Catherine Haldane's eyes flicked toward him. A single glance, but it hollowed his stomach. She didn't speak, but he felt dissected, catalogued, judged. It was worse than if she had accused him outright.
He looked down at his ink-stained fingers. They shook. For the first time, he wished he'd never taken this job, never sought to climb. He had walked into a room of gods only to discover they were jackals, and the Serpent had already wrapped around them.
And pawns? Pawns broke first.
---