AUTHOR
In a secluded alcove away from the gala's glittering heart, shielded by a large, abstract sculpture, Kenji and Tokito stand like two pillars of shadow and smoke.
"The call is made," Tokito says, his voice a low, clean wire of sound. He slips his phone back into his pocket. "Kirishima took the bait without a second thought. He sounded like a man who just won the lottery. He's already picturing you, isolated and vulnerable at the south dock."
A slow, cold smile spreads across Kenji's face. It doesn't reach his eyes, which remain chips of arctic ice. "Good. Let the old fool savor his imagined victory. It will make the taste of his defeat so much more bitter."
They begin to discuss logistics in clipped, efficient sentences—men, weapons, fallback positions. This is the final move in a chess game they've been playing for years, and the air crackles with the grim satisfaction of a trap about to spring.
