The champagne was older than most countries.
Sir Marcus Blackwood swirled the Dom Pérignon '53, watching it catch the light of three crystal chandeliers that cost more than the hospital he'd just bought. The twelve most powerful people alive—or rather, the eleven most powerful and their newest curiosity—stood in the glass-walled penthouse, forty-seven stories above a city that belonged to them the way ants own their colony.
"Tell us about this Adam," said Madame Chen, her voice carrying the weight of the media empire that decided what three billion people believed was true. Her fingers, heavy with Burmese jade, tapped against her glass. "The numbers are... interesting."
Interesting. The word hung in air thick with money and the smell of orchids flown in from Singapore that morning.
"He's perfect." Viktor Kozlov's accent turned the word into something sharp. The Russian oligarch's phone buzzed—Adam's current location, heartbeat, bank balance appearing in pixels. "Twenty-four years old. Dead parents. No connections. Desperate enough to be grateful."
"Grateful is good," murmured the man known only as Mr. White, though his name graced buildings across five continents. "Grateful people don't ask questions when opportunity knocks."
They laughed—the sound of expensive watches ticking in perfect synchronization.
"His social media presence is... quaint," continued Viktor, swiping through photos of a cramped apartment, a cracked mirror, a boy with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. "He posts about 'making it.' Dreams of Academy Awards. Thinks talent matters."
"Adorable," Lady Pemberton purred, her family having owned half of England since the Renaissance. "Shall we show him what really matters?"
"Patience." Sir Marcus raised his glass. "First, we watch. We guide. We see if our investment bears fruit."
"And if it doesn't?"
Sir Marcus smiled—the expression that had destroyed governments. "Then we pluck the fruit before it ripens. Or better yet, we let it rot on the vine as a lesson to the others."
They toasted to that.
To Adam.
Who was currently—
---
ADAM
—running late. Again.
The bus hissed away from the curb as Adam sprinted, his messenger bag slapping against his hip, the last of his rent money tucked in his wallet like a ticking bomb. He'd meant to leave the restaurant early, but his manager had caught him studying lines between tables, and now—
"Sorry, sorry, sorry—" He burst through the door of Starbucks, nearly colliding with a woman in business attire who looked at him like he was something stuck to her shoe.
The audition. The big one. The one his agent had sworn could change everything if he could just nail this scene, this moment, this—
"Adam Miller?"
The casting assistant didn't look up from her iPad. She was younger than him but carried herself like she owned the building. In a way, she did. Everyone here held his dreams in their hands like water—ready to let them slip through fingers at any moment.
"That's me." He flashed the smile that had gotten him this far. The one that said trustworthy leading man, boy next door, someone you'd let date your daughter. The smile that hid the fact that his last meal had been yesterday's leftover breadsticks.
"Room seven. You're already fifteen minutes late."
The hallway smelled of desperation and expensive perfume. Other actors sat in plastic chairs, each one a variation of his own face—young, hungry, interchangeable. They didn't look at each other. Looking meant seeing competition. Competition meant acknowledging there wasn't enough room at the top for everyone.
Adam understood math. He'd done the equations. Ten thousand kids moved to LA every year chasing the same dream. Maybe ten made it. Maybe less. The numbers didn't care about his mother's voice telling him he was special, about the way his high school drama teacher had cried when he'd performed that monologue from Hamlet, about the fire in his chest that said this was supposed to work.
Numbers didn't care about fire.
"Adam Miller, age twenty-four, height six-one, brown hair, brown eyes—" The woman behind the camera didn't introduce herself. In the reflection of her lens, Adam caught fragments of himself multiplied into infinity. "You're reading for the part of... let me see... Second Cop?"
Second Cop. Three lines. Probably wouldn't even make the final cut.
He smiled anyway. "That's right."
"Whenever you're ready."
The scene was simple. Second Cop discovers the body. Second Cop reacts to the body. Second Cop calls for backup. It was the kind of role that could launch a career if the director was feeling generous, if the film became a hit, if critics singled out the raw talent in the kid playing Second Cop.
If, if, if.
Adam thought of his rent due tomorrow. He thought of the headshots that had cost him two hundred dollars he didn't have. He thought of the voicemail from his agent: "This could be big, kid. They're looking for someone with that special something."
He thought of nothing.
The words came. They always did. When everything else in his life felt like grasping at smoke, the words were solid. Real. His.
"Cut." The woman lowered her camera. "Thank you, we'll be in touch."
Which meant: don't call us, we'll call you.
Adam walked back through the city that didn't belong to him, past boutiques where scarves cost more than his monthly income, past restaurants where people spent his yearly rent on dinner. The sun was setting, painting everything gold, and for a moment the world looked like a movie set—beautiful and false and designed for other people's stories.
His phone buzzed. Unknown number.
"Hello?"
"Adam Miller?" A woman's voice, crisp and efficient. "This is Jennifer Chen's office."
His heart stuttered. Jennifer Chen. The Jennifer Chen. The woman whose production company had launched half the A-list stars in Hollywood. Whose films grossed billions. Whose name on a project meant it mattered.
"This is Adam."
"Ms. Chen was impressed with your audition today. She'd like to invite you to a small gathering tomorrow evening. Some industry people. Nothing formal."
The sidewalk tilted slightly. "I—yes. Absolutely. Thank you."
"Wonderful. I'll text you the address. Black tie. And Adam?" Her voice shifted, became something warmer, more personal. "Wear the suit you can't afford. The one you bought for auditions that cost more than your first car. This is that moment your agent probably told you about. Don't waste it."
The line went dead.
Adam stood on the sidewalk, people flowing around him like water around a stone, and for the first time in months, he smiled without forcing it.
He didn't notice the black SUV parked across the street, its windows opaque as secrets.
He didn't notice the man in the expensive suit watching him through binoculars, making notes on a tablet that fed directly into servers owned by people who'd never touched hunger.
He didn't notice that his phone had been infected with spyware the moment he'd answered the call, that every message he'd ever sent was now being analyzed by algorithms designed to find leverage.
He noticed only the sunset, and how tomorrow it might rise on a completely different life.
Up in the penthouse, twelve glasses raised in silent toast.
The game had begun.