Michel Martinez straightened his tie in the bathroom mirror, the fluorescent light catching the silver threading through his black hair. The morning ritual was precise—Windsor knot centered, collar points aligned, the small things he could control. Twenty-two years at Brennan Industries had worn grooves into his morning routine: coffee at 6:47, kiss Maria goodbye at 7:15, wave to the kids from the driveway.
"Sophie's got art class today," Maria called from the kitchen. "Don't forget the check."
"Already in her backpack." Michel smiled at his reflection. Good providers remembered details.
In his office by 7:45, Michel aligned his coffee mug—the one Sophie had painted in second grade with "World's Best Dad" in uneven letters—exactly three inches from his keyboard. The 'd' was backwards, frozen in purple paint. He'd never corrected her. The photo of his family at Padre Island last summer sat at its usual angle, David's sandcastle elaborate as architecture, Sophie chasing gulls. Everything in its place.
The Kellerman contract glowed on his monitor. Signed. Delivered. Three months ahead of schedule. Another win for the quarterly report.
"Michel? Could you come to my office?"
Sandra's voice carried something heavy. In twenty-two years, she'd never avoided his eyes before. She stood at his doorway, looking past him at the Dallas skyline.
"Now?" He was already standing, already knowing.
"Please."