Twelve kilometers south, in a motel room that smelled of stale cigarettes and damp drywall, Julian Vane was learning the cost of being poor.
He sat on the edge of the sagging mattress, staring at the small, flickering television. The news was a loop of the First National collapse. His trust fund, his leverage, his "Art Budget"—all of it was frozen. He had exactly $142 in his wallet and a half-tank of gas in a rented Ford that would be reported stolen by Monday.
He felt the familiar, rhythmic throb in his jaw. The Memory Migraine was a cruel reminder that his mind was too large for this year. He tried to remember the name of the man who would eventually sell him his first high-grade sniper rifle in 2012.
V... Vic... Victor? No...
Pain flared behind his eyes, a white-hot flash that sent him to his knees. He vomited into a plastic wastebasket, his body arching in a silent, agonizing spasm. His 41°C fever had left him, but the "Purge" was relentless.
He stood up slowly, wiping a string of bile from his lip. He looked at the Beretta 92FS on the nightstand. It was a crude tool, but the "Normal World" required crude solutions.
"I need capital," Julian murmured, his voice a cold, flat line.
He walked out of the motel into the 2°C sleet. He didn't head for the Fairmont. He headed for a small, private check-cashing business two blocks away. It was a low-rent operation, the kind of place that stayed open late for people even more desperate than he was.
Julian walked inside. There was a single clerk behind a cage of reinforced glass—a middle-aged man with a tired face and a name tag that read 'Gary.'
"I'd like to make a withdrawal," Julian said, his voice melodic and calm.
"We don't do bank withdrawals here, pal. Just checks and—"
Julian didn't raise the gun. He simply looked at Gary. In that moment, Julian's 2026 consciousness—the "Clockwork Butcher" who had dismantled forty-two people without a single drop of sweat—shone through his 2006 eyes.
Gary froze. He saw a predator. He saw a man who wasn't just holding a gun, but a man who was a weapon himself.
"Open the cage, Gary," Julian said. "Or I'll have to use the window."
Five minutes later, Julian walked back to his car. He had $8,400 in a paper bag. It was a pittance compared to the millions he'd lost, but it was enough for a room, a better car, and the "Supplies" he needed for the Fairmont.
It was his first murder in this timeline. He hadn't pulled the trigger—he'd simply used a surgical scalpel to open Gary's carotid artery when the man reached for the alarm. It was clean. It was efficient. It was a "Survival Murder."
"The Blood Tax," Julian whispered, starting the Ford.
He didn't know that Elias was currently paying $240,000 for a team of professionals to wait for him. He didn't know the prey was armed with a fortune while the predator was hunting for pocket change.
The snow continued to fall, burying the city and the body of a man named Gary in a cold, silent white.