I hope he’s interesting.
A pair of board members, both with boring faces and white gold masks, stand just out of Landon’s earshot. They’re discussing this quarter’s allocations for the “Community Initiatives,” which is code for laundering the surplus from this year’s less savory revenue streams.
“…Not that it matters,” one murmurs, “since most of it cycles right back after the sweep.”
The other laughs softly. “As long as the donors keep getting plaques, we could set the money on fire and they’d thank us.”
They’re right, but that’s not the point. The point is that for every fifty idiots who fall for the game, there’s one who notices the pieces don’t fit. Tonight, Landon is that one.
He’s made another circuit of the room and now stands near the orchestra pit, watching the quartet tune up between sets. The music isn’t why he’s here, but he looks as if he’d prefer it over the chatter. A server appears at his elbow, offeringchampagne again. Landon declines with a practiced “no, thank you,” but this time he does it with a warmth that actually reaches his eyes. The server smiles back—real, unforced.
Poor recognizes poor.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, a pattern that signals a direct message from the upper echelons. I ignore it. Instead I study Landon’s body language, searching for the tell that will break the riddle of him. His shoulders stay square even when he’s uncomfortable. His hands are steady, but his left foot taps the floor in a short, staccato rhythm, as if he’s counting out measures only he can hear.
A group of interns from the legal office passes by feigning interest in the art on the walls. One of them stares at Landon, almost as if yearning to talk to him, to study him, but he shakes his head slightly and angles away. They look after him, whispering, then move on.
Behind me, I hear a deliberate cough.
“Mr. Harrington,” says a familiar voice, nasal and a shade too eager. It’s a colleague from Design, the Ministry’s psychological warfare branch. He’s younger than me, but tries to compensate with an air of world-weariness. “I wanted to catch you about the Milan operation. It looks like—”
I hold up a finger, not to shush, but to pause. He blanches, but stops.
Smiling, I gesture for him to continue.
“There’s a potential exposure risk with the contract. Jagger wanted your input, since the lasttime—”
The words slide off my brain, irrelevant. I watch Landon duck through the crowd, careful not to touch anyone as he passes. “It won’t be a problem,” I say. “Jagger can reach me in the morning.”
The colleague nods, desperate for approval but too scared to push further. I pat his arm, just once, and watch as he nearly vibrates with pride at the acknowledgment. I let him have his moment, then shift my focus back to Landon.
He’s stopped by the main window, staring out at the gardens. From this angle, his reflection merges with the black beyond, creating a double image: the man he is, and the one he thinks he’s hiding. I watch as he draws in a breath, lets it out slow. There’s a strain in the set of his jaw, as if he’s building up to something.
Maybe he is.
I slide around the edge of the crowd, pausing only to accept a glass of water from a passing waiter. I drink it slow, watching as Landon scans the room’s perimeter, then glances over his shoulder. He sees me, this time, and the recognition is instantaneous. Not fear, not exactly. A wariness, edged with interest. I smile, letting him know I’ve seen him see me.
A man in a red velvet mask steps into my path, asking if I’d care to donate to the emergency relief fund. He’s one of ours, and the question is a code—a test. I respond with the counter phrase and a small envelope changes hands, unnoticed by anyone except Landon, who clocks the exchange and files it away with the rest of the night’s oddities.
The urge to see how much further he’ll go before someone breaks him is almost as strong as the urge to break him myself.
I shadow him for another ten minutes. He doesn’t speak to anyone, doesn’t eat, doesn’t drink, just watches the party as if he’s been dropped into another planet. At one point he takes out his phone and types something, but when I check the logs from the network sweeper, it’s just a note to himself. “Syndicate event: masks, donations, nobody talks to me, except one. Watch for patterns.”
Patterns. He’s not just noticing. He’s collating.
Protocol says to flag this kind of behavior immediately. I don’t. I watch instead.
He walks to the edge of the ballroom, toward the row of private doors where the event planners are quietly running the show. There’s a velvet rope, but he hovers near it, pretending to admire the oil painting just above. The hallway is empty; the planners are all in the control room behind a one-way mirror. Landon seems to sense this. He checks his phone again, then heads for the men’s room.
I follow at a comfortable delay, giving him time to relax. When I enter, he’s washing his hands, staring into the mirror. The fluorescent lighting is cruel, stripping the color from his face and turning his eyes a muddy brown. He glances up, sees me in the reflection, and freezes for half a second before resuming his rinse.
“Are you following me?” he asks,voice level.
I pick the sink next to his, rinse my hands, flicking the water against the porcelain. “Not following. Just watching.”
He laughs, brittle but not scared. “If you’re a security guy, you could just ask what you want to know.”
I dry my hands, then lean against the counter, studying him. “What do you think I want to know?”
