I move through the seedy, smoke-filled bar toward a well-dressed man at a booth.

He's got a thick head of mussy brown hair, a receding chin, and a punched flat nose.

Percy? I ask. I've talked to him via text and on the phone, never in person.

His paranoid eyes fix on me.

What time is it?

I almost roll my eyes at the cloak and dagger shit, but I say,

Time is a construct that can be manipulated by powerful people.

He nods somberly, looking around.

You're alone?

I thought you were bringing a team like I asked. Relax. They're outside, looking around. Ear alone. I thought you were bringing a team, like I asked.

Relax.

They're outside, monitoring everything.

I point to my ear, indicating the earpiece he can't see.

Seeing a book of matches with the bar's name on it, I swiped them up.

You never know when matches might come in handy.

So what do you need before you can protect me?

Haven't I already given you enough?

Percy, you've only told me what a handful of low-level analysts already know.

If you want our protection, you got to give me something to prove your worth.

Percy shakes his head, picking up his glass containing only melted ice.

I notice his hands look different.

One is thicker than the other, with shorter fingers.

...