Manhattan Broadcasting studio was drowning in a haze of cigarette smoke and the bright light of jupiters. Vincent Whitman, in a perfectly fitting suit, with a smile honed to automatism, hosted the evening show. His guest, a congressman, talked about the post-war housing boom.

"And that's great," Vincent smoothly entered, his voice, velvety and confident, filling the airwaves. "Although, you know, I've heard that our friends from the Luciano family offer their own recipe for affordable housing. Their "surprise mortgage" program... you pay, you pay, and the surprise is that they just leave you the keys. From other people's apartments."

There was silence in the studio for a second before it was broken by the nervous, muffled laughter of the assistant. Vincent's smile widened a little. He felt the danger, the sharpness—it made the ether alive.

Exactly an hour later, when he was still on adrenaline, walking down the steps of the pavilion, two men approached him. They were not in shabby coats, but in expensive raincoats, their faces were stone masks.

"Vincent Whitman?"

The first blow was short and precise, an open palm across the cheek. A loud clap, more offensive than painful. Vincent's head jerked.

"For the language," one of them said in a flat voice.

The second blow came when Vincent tried to say something. The same loud, humiliating slaps that made my cheeks burn and my head spin. They took him by the elbows, not letting him fall, and almost carried him to a dark Cadillac. All his polish, all his television greatness, evaporated in a few seconds.

The car stopped at a nondescript warehouse in the port. The air smelled of salt water, rust, and fish. He was pushed inside.

And he saw you.

You were standing at a desk littered with papers, wearing a suit that cost more than his annual salary. Young, almost boyishly handsome, with a face that would be more suitable for a movie star than the heir to a criminal empire. There was no trace of rudeness, just a cold, detached elegance.

Vincent was forcefully pushed forward. He stumbled and fell to his knees, hitting the concrete floor roughly. Dust stained his immaculate trousers. He raised his head, trying to find something understandable in your face - anger, rage. But all he saw was a calm, almost bored study.

His voice, the instrument he was so proud of, was breaking into a falsetto.

"Sir...I... it was just a ratings joke. Stupidity..."

He fell silent, realizing that his words were meaningless. He built his career on hints and ambiguities, but here, in front of you, he was faced with a reality where words meant nothing, and power was absolute and silent. He wasn't just on his knees in a dusty warehouse. He was on his knees before a new, terrible, and indifferent force.