Contract

The office smelled of stale coffee and expensive desperation.

Elion Marrow sat in the leather chair, flipping through the thirty-page contract with the scrutiny of a man looking for a trapdoor.

"Just sign on the dotted line, Dr. Marrow," Mira Kovari said, tapping her manicured nail against the glass desk. "And all your problems... poof. Gone."

"Clause 4, Section B," Elion read aloud, not looking up. "'Production reserves the right to fictionalize, dramatize, or alter the portrayal of the Talent for narrative cohesion.' You want to turn me into a cartoon villain."

"We want to turn you into a star," Mira corrected, leaning back. "The public hates you right now, Elion. You're the 'Homewrecker Shrink.' You need a rebrand. We're offering you a redemption arc on a silver platter."

"I don't need redemption," Elion said, his voice dry. "I need four million dollars to pay off the lawsuit from the Senator's wife."

"Tomayto, tomahto." Mira slid a gold pen across the desk. "Fifty thousand signing bonus. The rest if you win. Or if you make it to the finale."

"And if I walk away?"

"Then you can explain to your lawyer why you turned down the only lifeline you have left."

Elion looked at the pen. He looked at Mira.

"This show is a circus," Elion said.

"And you're the main attraction," Mira smiled. "Do we have a deal?"

Elion picked up the pen. "If you edit me to look like a sociopath, I'll sue you for breach of contract."

"You can try," Mira said cheerfully. "But our lawyers are better than yours. Sign."

Elion signed. The scratch of the pen sounded like a lock clicking shut.

"Welcome to Love Chase," Mira said, snatching the paper back. "The car is downstairs. Don't bring any books. We want engagement, not literacy."

The mansion in Queens looked like a wedding cake that had been left out in the rain. It was gaudy, excessive, and dripping with fake gold leaf.

"Okay, fresh meat!" a production assistant shouted, waving a clipboard. "Line up for the entrance shot! Big smiles! Act like you believe in love!"

Elion stood at the back of the group. He pulled his grey cardigan tighter around himself.

"Nice sweater," a voice drawled beside him. "Did you rob a librarian?"

Elion turned. A man with slicked-back hair and a smile that looked like a warning label was looking him up and down.

"It's cashmere," Elion said. "And you must be Kieran. I read your bio. 'Entrepreneur.' That usually means 'Unemployed with a trust fund.'"

Kieran laughed, delighted. "Ooh. The Doctor has claws. I like it. We're going to have fun."

"I doubt it."

"Action!" the director yelled.

The double doors swung open. The group surged forward, a wave of perfume and ambition.

Elion lingered at the back, trying to disappear into the wallpaper.

Then, he felt it.

A weight. A gaze so heavy it felt like a physical touch on the back of his neck.

"Hey," Kieran whispered, nudging him. "Check out the guy by the kitchen door. The one in the funeral coat."

Elion looked.

A man was standing in the shadows of the catering station. He was wearing a long black coat, despite the heat of the studio lights. He wasn't looking at the cameras. He wasn't looking at the other contestants.

He was looking directly at Elion.

"He's staring at you," Kieran noted. "Do you owe him money?"

"I've never seen him before," Elion said.

But as he locked eyes with the stranger, Elion felt a strange, jarring sensation of déjà vu. The man’s eyes were dark, exhausted, and filled with a terrifying familiarity.

"He looks intense," Kieran said. "Like he's calculating the structural integrity of your face."

"Excuse me," Elion said.

He walked away from Kieran. He walked straight toward the man in black.

He stopped two feet away. The man didn't blink.

"Can I help you?" Elion asked, keeping his voice low.

"You're standing on a mark," the man said. His voice was rough, like gravel.

"What?"

"The floor," the man said, pointing down. "That tape. It's a mark for the steady-cam. You're in the way."

Elion looked down. He was standing on a piece of red tape.

"I didn't see it," Elion said. "Are you crew?"

"No."

"Then who are you? And why are you looking at me like I'm about to explode?"

The man tilted his head. "You have a loose thread on your sleeve."

Elion frowned. He looked at his sleeve. There was a loose thread.

"So?"

"Don't pull it," the man said. "It unravels the seam."

"Okay," Elion said slowly. "Thanks for the fashion advice. I'm Elion."

"I know," the man said.

"You know?"

"Everyone knows," the man said. "The Senator. The lawsuit."

"Right." Elion felt a flash of irritation. "Well, enjoy the show."

He turned to walk away.

"Wait," the man said.

Elion stopped. "What?"

"Step left," the man commanded.

"Excuse me?"

"Step three feet to your left. Now."

"Why?"

"Because," the man said, his eyes shifting to a waiter carrying a tray of champagne towers behind Elion, "physics."

Elion didn't move. "I'm not taking orders from—"

"Move!"

The man didn't wait. He lunged forward. He grabbed Elion’s arm and yanked him sideways.

CRASH.

The waiter tripped. The tray went airborne. Three dozen crystal glasses shattered on the exact spot where Elion had been standing a second ago. Shards of glass exploded outward. Champagne soaked the carpet.

Elion stared at the mess. A jagged piece of crystal was embedded in the floorboards, right where his foot had been.

He looked up at the man.

The man hadn't even flinched. He was still holding Elion’s arm, his grip like iron.

"How..." Elion breathed. "How did you know?"

"He was off-balance," the man said, releasing Elion instantly. "Top heavy."

"That wasn't just balance," Elion said, his mind racing. "You moved before he tripped."

"Reflexes."

"Who are you?" Elion demanded.

The man looked at him. The exhaustion in his eyes seemed to deepen, as if he had lived this moment a thousand times and was tired of the outcome.

"I'm Cale," the man said.

"Cale," Elion repeated. The name felt heavy in his mouth.

"You should get a towel," Cale said. "You have champagne on your shoes."

"I don't care about my shoes. You saved me."

"It was just a glass," Cale said, turning away. "Hardly a rescue."

"It felt like one," Elion said to Cale's retreating back.

Cale stopped. He didn't turn around.

"Be careful, Elion," Cale said softly. "This house... it has sharp edges."

"I noticed."

"Keep your eyes open."

"I will," Elion said. "Starting with you."

Cale walked away, disappearing into the crowd of producers and cameramen.

Elion stood there, watching him go.

"Well," Kieran said, appearing at his elbow with a smirk. "That was dramatic. Is he your ex?"

"No," Elion murmured, his gaze still fixed on the shadows where Cale had vanished.

"Stalker?"

"Maybe."

"He's weird," Kieran decided. "I vote we vote him off first."

"No," Elion said.

"Why not?"

"Because," Elion said, looking at the shard of glass in the floor, "I want to know how he knew the waiter was going to fall before the waiter knew."

"Maybe he pushed him," Kieran suggested.

Elion looked at Kieran. "Maybe."

But he knew it wasn't true. Cale hadn't pushed the waiter.

Cale had pushed the air.

"I'm going to find out," Elion said.

"Find out what?"

"What he is," Elion said.

He turned and walked toward the confessional booth, leaving the mess behind.

First entry for the journal, Elion thought. Subject: Cale. Anomaly: Speed. Prediction.

The game had barely started, and Elion already felt like he was losing. But for the first time in months, he wasn't bored.

He was hunting.