I make a study of Dominic the way other people study stock markets. Obsessively, clinically, with color-coded notes and a growing sense that I’m in over my head. He drinks black coffee at 3:00 PM exactly. Not 3:01. Not 2:59. Marcus brings it without being asked, sets it on the corner of Dominic’s desk, leaves without a word. Dominic won’t touch it for twelve minutes. He lets it sit, like he’s testing it. Or himself. He doesn’t have personal photos. Not in his office, not as his phone wallpaper when it lights up on the table. The only hint that he existed before Cole Enterprises is a single framed blueprint on the wall — his first warehouse, dated 23 years ago. No wife. No Ethan. No evidence he’s human. He works through birthdays. I know because his was last Tuesday. No cake, no email chain. Marcus ordered lunch for the floor, but Dominic ate at his desk, reading Q3 projections like they were a novel he couldn’t put down. Ethan showed up that day. Uninvited. With a bottle of Ma
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