Sean looked at him for a long moment. Whatever satisfaction he might have expected to feel from this moment didn’t quite arrive. Anthony looked smaller than he had at the party. Less like a smug rival and more like a college kid who’d made a bet he couldn’t back up and was now facing the consequences in real time.

"What do you want me to do about it," said Sean.

"I don’t know," said Anthony. "Extend it. Reduce it. Something. I’m not asking you to forget it happened. I’m asking for some kind of mercy."

Sean thought about Friday. About Lockhart Holdings. About the much larger, much more dangerous game he was about to walk into in less than twenty-four hours. Ten thousand dollars and a college rivalry suddenly felt almost absurdly small in comparison.

"Here’s what’s going to happen," said Sean. "The deadline stands. Tomorrow, in front of whoever’s around, you tell people you lost the bet and couldn’t pay. Not me revealing anything else about you. Just that. Public accountability for losing a bet you made publicly. That’s the consequence. Nothing more, nothing less."

Anthony stared at him. "That’s it?"

"That’s it," said Sean. "I’m not interested in destroying you over ten thousand dollars, Anthony. I have bigger things to worry about right now than your reputation." He paused. "But you don’t get out of it clean either. You made a bet, you lost, you tell people. That’s the deal."

Anthony was quiet for a moment, something complicated passing across his face. "Why are you being almost decent about this?"

"Don’t read too much into it," said Sean. "I just don’t have the bandwidth to care about you right now."

He walked away before Anthony could respond.

—--------------------

That evening, James pulled the Rolls Royce up outside the building with Walsh waiting near the entrance, a folder tucked under his arm.

"Sir," said Walsh, falling into step as Sean walked toward the door. He was exactly what Sean expected, mid-forties, solid build, the kind of calm watchfulness that came from years of training rather than natural temperament. "Got something you should see."

They went up to Sean’s apartment. Walsh laid out a series of printed photographs on the desk, taken from a discreet angle across the street.

"Two more individuals in the past two days," said Walsh, pointing to the images. "Not the same man as before. Different faces, but similar patterns. Watching from a distance, never approaching, never staying in one position too long. Professional surveillance, not amateur."

Sean looked at the photographs. Two new faces, neither of them Foster, but the same careful blankness in their expressions, the same deliberate unremarkableness.

"They’re rotating people," said Sean.

"Looks that way, sir," said Walsh. "Which tells me whoever’s running this has real resources. Enough personnel to rotate surveillance teams without burning through people fast." He paused. "I’d recommend increasing the detail before tomorrow. If you’re walking into a meeting with these people, I want eyes on this building the entire time you’re away."

"Do it," said Sean. "Whatever you need."

Walsh nodded, gathering the photographs back into the folder. "One more thing, sir. I did a perimeter check this afternoon. Found a vehicle parked two blocks down that’s been there since this morning. Plates don’t trace to anything in the usual databases. Could be nothing. Could be them."

Sean felt the weight of it settle a little heavier in his chest. "Keep watching it. Don’t approach."

"Understood, sir."

Walsh left. Sean sat alone in his apartment for a long moment, looking at the city lights through his window, thinking about how quickly the scale of his life had shifted. A week ago his biggest problem had been an ex he didn’t even have yet in this timeline. Now there were professional surveillance teams rotating shifts outside his building.

His phone buzzed. Max.

Got a partial name. Need to verify before I send it. Give me until tomorrow morning.

Sean’s pulse picked up. How partial.

Enough that I think we’re close. Don’t get ahead of yourself yet though. I need confirmation.

’’ Okay. Be careful tonight.’’ Said Max

’’Always am.’’ Replied Sean

Sean set the phone down and looked out at the dark street below. Somewhere out there, in a car with unregistered plates, someone was watching this building, waiting, patient in a way that unsettled him more than any obvious threat could have.

Tomorrow he’d have a name, maybe. Tomorrow evening he’d sit across from whoever was actually running Lockhart Holdings.

He thought about Makima’s folder of old property records sitting on his desk. About Marcus’s investment thesis with its corrected timeline. About Anthony’s small, almost pathetic defeat. About Olivia’s growing favorability climbing toward a threshold he hadn’t fully thought through the implications of yet.

All of it felt like pieces of a life he was building in real time, fragile and complicated and entirely his own, sitting directly in the path of something much larger that had decided, for reasons he still didn’t fully understand, that he was worth watching.

He opened his laptop and started reviewing Makima’s old documents, cross-referencing names against everything Max had already found, searching for any thread that might connect the dots before Friday arrived.

The night stretched on. Somewhere outside, a car with no traceable plates sat quietly in the dark, waiting.

—---------------------

Sean woke up Friday morning with a clear head despite barely sleeping.

He lay there for a moment, running through the day ahead. Anthony’s deadline. The meeting with Lockhart Holdings at eight that evening. Max’s promised name, still unconfirmed as of last night.

He checked his phone first thing.

A message from Max, sent at five forty in the morning.

Got it. Confirmed. Need to show you in person before tonight. Today, as early as possible.

Sean sat up fully now, pulse picking up. He typed back immediately.

On my way. Give me thirty minutes.

—---------------

Max opened the door looking like he hadn’t slept at all. Dark circles under his eyes, hair messier than usual, the kind of exhaustion that came from pushing past every reasonable stopping point.