Kaevin turns to the mirror, looks at the handsome figure that gazes back. He's dressed in a dapper suit and tie, the very image of wealth and success. Yet there's something different about this man. He stands a little too tall, blinks a little too rarely, has fingers a little too long. He slips on a pair of his signature gloves, slides on a pair of tinted sunglasses. There's nothing that can be done about his height, but no one's ever thought oddly about it. Sure, he's gotten lots of comments about how he could have played basketball or the like, but no one's ever been anywhere near the truth. And as long as that truth stays buried, he's fine with the occasional jab.  
  His shoes click against the floor as he walk out the door, softly shuts it behind him. The mansion behind him stands tall against the foggy woods that loom around it, the moonlight glinting off its polished windows. There's sharp angles and monotone grey everywhere, making the palatial structure look almost too industrial to be lived in. An engine roars to life somewhere in the depths of the woods, and Kaevin drives out in a car whose value is best measured in number of yearly salaries than proportions. There's a party somewhere waiting for him to arrive, but he takes a moment, as he always does, to look up at the sky for a moment. He takes his forefinger and lightly touches his cheek, then his forehead. Closes his eyes. A chilled breath escapes his mouth, making a small foggy spot on his windshield. Then his eyes are open, his hands on the wheel, the car silently gliding forward. The gates of the mansion creak open, and the car drives into the road.
  The party is, as expected, a quiet and discreet affair. Such is the manner of all things done in the upper social stratosphere, where every gathering is an opportunity for networking, not frolicking. Champagne falls in light streams over levitating fountains, suspended in the air with strong electromagnets and clever engineering. Platters swoop around the room, serving finger foods and shots. But to the man who just arrived, there's one person in the room. Just one, and the rest - all the murmuring socialites, the barely audible machines, the elegant laughs of slightly intoxicated gentlefolk - melts away. Jon Plainsberry, the man who eludes him. The final competitor to Kaevin's tech behemoth, Nexus. How a blustering man as undignified as Plainsberry has managed to resist all takeover attempts so far eludes him, but no matter. In a fit of uncharacteristic glee, Kaevin notes Plainsberry's nervous sheen as he looks around at the crowd. His company's stock is sliding, so far down that Nexus is well within the means to buy it out completely. Kaevin smirks at Plainsberry's flushed face and frantic eyes. Those eyes lock onto his, and Plainsberry's off, pushing past startled magnates and heirs as he rushes for the exit. Kaevin chuckles. There's no escape from this place, not when every door is sealed except for the one right behind him. Plainsberry tugs at the door, but it doesn't give. As expected. He turns around, but Kaevin's right there, leering down at him. They look at each other, Plainsberry's stout build even more pronounced in the face of his rival's towering height. They both chuckle, Plainsberry nervously and Kaevin victoriously.  
  "How's the company doing?"
  "It's... it's okay."  
  "I hear there's a bit of a rough patch."  
  "Yep, yep. A bit of a rough patch, but we'll get through it."  
  At that, Kaevin smiles. It's a devilish smile, wiley in its charms, but so very dangerous. Plainsberry flinches against the cold metal of the door, his heart beating loudly. Then comes the final strike, the blow of the sword. "I can help you get through it. A little investment, if you will." Plainsberry deflates, as if hearing the inevitable has made reality sink in. He looks up at his conqueror, the man who's offering a deal with so many strings attached you could sew a sweater. There's an aura of power around this man, as if no act, no event could reduce him to anything less that everything. He sags.
  "I'll take the investment. What equity?"
  "60 million for 60 percent. Seems fair."
  A scoff barely escapes Plainsberry's lips.
  "Fair? That's preposterous! I wouldn't sell for ten times that."
  "Ten times? 600 million then. But for 70 percent."
  Plainsberry glares at Kaevin, the hatred in his eyes so very evident. But there's nothing he can do, and he knows it. His company isn't his, with or without the investment. He's lost, and being sore about it helps nobody. He has workers to protect, employees to pay.
  "Fine. 600 million, 60 percent."
  "70 percent."
  "... 65."
  "70."
  "70."
  And at that, Kaevin pulls out a contract, neatly typed and expertly folded. Plainsberry gapes, his surprise evident. The gall of this man, to have a contract ready. It was as if he expected to win, as if he knew no other outcome. A pen, and a stamp. Two signatures. The contract is neatly folded, its creases crisp and precise, carefully placed back inside the briefcase. Kaevin smiles. It was always a good day to win. Always a good day to hear the whimpering of a man defeated, the vain whispers of the rich, the loud bang of a gun. A gun? Why... why was there a gun?