The internet had been good to Johan Fly over the years. It had brought him fans and followers, fueled his lavish lifestyle, and displayed his character—the Cali Viking—in an approving light. Johan’s online ascent had been swift, but it was nothing compared to his fall from grace. The internet turned on him like an exotic pet. There were streams of hate-filled comments, vicious memes, defamatory blog posts and subreddits. His socials were promptly shut down and his YouTube channels removed.

In the days following the incident at the Rattlesnake Hotel, when the dirty truths began to emerge, Aksel Fly took aggressive measures to clear his son’s name. He called his friends at City Hall, hired the best lawyers in Southern California, and threatened to sue just about everybody involved. Within forty-eight hours of throwing his hat into the ring, stocks in Fly Tech Inc. plummeted twenty-nine percent. This prompted a strategic volte-face. Aksel called off the dogs and went back to playing golf with his billionaire friends. Protecting his fortune was obviously more important than protecting his son’s name.

There was some debate about Johan’s final resting place. One Reddit user claimed that Aksel Fly had paid for a full Norse funeral, complete with a longship and archers with flaming arrows. A more popular theory was that Johan had been cremated in the Hollywood Hills, and his ashes kept among Viking artifacts on the Fly family estate.

Johan had believed in the gods, and he believed in fate, and Luke had to admit, sometimes things had a way of falling into place:

“Luke, Jesus fucking Christ, I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. What the fuck? You have your phone turned off?”

“Actually, yeah. I took a friend to the airport, and now I’m hanging out with another friend.”

Luke looked at the two words etched across the stone: soul man. He smiled, grabbed a flower, lifted it to his nose.

“You hear the news?” Marty asked.

“I don’t know, Marty. Why don’t you tell me the news, and I’ll tell you if I heard it.”

Marty Lustbader, agent extraordinaire. Luke, in his many fantasies, had sworn he’d never go back, even if Marty came groveling on his knees. But he did go back, and Marty didn’t have to grovel. The truth was, Luke liked the old son of a bitch.

“Barrett Lorne,” Marty said, breathless.

“What about him?”

“Had a meltdown on the set of Night City Blues. Punched Yaron Lewenberg—the head of New Dawn Pictures—in the throat. In the goddamn throat.” Marty paused for dramatic effect. “Jesus, Barrett has always been an asshole, but he’s been a raging asshole since his canary supply dried up. This was the last straw. He’s been taken off the picture.”

“And?” Luke asked.

“And he needs to be replaced.” Another pause. “The producers like you, Luke.”

“Me?”

“You have the right . . . beaten-up look.”