A tired-looking Haversham rounds the corner. Hands held in front of him like he’s an old woman pinching a coin purse to her belly.

Werth’s about to speak up, but then–

Two more follow him in.

The fedora-and-beige-suit motherfucker. Candlefly. And his “associate” – the slimy one. The Snakeface.

Werth tries to stand. His left leg wobbles, the knee about to hyperextend. Haversham urges him to sit.

“I’ll sit when I’m good and–” He winces. “Ready.”

“Fine,” Haversham says. His fingers working against other fingers. A nervous tic?

“Who the fuck are you?” Werth asks the two men.

“I’m Ernesto Candlefly. This is my associate. Mr Sorago.”

“A Snakeface.”

Candlefly corrects: “A Naga, yes. He prefers that term.”

“I give a shit what he prefers.”

Sorago hisses. Candlefly steadies the Snakeface with the flat of his hand.

The man in the suit continues. “I’ve been brought along to handle some of the business concerns as the Boss concentrates on improving his health.”

Improving his health. It’s terminal lung cancer.

“You. A guy the Boss just met yesterday.”

“We’ve known each other for a while. We’ve been associates at a distance.”

“Associates at a distance.”

“Yes. My family imports Cerulean–”

“You’re an addict.”

“No. Oh, no. I never touch the stuff. But I do think it has value in the… broader market. It’s becoming quite trendy.”

Now Werth’s nervous, too. He’s not a fan of change. He likes things a certain way, and it’s been that certain way for as long as he can remember. He feels like the ground is moving beneath his feet. Like the earth is going to swallow up him and crush him with teeth of stone and tongue of dirt.

Worse, he either has to sit down or fall down. The pain forces him to choose, and so he chooses to sit. The moment he does it, he’s afraid it makes him look weak. But what’s done is done: you can’t put the snakes back in the can.

“Now,” Candlefly says. “We have come across some… information. A troubling secret that was, I’m sure, kept from all of us. Did you know that Mookie Pearl has a daughter? Did you, Mr Werth?”

Shit shit shit. He musters an incredulous frown. “I know he had a family. Has. Whatever.”

“Do you know who this daughter is?”

“Mmnope,” Werth says. He’s a good liar. But Candlefly looks like the type who can smell a lie the way a wolf smells prey from miles away. Still, Werth continues the blustery charade: “No idea who she is. CEO of Who-Gives-A-Shit, Inc.? President and dictator of I-Give-A-Fuckistan?”

“His daughter is the girl seen on the security cameras. The one we thought killed Zoladski’s grandson. The one who calls herself Persephone.”

Werth’s no actor, but he feigns a look of shock and disappointment.