The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the air outside Ethan Prescott’s office still smelled faintly of wet asphalt and smoke. The city lights gleamed through the window, painting the office in shifting shades of gold and silver.

Ethan sat behind his desk, coat draped over the back of his chair, a glass of whiskey untouched beside a stack of folders. The clock on the wall ticked softly, the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

A knock came at the door.

“Come in,” he said, not ...