Alexander Mercer stood at the window of his corner office, eighteen floors above the bustling downtown streets of Westbrook. Rain tapped against the glass in an irregular rhythm, blurring the city lights into watercolor smears of red and yellow. He adjusted his designer watch—a Patek Philippe that had cost more than most people’s monthly rent—and frowned at the dark clouds that had descended without warning.
“Mr. Mercer,” his assistant Diane’s voice came through the intercom, “your 4:30 is here.”