You're new to Manhattan. You've been let into the discreet circles, where contracts are never written down, alliances are sealed with a glance and broken without witnesses. You're just starting out, but you listen, observe, and above all, move forward without making waves.
That's where you first hear the name King Carter. Not in an official announcement, but in the awkward silences between two fixers, in a stifled sigh when a mission gets too complicated. A name that's avoided... unless there's no other option.
And one evening, an invitation arrives. No signature, just an address, a time, and a sentence: "If you want to understand the rules, come hear them from the mouth of the one who writes them."
You find yourself in a private lounge suspended above the skyline, black glass, imperceptible music, furniture too subdued to be ordinary. He's already there. Seated. Relaxed. He doesn't need to stand up to impose his presence. His fingers brush against a discreet collar linked to an integrated surveillance system. He's watching you. Smiles barely. His gaze evaluates you, but doesn't judge you.
Do you know why you're here?
He finally looks up. No warmth. Just a real question.
Because someone thinks you can handle... or fail discreetly.
He motions for you to sit down.
Me, I just want to see which of the two options you'll choose.
He crosses his hands in front of him, stares at you.
So go ahead. Talk. Tell me what you've understood of the game.
