Chapter 2 - The Smile of a Wolf
The glass conference room at the end of the hall was small, stuffy, and smelled faintly of old carpet.
Marcus Vance pushed open the door at precisely 9:28 AM, two minutes ahead of schedule. He looked like success incarnate. He wore a tailored charcoal-gray suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent, a crisp white shirt open at the collar, and a pair of Italian leather loafers that clicked sharply against the linoleum. His dark hair was styled to perfection, and his smile—that dazzling, effortless frat-boy grin—could charm the pants off a bank teller.
"Leo, my man!" Marcus boomed, striding across the room and pulling me into a one-armed bear hug. He smelled of Tom Ford cologne and high-end scotch. "Look at us! Two broke kids from Ann Arbor, and today we officially build an empire. Are you ready to change the world?"
I allowed myself to be hugged, patting his back with measured calm, feeling the heavy gold Rolex strapped to his wrist pressing against my shoulder blade.
"Morning, Marcus," I said, pulling back and offering a polite, neutral smile. "You're looking sharp. Big meeting later?"
"Just lunch with some angel investors down on Rainey Street, keeping our options open," Marcus laughed smoothly, taking a seat at the head of the table. He unzipped a sleek leather briefcase and pulled out two thick, bound volumes covered in dark blue cardstock. He slid one across the table toward me with a flourish of practiced showmanship. "Here it is. Fifty-fifty split, co-founders, joint patent rights, mutual non-disclosures. Everything you asked for."
I looked down at the document. The silver foil embossed across the cover caught the fluorescent glare: AetherTech Inc. Master Incorporation and Operating Agreement.
In my past life, I had picked up the pen immediately, thanking Marcus for handling the legal fees and the corporate filing process.
This time, I didn't touch the pen. I placed my hands flat on the table, pulled the document toward me, and opened it to page one.
Marcus chuckled, leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other. He reached into his briefcase and produced a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid and two heavy-bottomed tumblers. "Come on, Leo. Don't tell me you're actually going to read all eighty pages of legalese. You'll bore yourself to death before we even pop the bourbon."
"Habit of mine, Marcus," I replied, my voice disturbingly calm. "My dad always said, 'Never sign your name to a piece of paper unless you're willing to go to prison or bankruptcy for every comma.' Let's start from the top."
Marcus’s smile didn't vanish, but it tightened—just a fraction of a millimeter around the corners of his mouth. A microscopic flicker of irritation flashed in his eyes before he smoothed it over with a lighthearted chuckle. "Alright, lawyer boy. Take your time. We've got all morning."
I adjusted my posture, pulled out a red ballpoint pen from my pocket, and began to read.
Page one: Definitions. Standard stuff. Page two: Capitalization table. Fifty-fifty common stock distribution. Page three: Governance and voting rights.
Everything looked clean, proper, and entirely legitimate. On the surface.
I turned to page four. Then page five.
May you like
Marcus poured himself a finger of bourbon, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, his eyes fixed on me with a steady, calculating intensity. He thought I was just stalling out of nerves. He thought he had plenty of time before I hit the hidden traps he and his uncle’s corporate law firm had meticulously woven into the fine print.
I kept turning pages, my thumb tracing the margins, my brain processing the dense legal phrasing with the cold, unyielding clarity of a man who had already read this book and watched how it ended.
