Leon Vale was doing absolutely nothing, which had become something of a daily ritual.
He sat on the floor of his apartment, half-eaten instant noodles sweating on the windowsill behind him, back pressed to the wall like he needed support just to exist. The overhead light flickered with the desperation of a dying star. The only things illuminating the room were his cracked phone screen and the muted glow of a paused anime he wasn't really watching.
Rent was due in eleven days. Again.
Leon ran a hand through his mess of unwashed, brown hair and exhaled a breath that sounded like it didn't want to leave him. The job boards were dry. The last freelance gig he did—writing fake five-star reviews for an LED dog collar—ghosted him on payment. He still had $8.73 in his bank account and a sock drawer full of coins he refused to count out of spite.
When his phone rang, it startled him so badly he smacked it off his knee.
"Hello?" he grunted, not even checking the number. Spam calls were the only thing that remembered he existed.
The voice on the other end was female. Smooth. Sharp. Like someone who wore heels you could stab someone with.
"Is this Leon Vale?" she asked.
"Uh. Maybe. Who's asking?"
There was a pause. Faint sounds in the background—wind, maybe traffic, or some kind of white noise.
"I need you to go to the Roswell Grand Hotel," she said.
Leon blinked. "Okay, that's weird. Is this a prank? Do I owe you money? If this is about the thing with the vape subscription, I—"
"You're not in trouble. I just need you to go to the bar there. In an hour."
He frowned. "Do you work there? Look, I don't do pyramid schemes. Or escort gigs. Not after last time."
"You'll be paid," she said, completely ignoring the last part. "Two hundred dollars upfront. The rest after."
He sat up straighter.
"…The rest of what?"
"Another eight hundred. If you can act."
That made Leon scoff. "Act? Lady, I once pretended to be deaf for four months to get out of a high school presentation. I'm a damn thespian."
A pause again. "There's a man. At the bar. His name is Julian Kort. He's tall, about forty, salt-and-pepper hair. Expensive suit. You'll know him because he'll look like he wants to crawl out of his own skin."
Leon squinted, suspicious now. "Who is he to you?"
"That's none of your business."
"That's what someone says before I end up on a watchlist."
"I just need you to sit next to him. Order a drink. Wait exactly sixty seconds. Then look at him and say this: 'If the shipment doesn't leave port by tonight, the deal's off. And you can tell the fox it was my decision.' Then leave. That's it."
Leon stared at the dark screen of his phone, waiting for the punchline.
"…You're serious."
"Yes."
"This isn't, like, some mafia codeword that's going to get me shot?"
"Unlikely," she said, and the way she said it made him feel like she'd already accepted his potential death as a sunk cost.
"Why me?"
"You're no one. That's the point."
"Ouch."
"I need someone unknown. Someone disposable. Someone whose face won't be remembered. You're perfect."
"You have the worst sales pitch I've ever heard," Leon muttered. "But I'm still broke, so congratulations, you win."
There was a pause.
"So you'll do it?"
"You Venmo me two hundred right now, and I'll put on pants."
He heard the ping five seconds later.
Leon stared at the notification.
"…Holy shit, you're real."
"Yes," she said. "I'll be watching from a distance. If you do this right, you'll never see me again."
"And if I do it wrong?"
"You'll definitely see me again."
The call ended.
Leon sat in silence, the phone still pressed to his ear.
He blinked, looked around his grimy apartment, then got up and started digging through his laundry for something that didn't smell like existential failure.