Chapter Text
A rainy March morning in the city began like a thousand others — gray and joyless. The city woke reluctantly, like an old dog disturbed in the sweetest hour of its slumber. Passersby wrapped themselves in coats and cloaks, hid their faces under umbrellas, hurried about their business without glancing around. In weather like this, it was good to sit in an office with a cup of hot coffee or stay home wrapped in a blanket. But Grant Kingerly had no choice. Tuesday — the day he waited for with painful impatience all week, and at the same time, the day he dreaded.
The man stood before the mirror in the hallway of his apartment. He straightened his tie, ran a palm through his blond hair, which had gone gray early, before forty, and now gave him the look of a man older than his years. Round glasses in thin black frames sat habitually on his nose, making him resemble an eccentric inventor from old films. In fact, that was exactly the case. He truly was an inventor. Founder and CEO of C&A Technologies — a corporation whose developments in software and computing systems were known worldwide. A man who had built an empire from scratch, starting with a tiny startup in a rented garage.
But now, looking at his reflection, Grant saw only a tired forty-seven-year-old man with bags under his eyes and a beard he had been forgetting to trim for the second week now. The divorce had been hard on him. It wasn't a tragedy in the classical sense: no loud scandals, no breaking dishes, no mutual accusations. Everything had passed quietly, almost like adults. They had simply fallen out of love. Queenie — his wife, with whom he had lived for fifteen years, had become a stranger. Once they had been a single whole: working together on their first projects, burning with ideas together, laughing together at silly jokes only the two of them understood. But the years passed, the business grew, responsibilities multiplied, and the warmth between them faded slowly and imperceptibly. They stopped talking in the evenings, stopped sharing their thoughts, stopped being necessary to each other. Their marriage turned into a silent business partnership for raising their daughter, and then even that partnership cracked. The divorce was necessary — they both understood that. But understanding didn't make it any easier.
— Passport, — Grant muttered, patting the pockets of his coat. — Car keys... wallet...
He always checked everything two or three times. A habit developed over years of running a company where one oversight could cost millions. No surprises, no unexpected events. Everything had to go according to plan. Even now, when his life had turned into a series of lonely rituals, he clung to this order like a thin branch over an abyss.
Today's plan was simple and sacred: pick up his daughter at ten in the morning, spend a full six hours with her, and return her to Queenie at exactly four. The programmer treasured every second of this time; it was the only thing that reminded him he was still needed by someone in this world.
He left the apartment, checked the lock twice, took the elevator down to the underground parking. His car stood in its place. Grant got behind the wheel, turned the ignition, and closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He had to be in shape. His daughter mustn't see him dejected. She was a child; she needed a cheerful, loving father, not a walking embodiment of autumn melancholy. She deserved better, even if he himself didn't feel that better.
The drive to Queenie's house took about half an hour. Grant parked by the familiar entrance where the three of them had once lived together and got out of the car. The rain had finally stopped, but the sky remained leaden gray, heavy, as if saturated with moisture. The man straightened his coat collar and headed for the door.
He rang. A few seconds later, the door opened, and Queenie appeared on the threshold. She was beautiful, still beautiful, but with the beauty of a stranger. A light house dress, a neat hairstyle, light makeup.
— Grant, — she nodded, stepping aside. — Come in.
— Thank you.
He stepped into the hallway, trying not to look around. Everything here reminded him of the past — a past that could never return. Photos on the walls, from which the three of them smiled; furniture they had chosen together in some little shop on the outskirts.
From the living room came the patter of small feet, and a girl of about nine ran into the hallway. She smiled so wide that dimples appeared on her cheeks, and from that smile, Grant's heart grew warm every time.
— Daddy! — she threw herself at his neck, and he crouched down to catch her in his arms.
— Hello, my sweet, — he whispered, breathing in the scent of her hair: childlike, pure, incomparable to anything. — I missed you so much.
— I missed you too! For a whole eternity! — she pulled back and looked at him. — You didn't forget, did you? We're going to the circus today! A real circus!
Grant smiled, straightening his glasses, which had slipped while his daughter was hugging him.
— How could I forget? Of course, we're going.
«The Amazing Digital Circus of Caine» — that's what this traveling show was called. It had appeared in their city just a few days ago, pitching its giant tent on the vacant lot behind the shopping center. The girl had seen the advertisement on television — so bright, so flashy, with fireworks, clowns, and trained animals — and had been unable to think of anything else since. All last week, whenever they called each other, she talked of nothing but the circus: what performers there would be, what animals, whether she could buy cotton candy and candy roosters on a stick. Grant listened and nodded, glad simply that she had something that brought her so much happiness.
— Are you ready? — he asked.
— Yes! I've been ready for a thousand years! I didn't even eat breakfast so I'd be faster! — the girl blurted out, making Queenie shake her head reproachfully.
— Make sure you feed her, — she said, handing her daughter a jacket and a small backpack. — She hasn't eaten anything again.
— Of course, — the man promised. — We'll be home by four.
— Good.
They had nothing more to say to each other. A polite exchange of remarks — that's what their relationship had become. Grant took his daughter by the hand, and they left the apartment. The girl immediately began chattering, jumping from topic to topic: the circus, school, a friend who had said something silly, a new game she had downloaded on her tablet. Grant listened with half an ear, not so much absorbing the words as savoring the very sound of her voice. This was what was worth living for. For these short moments when she was near, when she laughed, when she looked at him with complete trust. Everything else — work, money, status — was merely background.
They got into the car. The girl buckled up in the back seat; the man categorically refused to let her sit in front — too dangerous for a child — and they set off.
— Daddy, is it true that there's a real crocodile in this circus? — she asked, leaning forward as far as her seatbelt allowed.
— I don't know, — Grant admitted honestly. — We'll see.
— I really hope there is! — she sighed dreamily. — And I also want to see the aerial gymnasts. Mama says it's incredibly beautiful. Like people can fly.
— Mama is probably right.
— Do you like the circus, Daddy?
Grant pondered, steering onto the main road. When was the last time he'd been to a circus? It seemed like childhood, when he was very small. His parents had taken him to some performance — he remembered only the smell of popcorn, bright lights, a clown with a red nose who had seemed creepy to him. A whole lifetime had passed since then.
— I like it when you're happy, — he said finally. — That's enough.
The girl nodded contentedly; this answer fully satisfied her, and she resumed fantasizing aloud about what she would see at the circus.
The tent was visible from a distance. Enormous, red and white, it rose above the vacant lot like a fairytale palace mistakenly dropped into a gray reality. Bright flags fluttered in the wind, lively music played, and even the sky above the circus seemed slightly brighter than over the rest of the city. Around the tent sprawled a whole little town: performers' trailers, food and souvenir stalls, a small carousel with wooden horses. Despite it being a weekday, quite a crowd had gathered: families with children, couples, groups of teenagers, even a few elderly people. The circus drew everyone indiscriminately.
Grant parked in the gravel lot, took his daughter by the hand, and led her to the ticket office.
— Don't leave my side for a moment, — he said sternly, scanning the crowd. — There are a lot of people here; you could get lost.
— Okay, Daddy! I promise!
They stood in a short queue, and the cashier with an unnaturally wide smile handed them their tickets.
— You're in luck, sir! — she said with an enthusiasm that seemed almost theatrical. — Front row, seats right by the arena! The performance begins in fifteen minutes. Enjoy the show!
Grant paid and led his daughter inside. The tent was even more impressive from within than from the outside. An enormous space, soaring upward to the dome, where trapezes, ropes, pulleys, and some complex mechanisms hung whose purpose one could only guess at. The arena was strewn with fresh sawdust, its scent mixing with the aromas of popcorn, cotton candy, and something else elusive, reminiscent of old books or dust. Around the arena, rows of seats rose like an amphitheater, upholstered in red velvet, already rather worn. Their places proved truly excellent — right by the barrier, close enough to reach out and touch the performers.
The girl immediately perched on the edge of her seat and began turning her head in all directions, trying not to miss a single detail. The man settled beside her, took out his phone, switched it to silent mode, and put it away. Work could wait. Today he was not the CEO, not the founder of a corporation, not Sir Kinger, known throughout the business world. Today he was simply Dad.
Gradually, the tent filled. The hum of voices grew, blending with the music drifting from somewhere backstage — something bravura, circus-like, with brass and drums. Children laughed, adults chatted, someone was already crunching popcorn. Grant felt uncomfortable. He had never liked large crowds. Too much noise, too many unfamiliar faces. He felt as though all eyes were on him, though in reality, no one cared about him. Everyone was occupied with themselves.
And then the lights began to dim. Slowly, one by one, the spotlights under the dome faded, plunging the tent into semi-darkness. The audience quieted in anticipation. Somewhere in the silence, a drumbeat sounded.
— Ladies and gentlemen! — a voice rang out from everywhere at once, amplified by speakers, making its owner seem omnipresent. — Boys and girls! Ladies and gentlemen! And all those undecided! Prepare for a spectacle you will never forget in your life!
Grant's daughter gripped his sleeve and leaned forward, nearly sliding off her chair.
A crash, and a sheaf of golden sparks exploded in the center of the arena. A flash, another, and then a figure emerged from a column of smoke. A tall man in a red tailcoat with long tails and a top hat tilted to one side. A snow-white shirt with a black bow tie, white trousers, polished shoes gleaming so brightly they reflected the spotlights. But the most remarkable thing about his appearance was his eyes: one bright blue, the other green, like an emerald. Multicolored hair, red and white. He was smiling broadly, impossibly broadly, so that it seemed his mouth would soon reach his ears.
— Greetings, my dear guests! — he exclaimed, throwing his arms wide as if he wanted to embrace the entire hall at once. — I am Caine! Your humble servant, your modest ringmaster, your soul of the company, and simply a ray of light in this dark kingdom! Welcome to «The Amazing Digital Circus of Caine» — a place where the impossible happens three times an evening and the laws of physics take the day off!
The hall exploded with applause. Caine bowed, snatching the top hat from his head, and a flock of white doves fluttered out of it, immediately dispersing under the dome.
— Wow! — the girl breathed, clapping her hands. — Daddy, did you see? Doves! Right out of the hat!
— I see, — Grant nodded, but he himself watched the ringmaster warily.
Caine began strolling around the arena, addressing audience members one by one.
— Oh, I see so many beautiful faces here! — he pointed to a woman in the third row. — Madame, you are simply dazzling today! If I weren't married to my work, I would certainly steal you from your husband! — he winked. — And just as many faces... let's say, distinctive ones. But let's not speak of sad things; after all, the lighting here isn't the most flattering! — the audience laughed; someone whistled. — You know, when I woke up this morning and looked out the window, I thought: «Caine, my friend, today is going to be a terribly boring day. Rain, grayness, green melancholy.» But then I remembered that I am me! — he jabbed his thumbs at himself. — Which means boredom is canceled, fun is mandatory, and a good mood is included in the ticket price!
Grant smiled politely, although the ringmaster didn't win his sympathy. Too loud, too energetic, too... artificial. As if he were playing a role even when there was no need to play. But the children around laughed, the adults smiled, so this man certainly knew his job.
— And now! — Caine clapped his hands, and the sound echoed under the dome. — Let's begin our small but very proud performance! First act — please love, cherish, and under no circumstances attempt to repeat at home — the incomparable Ragatha! An aerial gymnast whose feats take even the dead's breath away!
He waved his arm theatrically, pointing upward, and there, under the very dome, a spotlight flared. On the trapeze sat a girl — fragile, graceful, in a sparkling silver leotard. Ragatha pushed off from the trapeze and flew downward. The hall gasped as one. But at the last moment, when a collision with the ground seemed inevitable, she caught another bar, invisible until then in the darkness, and soared back up, even higher. Her movements were fluid; she spun, twisted, flew from trapeze to trapeze, and each time the audience held its breath.
— Look, Daddy! — Grant's daughter stared upward with her mouth open. — She's really flying! Like an angel!
— Yes, very beautiful, — Grant agreed, and this time he was sincere.
Ragatha finished her act with a spectacular pirouette, jumping down to the arena from a height that would have seemed deadly to any ordinary person. She bowed — briefly, restrained — and withdrew backstage to thunderous ovations.
— Bravo! — Caine cried, running back out into the arena. — Did you see that? She's simply an angel! An angel who, for some reason, descended to us simple sinners! I've always said: if Ragatha ever decides to quit the circus, she could confidently become a superhero. Or an astronaut. Or... oh, never mind! Next act! — he paused dramatically. — Prepare yourselves, dear audience; it's about to get truly hot! Meet — Jax! The man who laughs in the face of death! And does so solely because death is too shy to ask for his autograph!
A massive metal construction was rolled into the arena: an enormous loop rising vertically upward. At its base stood a motorcycle, and on the motorcycle — a guy in a black leather jacket covered in studs. Jax wasn't even looking at the audience; he was lazily juggling his helmet, waiting for the introduction to finish.
The motorcycle roared, Jax tore from his spot, and within seconds he was racing along the vertical wall of the loop, defying gravity. The hall froze. People pressed their hands to their chests, covered their children's eyes. But the guy effortlessly completed the loop, then a second, and then, at full speed, flew across the gap set in the center of the arena. The motorcycle landed with a deafening roar, throwing up a sheaf of sparks. Jax jumped off, tore off his helmet, and threw his arms up.
— Well?! — he shouted at the hall. — Was that good?!
The audience roared; Caine, beaming, clapped his hands.
— Jax, Jax, Jax! I have one question for you. Do you even know what safety regulations are?
Jax pretended to ponder deeply, scratching the back of his head.
— Safety... what? — he asked with the most innocent expression. — Is that something edible?
The hall burst into laughter; Grant smirked — the guy clearly knew how to work a crowd.
Acts followed one after another. A cage with a real crocodile was rolled into the arena — an enormous reptile that lazily opened its jaws, displaying rows of terrifying teeth. Beside it stood a girl in a scarlet costume — Pomni. The lady knelt beside the crocodile, whispered something to it, and the creature obediently froze, allowing her to place a hand on its head. And then, to the horror of all, she leaned forward and stuck her head directly into the open jaws.
— Daddy, I'm scared, — the girl whispered, squeezing Grant's hand.
— Don't be afraid; everything will be fine, — he replied, though he felt his own muscles tense. — She knows what she's doing.
The crocodile didn't move; Pomni withdrew her head — alive, unharmed — and bowed. The hall exploded with ovations, cries of «Bravo!», and whistles.
Then Caine came out again, with his usual joke, a fresh dose of charisma, another burst of sparks or fireworks. And again the performers: acrobats, jugglers, clowns, equilibriists. The girl was utterly delighted; she squealed with fear one moment, burst into laughter the next, then whispered requests to her father for popcorn, cotton candy, lemonade. Grant bought everything she asked for, rejoicing in her joy. He even began to relax a little — as much as a man of his disposition could relax. The merriment reigning under that striped dome was simply too infectious.
This went on for nearly two hours. The man lost count of the acts — it seemed this circus would never end. And when he had already decided the performance was nearing its finale, Caine re-entered the arena, smiling in a particularly meaningful way. In his hands was the top hat — the very one from which the doves had earlier flown.
— My dear audience! — he announced. — You've seen acrobats, stuntmen, tamers, and clowns. You've laughed, you've trembled, you've perhaps even shed a tear or two of tenderness. But now... — he paused, surveying the hushed hall, — now I will show you something special. True magic, inexplicable by the laws of physics! I, your humble servant, the great and slightly terrible Caine, will demonstrate a couple of tricks that will make your hair stand on end! If it hasn't already from my charm, of course.
The hall perked up. Someone applauded; someone shouted, «Go on!»
— But! — Caine raised a finger. — For this, I will need an assistant. A volunteer from the audience. Who wants to touch the great art of magic?
Hands shot up throughout the hall. Children, teenagers, even a few adults — everyone wanted to be chosen. The ringmaster slowly surveyed the audience, feigning an agonizing choice.
— Well, well, well... Let me think... — he tapped a finger to his chin. — Whom to choose? Perhaps that charming lady in the fifth row? Or that gallant gentleman? Ah, what a difficult choice! — he strolled along the barrier, and suddenly — Grant could have sworn he noticed it — his gaze lingered on him for a split second.
— You! — Caine pointed sharply straight at Grant. — Yes, yes, you, sir! Please, come up to the stage!
Grant's daughter squealed with delight.
— Daddy! You got picked! Go! Go quickly!
Grant froze. Inside him, everything clenched into a tight knot; he couldn't stand being the center of attention. Totally. Categorically. It was one of the reasons he rarely gave interviews, didn't speak at large conferences in person, and if he did take the stage, it was solely out of extreme necessity. And now hundreds of eyes were fixed on him.
— Come on, be brave! — Caine beckoned him. — Don't keep the audience waiting! I promise I only bite on Fridays, and today, if memory serves, is Tuesday!
The hall laughed. There was no retreating. Grant rose, feeling his cheeks burn, and began descending to the arena. A spotlight immediately struck him in the back, escorting him all the way to the barrier.
— Aha! Here's our brave volunteer! — Caine helped him step over the barrier and led him into the very center of the illuminated circle. — Let's have a look at you. Oh, what a distinguished gentleman! Coat, tie, glasses... Are you, by any chance, a professor? Or perhaps a writer?
— I... — Grant began, but the ringmaster didn't let him finish.
— Never mind, though! — Caine waved a hand. — The main thing is — are you ready for magic? Don't be afraid; I'll be gentle.
He addressed the hall again, and Grant thought for a moment that the worst was over. The ringmaster pulled a fluffy white rabbit from the top hat — the audience gasped as one — then hid it back, then produced a bouquet of paper flowers. The audience clapped; the man stood like a pillar, not knowing what to do with his hands.
— And now, — Caine announced with a smile, — a trick I call «Mind Reading at a Distance.» Or, if you prefer, «I Know Something About You That You Didn't Tell Me.» Ready?
He stared intently at Grant, squinted, rubbed his temples.
— Well, well... I see... I see your name... It starts with... Wait a moment! — he suddenly smacked himself on the forehead. — I forgot the most important thing! How can I read your thoughts if there's no trusting contact between us? Let's start by simply introducing ourselves. Give me your hand — just for a handshake, nothing more!
Grant, flustered, automatically extended his right hand. Caine seized it with his own — his palm proved surprisingly cold and tenacious — and made as if to shake. But instead, he suddenly pulled his hand back and gasped theatrically.
— Oh! — he exclaimed. — What's this?
He was looking somewhere over Grant's shoulder. Grant involuntarily turned — for exactly one second.
— I don't see anything, — he said, turning back.
— My mistake, — Caine shrugged with the most innocent smile. — Nerves, you know. The job is stressful.
Grant frowned but said nothing. Meanwhile, Caine stepped back, put his hands behind his back, and suddenly produced a small blue booklet from them.
— Allow me! — he loudly announced to the hall. — What do we have here? Could it be someone's personal item?
Grant looked down. The booklet in Caine's hands was painfully familiar. A dark blue cover, gold embossing...
— Where did you... — he began, and mechanically slapped the pocket of his coat. The pocket was empty.
— It's magic, my dear friend! — Caine crooned, tossing the passport into the air and catching it with one hand. — Pure, genuine magic! And do you know what they say? A passport is the mirror of the soul. Now we'll look into this mirror and discover who you truly are!
He opened the passport. Grant lunged forward, but it was too late — the ringmaster was already scanning the page.
— Well, well... Let's see... Citizenship... Place of birth... Aha! — his eyebrows climbed upward, and he proclaimed to the entire hall: — Grant! Grant Kingerly!
He pronounced it with such triumph! Someone in the hall applauded politely — it seemed a couple of people recognized the name — but the majority of the audience didn't react at all.
— Grant Kingerly! — Caine repeated, drawing out the syllables as if tasting the name. — What a resonant, what an aristocratic name!
The hall tittered. Grant stood, unable to utter a single word. He hadn't introduced himself, and yet this jester in the top hat held his documents and was making a whole show of it.
— And do you know what else is interesting? — Caine continued, flipping the page. — There's a photo here. And it... oh, good heavens! — he pressed the passport to his chest. — It doesn't convey your charm at all! You urgently need a new photo; I know an excellent photographer; he works in a little basement on Third Street...
— Give it back, — Grant said uncertainly.
Caine faltered and looked at him — for the first time in their short acquaintance without the clownish grimace.
— Pardon?
— I said, give the passport back. Right now.
He extended his hand and, without waiting for Caine to recover, snatched the passport from his fingers.
A mixed murmur ran through the hall — some thought it part of the performance; others coughed in embarrassment. Caine froze for a moment, and a keen interest flickered in his eyes. Then he smiled broadly, as radiantly as before.
— Well, there you have it! — he exclaimed, spreading his arms. — The trick failed! The assistant turned out quicker than the magician! Nothing to worry about, ladies and gentlemen; even magic has its misfires. The main thing is to keep optimism!
The hall applauded uncertainly. Caine bowed — first to the audience, then to Grant, the latter with exaggerated reverence, almost mockingly.
— Thank you for your cooperation, — he said so quietly that only the two of them could hear. — You were magnificent... Grant.
He pronounced the name syllable by syllable, savoring it, and winked. The man said nothing in reply; he simply thrust the passport into his inner pocket, buttoned his coat, and, without looking back, walked to his seat. The applause behind him faded, giving way to the ordinary hum of voices.
— Well, on that note, — said the ringmaster, turning back to the hall, — I declare our performance concluded! Thank you, dear audience! You were magnificent!
Music struck up; all the performers came out for a bow. The hall exploded with applause, whistles, cries of «Bravo!» Grant applauded mechanically, but his thoughts were occupied solely with what had just happened.
---
When the performance ended and the audience began streaming toward the exit, the programmer led his daughter to buy the promised cotton candy. He was just paying the vendor when he heard a whistle behind him.
— Hey! Sir Grant!
Grant turned around. Right at the barrier of the arena stood Caine. He had already removed his top hat and held a glass of water, apparently having just quenched his thirst after the long performance.
— Come over for a moment! — he asked, almost peaceably.
Grant hesitated.
— Daddy, what's the matter? — his daughter tugged at his sleeve. — Go on; I'll wait here. Nothing will happen to me.
Grant reluctantly approached. The ringmaster leaned on the barrier and looked at him playfully.
— Listen, — he began, — I wanted to apologize for that trick with the passport. Honestly, it wasn't meant to look so... crude. It's just that sometimes I get carried away, you know. I want to make an impression. It's an occupational disease; please forgive me.
Grant was silent; he didn't know what to say.
— I truly didn't mean to offend you, — Caine continued. — I swear. You sat through the entire show with such a sour face, and I thought — let me try to cheer up this serious man. You know how it is — you see someone who isn't smiling, and you want to coax a smile out of them at all costs. It didn't work out, to put it mildly.
He reached into the pocket of his tailcoat and pulled out two tickets, the same kind the man had bought at the ticket office.
— Here, as a peace offering. Two tickets for tomorrow's performance. Free of charge. Come with your daughter. I promise, this time no tricks with personal belongings. Only magic, only fun.
Grant lowered his gaze to the tickets. Then raised his eyes back to Caine. Something about this ringmaster was off.
— Thank you, — Grant said. — But no need.
He turned and walked back to his daughter, who was already holding a fluffy pink cloud and enthusiastically eating it.
— As you wish! — Caine called after him. — But I'll remember you, Sir Grant! People like you are not forgotten!
Grant didn't look back; he took his daughter by the hand and silently led her toward the exit.
— Daddy, — the girl asked, licking her sugar-sticky fingers, — why didn't you take the tickets? We could have come again!
— I don't think that's a good idea, — Grant replied, adjusting his glasses.
— But why?
He paused.
— I'm not particularly fond of that man.
---
Meanwhile, inside the tent, it was growing quiet. The audience had dispersed; the performers had scattered to their dressing rooms. Caine still stood at the barrier, gazing at the spot where Grant had just disappeared.
Heavy footsteps sounded behind him. Jax, already changed, walked up and stood beside him.
— Well, what was that? — he asked without preamble.
— What exactly? — Caine didn't even turn around.
— You reached into an audience member's pocket, — Jax said through gritted teeth. — Are you out of your mind? Do you want us to have problems?
— What problems? — Caine shrugged. — It was a trick. Part of the show.
— It was theft, — Jax cut him off. — If he'd gone to the police...
— He didn't go, — Caine finally turned. — And he won't. People like him don't like public scandals.
— Do you know who that was?
— Well, judging by how pale you look — some important gentleman?
— Grant Kingerly, — Jax said. — Founder of C&A. A man who builds the future.
The man merely clicked his tongue and headed off to his own quarters while Jax watched him go. In the empty tent, the echo of his footsteps sounded hollow and lonely. When Caine disappeared backstage, he pulled out the two tickets Grant had refused, twirled them in his fingers, and shoved them back.
— What a drama queen that Sir Grant is, — Caine's voice drifted from backstage, humming some tune. — So serious, so proper...
In the dressing room, sitting before the mirror, the ringmaster gazed at his reflection. In his hands was a business card — he had slipped it out of Grant's passport while the man wasn't looking. «Grant Kingerly. CEO, C&A Technologies.» Address, phone, logo.
He winked at his reflection.
— Well then, Sir Grant, — he whispered, — let's get acquainted. Closer. Much closer.