"Is it? Because according to your last three quarterly reports, Ashworth Capital has increased its accounts payable aging by an average of forty-seven percent year over year. That's not growth, Mr. Patterson. That's a company leveraging its suppliers as an interest-free line of credit." I tap another data point, watching Patterson's expression shift from nervous uncertainty to dawning concern. "And speaking of credit, let's talk about Ashworth Capital's current debt-to-equity ratio compared to their projected revenue streams. Specifically, how much of that projected revenue depends on eliminating competition rather than actually creating value."
One of the goons takes a step toward me, his hand rising as if to snatch the tablet from my grip, but he freezes mid-motion as Knox cuts through the ambient noise of the trade show like a blade through silk.
"Touch her, and I will feed you your own fingers."
The words are spoken almost conversationally, without any particular emphasis or volume, but they carry the absolutecertainty of a man who has made good on similar promises many times before. The goon's hand drops back to his side, and he retreats to his previous position with the careful movements of someone who has just realized they are standing much too close to a large predator.
I don't acknowledge the interruption. I just keep talking, keep presenting data, keep building my case with the relentless precision of someone who has spent years learning to weaponize information in environments where physical strength means nothing. I show Patterson the margin compression his competitors have experienced after signing exclusive deals with Ashworth. I show him the delivery disputes, the contract renegotiations, the gradual erosion of supplier autonomy that characterizes every long-term Ashworth partnership. I show him the numbers—cold, hard, irrefutable numbers—that tell a story Ashworth's smooth words and expensive suits cannot contradict.
By the time I finish, Patterson's face has gone through several interesting color changes, settling finally on a shade of determined resolution that makes my heart sing with vindictive triumph.
"Mr. Ashworth," Patterson says slowly. "I appreciate your interest in a partnership, but I think I need to... reconsider my options."
Ashworth's mask finally cracks, genuine fury flickering across his features before he wrestles his expression back under control. "Patterson, don't be foolish. This company is on the verge of collapse. Bloodaxe is a barbarian playing at business, and his little assistant?—"
"HisFirst Mate of the Ledger," Knox corrects, and there is nothing conversational about his tone now. It rumbles through the booth like the warning growl of something ancient and hungry, and even Ashworth takes an instinctive half-stepbackward. "And she has just defeated you with nothing but truth and numbers. This is the kind of warrior who fights at my side. Can you say the same of yours?"
He gestures dismissively at the assembled goons, who look like they would very much rather be anywhere else at this particular moment.
Ashworth's lips thin into a bloodless line. "This isn't over, Bloodaxe."
"No," Knox agrees, and his smile is all tusks and predatory promise. "It is not. But today's battle is done, and you have lost. Go. Lick your wounds. Prepare for the next engagement. I will enjoy watching you fall."
For a long moment, the two men stare at each other across the booth, the air between them charged with the kind of tension that precedes either violence or retreat. Then Ashworth turns on his heel and stalks away, his goons trailing after him like scolded puppies, and I feel the breath I didn't realize I was holding rush out of my lungs in a wave of pure relief.
We spend the next twenty minutes hammering out a revised contract with Patterson—better terms for both parties, secured delivery schedules, explicit exclusivity clauses that will prevent Ashworth from making another play for our supply chain. By the time we finish, Patterson is shaking Knox's hand with genuine enthusiasm, and I'm fighting the urge to collapse against the nearest solid surface and sleep for approximately seventeen hours.
Instead, I find myself following Knox out of the convention center and into the bright afternoon sunlight. The city sprawls around us in all its chaotic glory—honking taxis, rushing pedestrians, the ever-present hum of commerce and competition that forms the heartbeat of this concrete jungle. I should be focused on next steps, on leveraging this victory intomomentum for our larger campaign, on the seventeen items still unchecked on my strategic to-do list.
Instead, I'm acutely aware of Knox walking beside me, his frame casting a shadow that swallows mine entirely, his presence radiating satisfaction and something else I can't quite name.
"You require sustenance."
I blink up at him, startled out of my tactical ruminations. "What?"
"Food. You have not eaten since the protein bar you consumed at 6:47 this morning, and that was insufficient nutrition for the battles you have fought today." He steers me toward a street food cart on the corner, where a middle-aged man in a grease-stained apron is serving up some of the most aggressively unhealthy-looking hot dogs I have ever seen. "Come. We celebrate this victory as warriors should—with meat and fire."
I should protest. I should point out that we have work to do, that Ashworth is already regrouping, that every minute we spend not strategizing is a minute our enemies could use against us. But Knox is already ordering as he requestsfour of your finest meat tubes, liberally anointed with all available condiments, and the vendor is staring up at him.
We end up perched on a low concrete wall near a tiny urban park, surrounded by pigeons who have clearly learned that humans near food carts are a reliable source of dropped crumbs. Knox holds his hot dogs like they're sacred relics, examining the arrangement of mustard and relish and onions with the focused intensity of a general studying terrain maps before a battle. I take a bite of my own and nearly moan at the combination of salt and grease and processed meat that floods my taste buds with pure, uncomplicated joy.
"This," Knox declares around a mouthful of hot dog, "ismagnificent. Why have I been eating at those sterile establishments with their tiny portions and their confusing arrangements of silverware? This is food as it should be—simple, hearty, consumed with hands as the ancestors intended."
"I think your ancestors probably intended for food to be consumed after being personally hunted and killed, not purchased from a guy named Tony for three dollars and fifty cents."
Knox waves a dismissive hand, inadvertently sending a blob of mustard flying toward an opportunistic pigeon who dodges with admirable reflexes. "The spirit of the hunt is present. Tony has sourced his ingredients, prepared them with skill, offered them to hungry warriors in exchange for coin. It is commerce, which is simply hunting with different weapons."
I shake my head, but I'm smiling, and the warmth spreading through me has nothing to do with the food settling in my stomach. "You have a way of making everything sound like an epic saga."
"Everythingisan epic saga, First Mate. We simply forget to notice because we are too busy living it."
We sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, working through our hot dogs while the city flows around us in its endless rhythm. I should be anxious. I should be running through worst-case scenarios and contingency plans and all the things that could still go wrong despite our victory today. But Knox's presence beside me is like a warm blanket of certainty, a reminder that whatever challenges await us, I will not be facing them alone.
The first raindrop lands on my nose without warning.
I look up at the sky, which has transformed from clear blue to ominous gray. Another drop hits my cheek, then my shoulder, then my tablet screen.
"Knox—"
