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Henry had thought he could enjoy two or three quiet months hiding out in his Sheep Hole Valley lab — until a voicemail from the Continental Hotel summoned him back to his rental apartment.
Naturally, he brought Katie with him — the tiger cub couldn't be left behind. The lab wasn't as tiger-proof as his apartment, which was reinforced to withstand claws, teeth, and collisions. Out in the desert, the only safe way to occupy Katie was to let her run wild under supervision.
Since he wasn't staying there to keep watch, and he wasn't about to release her into the wild for good, he could only bring her back to terrorize poor BB, his long-suffering core robot, instead.
The call from the Continental hadn't explained much — just told him to come in. As a freelance service contractor, Henry wasn't technically under the Hotel's command, but a summons from management wasn't something you could just ignore. He decided to go hear what this was about.
He entered through the side entrance of the Continental Los Angeles, one of only two North American branches — the other being in New York. From there, he made his way down to the sublevel service office.
The grand lobby upstairs was reserved for the elite — the gold-coin clientele, the contract killers who lived and died by the Hotel's rules. Freelancers like Henry handled all their business downstairs, unless they felt like spending big for appearances' sake.
Behind the service desk sat a striking blonde in a crimson pencil skirt and tailored jacket — the picture of an office fantasy, except for one detail: her face was tattooed like a skull. The ink couldn't fully hide the faint scars underneath.
If not for that, she might've been stunning. But everyone who ended up working for the Continental had a past — and very few had the kind of record that could get them a normal job. The ink and scars were just the visible parts of a much older story.
Henry never asked about such things. Just as no one here ever asked about him. The Continental thrived on unspoken understandings — a perfect ecosystem of polite ignorance.
So he greeted her with a grin. "Hey there, sweetheart. That lip gloss shade's something else today — grape violet?"
She didn't even blink. "No," she said coolly. "Just the color I turn when I forget a jacket in this weather."
Henry chuckled and, with his usual recklessness, reached out to take her hand. "Freezing, huh? That won't do. Here — let me warm you up. Other hand, too."
Whatever her face looked like, her hands were flawless — smooth and pale, delicate as carved porcelain. But she gently pulled away after a second, her expression unreadable. Disappointed, maybe — though whether in him or herself, he couldn't tell.
Her tone was flat, professional. "What can I do for you today, Mr. Brown?"
Feigning regret, Henry smiled. "I got a call from the Hotel. Said I was needed, but didn't explain why. Mind checking?"
The skull-faced beauty flipped through her ledger. "Manager Fischer requested you. Please follow me."
She set a Busy — Please See Another Attendant sign on her counter and led him toward the manager's office.
Henry had been there before — the first time he'd registered as a freelancer. The manager's suite was more like a presidential penthouse than an office: two stories tall, complete with a bar, a grand piano, a private library wall, and enough rooms to host a small army.
He knew the way, but etiquette mattered here. So he followed obediently — and allowed himself, just for a moment, to appreciate the view of her swaying hips as they walked.
At the door, she knocked once. The door opened, admitting only him.
Inside, Muni Fischer was draped in another one of her scandalously elegant gowns — and, despite the approaching December chill, only a white fox stole had been added to cover her graceful neck and shoulders.
Henry greeted her from across the desk with uncharacteristic restraint. "Ms. Fischer. You wanted to see me?"
Reclining against the desk instead of using her chair, the woman gave a lazy smile. "Whiskey? Red wine?"
"No, thank you."
"Whiskey," she corrected, gesturing to the side table.
Henry sighed, got up, poured her a glass, and handed it over.
She accepted it with a mock pout. "Such an unromantic man."
Henry gave a dry laugh. "When you can see the hook behind the bait, only a fool bites."
"Sometimes," she said, swirling the amber liquid, "biting the bait is the clever move. At least then you know what's real."
He didn't take the bait — not hers, nor the metaphorical one. Sitting across from her, he waited.
Fischer sighed and set the glass down, her flirtatious mask sliding off like silk. From her drawer, she drew out an envelope and a single gold Continental coin. "This is a job," she said. "A non-optional one."
As a registered freelancer, Henry knew the rule — any gold-coin assignment related to his field had to be accepted, unless he was already bound to another client.
He didn't protest. "If you're the one issuing it personally," he said, taking the coin but not the letter, "I'm guessing it's not a simple gig. Care to brief me?"
"A member of the High Table's inner circle has a… friend who needs surgery. Appendicitis."
Henry froze, hand halfway to the envelope, then drew it back. "You're joking, right? That's a dime-a-dozen operation. Every hospital in the country can do it blindfolded. What, is the guy a fugitive?"
"The patient has… special allergies."
"What kind of allergies?"
"Anesthetic."
Henry blinked. "…Anesthetic?" He groaned and rubbed his face. "So you want me to use acupuncture instead." He sighed, then picked up the envelope. "No antibiotics tried?"
"Already too late for that," Fischer said smoothly. "Surgery's the only option now."
Henry muttered, "Of course. Because why not." He pocketed the coin and letter. "They do understand my methods aren't exactly… orthodox, right?"
"They do."
"Fine. When and where?"
"As soon as you've read the letter," she said. "The location's Cedars-Sinai Medical Center."
Henry let out a low whistle. "Well, would you look at that. My old haunt." Then, with a half-smile, "You're telling me an entire hospital couldn't find one doctor willing to take this case?"
Fischer tilted her head, smiling sweetly — almost girlish for once. "No idea," she said lightly. "That's above my pay grade."
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