The air in the Fairmont Olympic lobby was heavy with the smell of wet wool and the quiet, desperate murmurs of people who had just realized their life savings were locked behind a "Regulatory Freeze." Outside, the Seattle sleet had turned into a thick, grey slurry, and the temperature plateaued at a biting 1°C.
Elias Thorne stood near the concierge desk, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of a new, expensive wool coat he'd bought to hide his tremors. His bank account, now boasting $1,422,090.42, felt like a lead weight in his pocket. He was a millionaire, but he was a millionaire who didn't know how to hire a bodyguard.
"Mr. Thorne?"
He jumped, his heart hammering against his ribs. A man in a sharp, unobtrusive charcoal suit was standing beside him. He looked like any other businessman, except for the coiled acoustic tube behind his ear and the way his eyes never stayed on Elias's face for more than a second, constantly scanning the "dead zones" of the lobby.
"I'm Bryan Witt," the man said, offering a hand that felt like a vice. "Executive Security Services. You called about the 'Immediate Threat' retainer."
"Yeah," Elias rasped, his voice cracking. He led Witt to a secluded corner of the lounge. "I need 24/7 protection. For my mother and sister. They're in Suite 1204. I need four men on the floor, two in the lobby, and a driver on standby."
Witt's brow furrowed. "That's a high-profile detail, Mr. Thorne. Usually reserved for visiting dignitaries or Fortune 500 CEOs. The cost for that level of coverage—armed, ex-law enforcement, and round-the-clock—starts at $6,000 per week per man, plus expenses."
"I'll pay ten thousand," Elias interrupted, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "Cash. Upfront. For the first month."
Witt paused. In 2004, he had founded this company as a side hustle from his law enforcement career, but he'd never seen a twenty-five-year-old kid with this much raw, desperate capital. "Ten thousand per man, per week? That's nearly $240,000 for the first month, Mr. Thorne. What exactly are we protecting them from?"
A sharp, electric thrum started behind Elias's left ear. He winced, clutching the edge of the marble table. The Memory Migraine was punishing him for the overlap. He saw a flash of Witt's face from the "original" 2018—older, scarred, standing over a body in a warehouse.
"From a ghost," Elias whispered, the pain making him nauseous. "A man who doesn't exist yet. He's a surgeon. He's brilliant. And if he gets past you, he'll take them apart like they're made of paper."
Witt looked at Elias with a mixture of professional interest and genuine concern. He'd seen "Transition Sickness" before, though he didn't have a name for it. He saw a man who was clearly suffering from a 40.5°C fever or a mental breakdown, but the money was real, and the fear was even realer.
"We start now," Witt said, tapping his earpiece. "I've got two men in the building. They'll be on your door in five minutes."
Elias nodded, his vision swimming. He was oblivious to the fact that he was overpaying by nearly 400%; he was a cop using a millionaire's checkbook as a blunt instrument. He didn't care about the market value of safety. He only cared about the wall.