December 5, 2029 sat on Timothy's calendar like a blank square he had refused to fill.
No meetings. No calls. No site visits. No press. No speeches. He had told his assistant team it was maintenance, which was not a lie. If he kept pushing at the same pace, something would slip. Either a project, or his attention, or his temper.
At seven in the morning, his phone buzzed once.
Hana: Lobby. Bring a jacket. Do not wear anything with a logo.
He texted back a single word.
Ok.
Down in the basement parking, the car waited like it had been staged. Low, red, clean enough to reflect the fluorescent lights in a hard line across the hood. It did not carry TG plates. No decals. No security tail. Just a 2029 Ferrari with a full tank and fresh tires.
Hana stood beside it with two paper cups of coffee and a small bag that looked like it weighed nothing.
Timothy stopped a few steps away and looked at it the way he looked at machinery he did not own yet.
"You rented this," he said.
