The carriage deposited Lutz on a corner in the Kogman Quarter that seemed to specialize in dignified shabbiness. The building matching the address was a narrow, three-story wedge of soot-stained brick squeezed between a haberdashery that had seen better centuries and a shop that sold, as far as Lutz could tell, exclusively mismatched ceramic teacups. It was exactly the kind of place you went for things you didn't want discussed in polite company. A faint, approving smile touched his lips. Perfect.
He pushed open the door, triggering a cheap, tinny bell that jingled with a sound of pure desperation. The waiting room was a masterpiece of staged competence. A worn but clean rug, two wooden chairs that looked sturdy enough, and a single, wilting potted plant in the corner trying its best. The air smelled of dust, cheap lemon polish, and a faint, underlying note of anxiety. It was designed to say, "I'm professional enough to be trustworthy, but not so successful that I'll judge your problems." Lutz appreciated the artistry.
He took a seat, his posture relaxed but his senses stretched to their limits. He could hear the faint murmur of the city outside, the clatter of a carriage, and from behind the inner door, a sudden, muffled clatter followed by a hushed, "Son of a—!"
A moment later, the inner door swung open.
Lutz had to consciously keep his jaw from dropping. The man standing there was a splash of surreal color in the drab room. He was slim, of average height, with a head of well-kept brown hair and bright green eyes that were currently wide with a sort of frantic charm. But it was the suit that commanded attention. It was a shade of lime green so vibrant it seemed to generate its own light source, paired with a violently purple silk shirt and a tie that seemed to be embroidered with… were those tiny golden scales? He looked like a tropical bird that had accidentally flown into a solicitor's office and decided to stay.
"Well, hey there! Don't get up, you're fine," the man said, his voice a rapid, practiced patter. He had a grin that was all teeth and calculated friendliness. "Sorry for the wait, was just… calibrating the filing system. You'd be amazed how paperwork can fight back. I'm Gene. Gene Takavic. And you are…?"
"James Morgan," Lutz said, rising and extending a hand, his James Morgan persona sliding into place with practiced ease. He infused his grip with just the right amount of confident firmness. "A pleasure."
"The pleasure's all mine, Mr. Morgan, I assure you," Gene said, shaking his hand with an energetic pump. His eyes did a quick, professional once-over, taking in the quality of Lutz's suit, his posture, the lack of visible desperation. "Always a good day when a client of well-fitting trousers walks through the door. Come on in, my office is marginally less likely to suffer a gravitational collapse."
He ushered Lutz into the inner office. It was a controlled chaos. Piles of paper and legal tubes formed miniature skylines on every surface. A large, slightly wobbly-looking bookshelf was crammed with leather-bound law books, their spines cracked with use. But the centerpiece was a massive, dark wood desk, behind which sat a throne-like chair that looked suspiciously like it had been salvaged from a defunct theater. The whole place was a performance, and Gene was the star.
"Take a seat, take a seat," Gene said, sliding into his own chair with a flourish. "Can I offer you something? Water? Something stronger? I've got a bottle of Feysacian 'brandy' that I'm pretty sure could strip paint, but it's got a hell of a kick."
"No, thank you," Lutz said, sitting in the client's chair, which was noticeably less comfortable. He placed his document portfolio on his lap, a deliberate prop.
"Suit yourself. More for me later," Gene quipped, leaning forward and lacing his fingers together. The bright purple of his shirt was almost hypnotic. "So, James Morgan. Sounds like a man who knows which way the money flows. Let me guess… rich uncle left you a haunted country estate? You accidentally married a gangster's woman? You'd be surprised, or maybe you wouldn't, it's been a weird month."
Lutz allowed a small, polite laugh, a perfect imitation of a man slightly amused by the eccentric help. Inside, his mind was racing. The cadence, the pop-culture-reminiscent patter, the sheer, anachronistic vibe of the man… it was screaming at him. But he had to be sure.
"Nothing quite so…" Lutz began, his tone shifting to one of serious business. "My needs are more precise. I'm an entrepreneur, new to the city. I'm backing an inventor, a truly brilliant fellow, and we're on the cusp of bringing a revolutionary new tool to market."
Gene's eyes lit up. "Revolutionary, you say? I like revolutionary. Revolution is good for business. People always need lawyers after a revolution, usually to argue about who owned the guillotine. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Go on."
"The invention itself is sound," Lutz continued, watching Gene closely. "But the world of commerce is a nest of vipers. I need to ensure that my inventor is protected, that his work is secured, and that our commercial venture is structured in a way that… let's say, incentivizes the right people and discourages the wrong ones."
"Ah," Gene said, his grin widening. "You don't just want a lawyer. My favorite kind of landscaping." He leaned back, the theatrical chair groaning in protest. "So, you need a corporate structure. Patents. The whole nine yards. But you want it built with… creative architecture. Rooms with no doors, windows that don't open, that sort of thing."
"A succinct way of putting it," Lutz acknowledged, impressed despite himself. The man was sharp. "The inventor is a visionary, but his focus is on creation, not commerce. I need to handle that side of things for him. Discreetly."
"Discretion is my middle name," Gene said, then winked. "Well, not legally. Legally it's… well, let's just say my parents had a warped sense of humor. But the point stands." He gestured to the portfolio. "I assume you've got some ideas already. Lay 'em on me. Let's see what we're working with."
Lutz felt a thrill of anticipation mixed with caution. The first gate had been passed. The man was competent, and he was almost certainly… other. Now, the real dance was about to begin. He unclasped the portfolio, ready to lay out the blueprint of his swindle, all while trying to decipher the biggest mystery in the room: the man in the lime green suit who talked like he was in television.
Lutz opened the portfolio, extracting the documents he'd drafted. He began laying out the structure with the calm, measured tone of a businessman explaining a straightforward proposition. "The public-facing entity will be 'Filip Innovations.' The inventor, Filip, will be the named director and chief inventor, holding a minority stake to ensure his incentive aligns with the company's success." He slid the draft share agreement across the desk. "The majority stake, along with all patent rights, will be held by a separate, discreet holding company—The Northern Star Import & Export Co.—to shield the assets and provide operational flexibility."
Gene listened, his head cocked, his fingers steepled. He hadn't touched the papers yet. His green eyes, sharp and unnervingly focused, stayed on Lutz's face. "A tale as old as time," he murmured, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips. "The brilliant artist and the… pragmatic benefactor. Let me see if I'm following the script. The artist gets his name on the marquee and a few complimentary tickets. The benefactor owns the theater, the concession stands, and the rights to the soundtrack. Am I warm?"
Lutz didn't flinch. He met Gene's gaze evenly, a slight, professional smile of his own in place. "I prefer to think of it as building a fortress. The inventor is the proud flag flying from the highest tower. My role is to ensure the walls are thick, the gates are secure, and the treasury is well-guarded."
"Poetic," Gene said, finally picking up the share agreement. His eyes, which had seemed merely alert moments before, now scanned the text with an almost supernatural speed. It wasn't just reading; it was a rapid, instinctual pattern recognition. He was a locksmith looking at a lock, and his mind was already flicking through a set of picks. "So, twenty percent for the flag-bearer. A bit… light for the man who designed the fortress, wouldn't you say? But I'm sure he's thrilled. The glory and all that." He didn't look up, but his tone was dry as dust.
He set that page down and picked up the draft patent assignment. "And this… 'hereby assigns all rights, title, and interest to the aforementioned pneumatic apparatus, inclusive of its core principles and all derivative applications, to The Northern Star Company in perpetuity.'" He whistled softly, a sound of professional appreciation. "'Perpetuity.' That's a long time. You're not just buying his current idea, James. You're buying every idea he'll ever have that involves pushing air. That's… surely quite comprehensive."
Lutz felt the first real tension. This wasn't just a colorful eccentric; this was a man whose mind operated on a different wavelength, one tuned to the hidden frequencies of obligation and law. He was a master of the legal code, and he was already assessing the value and vulnerability of Lutz's plunder. He sees it. He sees the whole scheme.
"It's about creating a stable foundation for the technology," Lutz countered smoothly, layering his voice with a Swindler's convincing warmth. "A unified vision prevents fragmentation. It ensures that every iteration of the 'Filip Driver' meets the same standard of quality."
"Uh-huh," Gene said, his attention already on the next document—the buy-sell agreement. He read the clause about the forced acquisition, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. "And this little nugget here… the 'dispute resolution' price. You've set the value of his entire life's work, in the event of a disagreement, at what a competent lathe operator makes in… let's see… about six months." He looked up, and for the first time, his theatrical grin was completely gone, replaced by an expression of pure, unvarnished professional assessment. "You're not just building a fortress, Mr. Morgan. You're installing a trapdoor under the flag-bearer's feet and holding the lever."
The air in the garish office crackled with unspoken challenge. It was no longer a client-solicitor meeting. It was a duel between two different kinds of predators. Lutz, with his layered deceptions and psychological nudges, and Gene, with his ability to find the single loose thread in any legal tapestry and pull.
Lutz didn't deny it. He simply leaned back, a silent acknowledgment. He could feel the man wasn't judging him morally; he was evaluating the craftsmanship. "A trapdoor is only a danger if someone tries to leave the fortress with the crown jewels," Lutz said, his voice cool. "My interest is in seeing the fortress prosper. Everything is designed to that end."
Gene stared at him for a long moment, and then, surprisingly, a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. It was different from his earlier performative grins. This one was filled with a sharp, intellectual respect. "You know, for a second, I thought about trying to tweak this a little more in my favor, find some angle. But looking at you… the way you talk…" He shook his head, chuckling. "It'd be like trying to sell a bridge to the guy who dug the river. Pointless. You're good. Scary good."
The tension broke, replaced by a mutual, unspoken understanding. They had taken each other's measure and found a worthy adversary. The attempt to gain an upper hand was abandoned; it was more profitable to be allies in this particular endeavor.
"Likewise," Lutz said, the word carrying more weight than its simplicity suggested. He felt like he had just met the most dangerous man in St. Millom, It was a lawyer in a lime-green suit.
"Alright, down to business," Gene said, becoming all efficiency. He tapped the documents. "The structure is sound. Brutal, but sound. But the execution is a little… crude. If your boy Filip has a single friend with a law degree, this," he pointed at the forced acquisition clause, "will scream 'swindle.' We need to obfuscate. Bury it in cross-references. Define the valuation metric in a separate appendix linked to… let's say, 'non-core asset performance.' Make it a chore to even find, let alone understand."
Lutz considered this. It was a good point. "Agreed."
"Secondly," Gene continued, "the patent assignment. 'Perpetuity' is a red flag. We change it to 'for the full term of the patent, plus any renewals.' It means the same thing practically, but it sounds less like you're owning his soul and more like you're being a responsible steward of intellectual property. It's the difference between a shiv and a stiletto; one is messy, the other is professional."
Lutz nodded again. The man was an artist.
"Now," Gene said, steepling his fingers again, a glint returning to his eyes. "The matter of my payment. I don't work for just a handshake and a 'well done.' This is delicate work. I propose a base sum of twenty Gold Hammers for the drafting, filing, and corporate setup."
It was a high, but not outrageous, price for the services rendered. Lutz waited. He knew there was a "but."
"But," Gene said, leaning forward, "for ongoing counsel, for being the quiet shield against the 'sword' you mentioned, and for ensuring this beautiful, predatory structure you've designed doesn't collapse under its own cleverness… I want a percentage. A small one. One percent of the annual gross revenue from 'Filip Innovations.'"
There it was. He wasn't just asking for a fee; he was asking for a piece of the action. He wanted a vested interest, a permanent seat at the table.
Lutz admired the play even as he prepared to counter it. "A percentage of revenue is a complex thing to track and audit, Mr. Takavic. It creates a permanent, messy tether. I prefer clean, one-time transactions."
"Life's messy, Mr. Morgan. Business is messier."
"Then let's tidy it up," Lutz replied, his voice taking on a silken, persuasive quality. He wasn't just arguing; he was weaving a reality where his counter-offer was the most logical, attractive outcome. He subtly emphasized the words "clean," "simple," and "certain," while making the concept of "percentage" feel entangled and uncertain. "A share of the action, as you say, but a finite one. I will grant you three percent of the shares in The Northern Star holding company itself."
He saw Gene's eyes widen slightly. This was different. This wasn't a slice of the profits; this was a piece of the machine that owned the profits. It was a bet on Lutz's long-term success, not just Filip's invention.
"That's… a different kind of play," Gene said slowly, calculating. The share was illiquid, its value entirely dependent on Lutz's skill and the success of ventures he hadn't even started yet. But it was also a sign of immense trust—or a brilliantly laid trap. "You're not giving me a cut of the fish. You're giving me a piece of the fishing rod."
"A very small piece," Lutz affirmed, his smile genuine now. "But a piece that will grow with every fish we catch. It's a bet on my ability to build more than just one scheme. It's clean, it's simple, and it aligns our interests without the need for annual squabbles over accounting. Three percent. That is my final offer."
Gene looked at him, and Lutz could see the calculations whirring behind those bright green eyes. He was weighing the certainty of a small, ongoing revenue stream against the potential of a much larger, but riskier, equity stake. He was also, Lutz knew, recognizing that he had met his match in negotiation. To push further would be ungainly.
A slow grin spread across Gene's face. He stuck out his hand. "You drive a hard bargain, you bastard. Alright. Three percent of Northern Star. But I'm drafting the shareholder agreement. And trust me, you do not want to see what I can do with a shareholder agreement."
Lutz took his hand, the deal sealed. "I would expect nothing less."