The door creaked behind Mikhail as he stepped into Hoffmann's office. A battered desk stood between them, its surface littered with coffee rings, yellowing receipts, and a rusted paperweight shaped like a bull. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, and behind it all sat Herr Hoffmann, balding, red-faced, and glaring at Mikhail like he was a mosquito buzzing through his lunch break.
"Close the door," Hoffmann barked without looking up from the newspaper spread across the desk. "You're letting the heat out."
Mikhail did. The door clicked shut, muffling the clangs and distant grinding of the yard outside. He crossed the stained carpet in three careful steps and sat without invitation. His heartbeat drummed in his ears, but his face stayed still.
"DuPont, was it?" Hoffmann grunted, finally folding the paper and leveling a bloodshot stare at him. "I hear you've been sniffing around my plant. Don't waste my time."
"I want to lease it," Mikhail said evenly. "Or buy it, if the terms are right."
Hoffmann leaned back in his chair with a scoff. The wood creaked under him like it wanted out of the deal. "Concrete's not cheap, kid. You've got city shoes and a townie face. What makes you think you can run a plant like this?"
Mikhail met his eyes. "Because I've studied this place. I know the quarry numbers. I've run the projections. The market's coming back, and I can turn this around with the right reinvestments."
"Yeah?" Hoffmann flicked ashes into a chipped saucer. "Tell that to the six contractors who tried before you. You know what happened to them?"
"No," Mikhail said. "But I assume I'll find their bones in the back lot if I screw this up."
That pulled a snort from the old man. A short-lived chuckle that turned into a cough. "Cute. I like gallows humor. You'll need it when this place chews you up."
He leaned forward, voice dropping. "Here's my offer. Double my listed price. Up front. Cash. Or you can crawl back to whatever office park you came from."
Mikhail didn't blink. He reached slowly into his coat and laid a folded paper on the table. Hoffmann frowned, then unfolded it. His eyes scanned the forged quote,an offer from a rival plant, undercutting Hoffmann's rate by 15%.
"Are you trying to bluff me?" Hoffmann growled.
"I'm showing you how others are thinking," Mikhail said. "You've got the land and the structure. But they're moving faster, cheaper. I can bring this place up to spec and we both win."
Hoffmann grunted. He tossed the quote back like it burned his fingers. "Why the hell should I trust you?"
"You don't have to." Mikhail let the silence stretch, then added, "But give me a chance to prove I'm not like the others."
The old man studied him. The ticking of a warped wall clock filled the room. Then Hoffmann slapped the desk with a laugh that echoed off the wood paneling.
"You've got moxie, DuPont. Fine. Come back tomorrow with half the cash. You want a shot? You'll earn it."
"Deal," Mikhail said.
Behind them, the door creaked open.
"You'd better not be dragging me into a circus," came Lars's dry voice.
Mikhail stepped out of Hoffmann's office and into the evening chill, the door clicking shut behind him like a gun cocking. His hands were damp. Not from nerves—he told himself that again—but from the sheer pressure of walking the wire without a net. Half the cash by tomorrow. Half. He didn't even know if the bank account he remembered still existed in this version of 2005.
Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he crossed the dirt lot, wind tugging at his jacket. The town felt quieter than before, as if it had been holding its breath while Hoffmann sized him up. Farther down the street, kids raced after a sagging soccer ball, their shouts echoing faintly. But Mikhail barely noticed.
He stopped at the edge of the lot and glanced up. The clouds above were bruising purple, curling around the last glow of sun like smoke on coals. Across the narrow street, leaning against a rusting streetlamp, stood Lars.
The contractor had his arms folded, one brow raised like he'd just witnessed a rigged poker hand. His boots were coated in fine white dust, and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, exposing forearms knotted with work.
"Well?" Lars called out. "Did he chew you up or spit you out?"
Mikhail walked up to him, tugging his coat tighter. "Neither. I think I convinced him to set the table."
Lars snorted, tilting his head. "That so? He once told a man to take a swing at him for offering ten percent under asking. Broke the guy's nose on the front step."
Mikhail's lips tugged into a crooked smile. "I offered him a forged quote and a promise."
"Risky," Lars said, shifting his weight. "Gutsy."
There was a long pause. The kind that settled between two men who'd seen too many things go wrong.
"You actually have the cash?" Lars asked quietly.
"Working on it," Mikhail answered. "I'll find a way."
Lars didn't nod. Not yet. He stared past Mikhail for a beat, eyes narrowed like he was calculating something more than just money. Trust, maybe. Or the risk of throwing his own lot in with a man carrying nothing but blueprints and conviction.
"You're either the dumbest man I've met," he said finally, "or the one who finally knows what the hell he's doing."
Mikhail gave a small shrug. "Does it matter which, if I get it done?"
That earned a short laugh. Lars looked down at his boots, then up again. His eyes flicked to the lot behind them, to the building that had once been a roaring engine of business—and could be again. He extended a hand.
"Alright, DuPont. You've got one foot in the door. Don't waste it."
Mikhail shook it. The grip was solid. Real.
They stood like that a second longer before a shrill screech cut through the air.
A rusted pickup tore around the corner, fishtailing in the gravel. The engine roared like it had something to prove. Both men turned as the vehicle skidded to a stop in front of them, the passenger door swinging open with a sharp metallic groan.
A thin man with slicked-back hair leaned out, eyes wild, shouting over the engine, "You DuPont?!"
Mikhail didn't answer. He just stepped forward.