Sunday morning sun cut through the narrow café windows like blades. Mikhail sat at the corner table near the back, coat folded neatly over the chair beside him, a worn binder resting on the table. Outside, the quiet cobblestone street glistened from the night's frost. Inside, it smelled of espresso and old books.
Across from him sat Erik Dubois, still lean, still crisply dressed, with the same air of practiced detachment he'd had back in university. But now there were sharper lines around his eyes. Experience. Or caution.
"So," Erik said, setting down his demitasse. "You're really doing this."
Mikhail nodded once. "Plant's ours. Permits are in motion. Quarry's already delivering stone."
Erik opened the binder, flipping through a familiar rhythm of finance tables, timelines, and projected ROI sheets. "No fluff?" he asked. "No visionary pitch buried under wishful numbers?"
"No fluff," Mikhail said. "We break even in fourteen months. We scale by year two. If I'm wrong, you'll know in three."
Erik tilted his head, still reading. "You were always the one who wanted to bend the world into something bigger than it was."
Mikhail didn't flinch. "And you were always the one who asked what it cost to do it."
A tight smile played on Erik's lips. "Touché."
They worked in silence for a while, pages flipped, pens scratched. Mikhail walked Erik through line-item breakdowns: equipment leases, cement additives, worker wages, contingency buffers. Each number was a shield against disbelief.
Eventually, Erik leaned back, arms folded. "You've thought this through."
"I've lived it," Mikhail replied.
Erik nodded slowly. "Alright. I'll back you. But I want weekly cash flow reports and power of veto over nonessential capital moves."
Mikhail hesitated, but only briefly. "Done. You'll handle incoming capital and payables. I keep strategic control."
Before Erik could reply, the bell above the café door jingled. Kat stepped in, a notepad tucked under her arm. She wore the same leather jacket from the plant, grease still dark on the sleeves. She spotted them and walked over, raising a brow.
"Is this the banker?" she asked, jerking her chin at Erik.
Mikhail smiled faintly. "This is Erik Dubois. He's handling financing."
Erik stood to shake her hand. "Engineer?"
"Kat Müller. Structural systems."
As they sat down, Lars arrived with less grace, ducking his head under the low doorway and stomping the cold from his boots. He said nothing at first — just gave Erik a long look before sitting.
"And you are?" Erik asked.
"Lars. I build what they sketch."
The air tightened. Erik's tone held polite suspicion. Lars's stare was flat steel.
Kat broke the tension. "So, banker-boy. Are you in, or are we still making polite threats over lattes?"
Erik chuckled. "I'm in. With conditions."
Lars leaned forward. "I got conditions too. You get in the way on site, you'll be picking concrete out your teeth."
The table went still. Mikhail held up his hand, palm down. "This only works if everyone's honest. Doubt's allowed. Sabotage isn't."
They all looked at each other, four edges of a square, barely joined.
Erik sipped his coffee. "Let's test this team before we toast it."
He leaned toward Mikhail. "Meet me after this. Alone. I need to know how far you're willing to go if this thing tips."
Mikhail didn't blink. "I'll see you behind the old hotel. One hour."
Kat watched them both as she pulled out her pencil and tapped the table. "This just got interesting."
The door to the old hotel's side alley groaned shut behind Mikhail as he stepped into the shadows. The cold hit sharp, but the adrenaline warming his chest dulled it. Erik leaned against a rusted drain pipe, hands in his coat pockets, watching him like a trader measuring risk.
"I was serious," Erik said. "I don't throw money at lost causes. And I don't partner with gamblers."
Mikhail didn't stop walking until they stood chest to chest. "Good. Because I'm not gambling. I'm testing."
"Testing what?"
"Loyalty. Competence. Yours included."
Erik's brows lifted. "And how exactly do you test loyalty?"
Mikhail reached into his coat and handed Erik a slim manila folder. Inside: a doctored version of the original financing plan, inflated margins, fictional suppliers, and a clause that would give Erik controlling shares if certain conditions were triggered.
Erik flipped through the sheets without comment. Then his gaze narrowed. "This isn't the version you gave me earlier."
"Nope," Mikhail said. "That's the version I gave Lars this morning. He handed it back without opening it. Said he doesn't touch money, only bricks."
"And Kat?"
"I told her the blueprint files had a missing load calculation. She spent two hours last night recalculating by hand. She was right, there was a flaw."
Mikhail stepped back. "I needed to know who reads what. Who double-checks. Who doesn't. It's not trust if it isn't earned."
Erik stared down at the folder, then at Mikhail. "So what does this make me?"
"That depends," Mikhail said. "Are you still holding the fake copy?"
Erik smirked and handed it back. "I caught the forged supplier names before I finished the second page. You're lucky I didn't call the authorities for fraud."
"You're lucky I'm not desperate enough to go through with it," Mikhail replied coolly.
They stood in silence, the buzz of a distant tram echoing off stone. Finally, Erik nodded. "Alright. You've got my attention. Let's see if you can hold it."
Back at the plant that afternoon, Mikhail gathered the three of them in the operations yard. He carried no clipboard, no speech.
"You all want to know what kind of crew you're part of?" he said. "We're going to find out right now."
He pointed to the old west wing, the administrative corridor with its cracked ceiling and sagging foundation. "I need it cleared. Safely. Marked. Mapped. Without damaging the foundation supports."
Kat frowned. "There's no budget for demo crews."
"You're the crew."
Lars scoffed. "That's not part of my role."
"It is now," Mikhail said, already rolling up his sleeves. "Call it a fire drill."
They worked the rest of the afternoon hauling debris, ripping rusted bolts from the wall, uncovering forgotten blueprints buried in a desk drawer sealed by time. Erik, to their surprise, did not vanish. He stripped off his blazer and moved crates. By the end, they were blistered, covered in dust, and standing on a cleared concrete floor.
Lars looked over the rubble. "You're insane."
Mikhail grinned. "You're still here."
Erik sat on a crate, catching his breath. "So what's next, boot camp?"
"No," Mikhail said. He turned toward the chain-link fence as a black car pulled up just beyond the gate. "That's next."
The back door opened. A woman stepped out, tall, slate-gray coat, clipboard in hand, expression like a blade.
Kat's voice was quiet. "Who the hell is that?"
Mikhail didn't answer. He was already walking toward the gate.