Scene 3: THE MEETING. It happens at the same time every night. Which is no time at all. The table and chairs for the three, chairs are empty and dusted in a way that makes you not want to look at them too long. The candle is already lit when they arrive. No one lights it. It just is. One flame, dead center, not flickering. It doesn't melt, it watches. First: The Boss opens his case. Empire laid perfect. The feather on top moves even though there's no wind. Second: The Banker opens his. Towers, envelopes, the blank page. He adjusts one coin by a millimeter. Breathes. That's as close as he gets to praying. Third: The Enforcer drags his in, busted hinge screaming. Gold spills. The stone stays put at the bottom. He stares through his own ribs at the other two. No one speaks. They don't need to. This is the audit. The Boss is asking: _Did we hold the territory?_ The Banker is answering: _The books are balanced. To the penny._ The Enforcer is reminding them both: _And I made sure no one left to argue._ They look at each other's cases. Always the same. Boss has the most beautiful. Banker has the most valuable. Enforcer has the most honest. The candle flares for half a second and in that half second, you can see them how they were: Young. Alive. Three friends in cheap suits promising they'd own this town together. Then it's gone. The flame goes flat again. The gold stops sparkling. The smoke around The Boss's hat stops curling. The meeting is over. It was always over. But none of them close their cases. Because if they close them, they have to leave the table. And if they leave the table, they have to admit there's nowhere else to go tonight.