Sinclair Feldman waited by the fence, radio clipped to his belt, three names running through his head like a checklist. Zelda. Marcus. Achilles. Close all three, and Red Hills had its trade hub. Lose one, and the whole alliance died in the dust. An eyebot drifted past in red and yellow camo, scanning him without slowing. A tuxedo cat in a RobCo jumpsuit watched from a stack of tires, tail flicking. Then the flap of the medical tent pushed open, and Zelda stepped out. Pale. Mouth tight. A rust-stained folder under her arm. "You need to see this," she said. She set the folder on a crate and flipped it open. Yellowed pages, oil-streaked, stamped with a seal that wasn't Red Hills. "Came in this morning. From the other outfit sniffing around." Sinclair read. The terms were clean and brutal. Marcus got his caps. Zelda got her clinic stocked. Achilles got nothing. Red Hills got nothing. The rival took the whole floor and cut him out at the knees. "They're offering you the deal without us," Sinclair said. He kept his voice level. "Why bring it to me?" Zelda tapped the page. "Because it leaves Achilles in the cold again. And because I don't sign things I haven't read aloud to the people they hurt." She closed the folder and slid it across. "You've got until sundown to give me a reason to tear it up. After that, the floor decides without you."

Sinclair found Achilles by the old generator, sleeves rolled, a scrap-steel armband clamped on his wrist. The rival's mark was etched plain into the metal. Sinclair stopped walking. Sundown was an hour out, and the deal had already crawled past him in the dirt. "They came to you," Sinclair said. Achilles didn't look up. He tightened a bolt, set the wrench down, and turned the armband so the symbol caught the light. "Came this morning. Terms cut me out. Same as before." Marcus stepped out from behind the carrier, hat low, hands clean. He didn't speak. He was waiting to see what Sinclair would do. Sinclair felt the radio at his belt, the weight of every order Red Hills had ever given him, and let it sit. "I came to tell you the truth before you decided." Achilles finally looked up. "Then tell it." "Red Hills moved on after you went down. Took the easy road. Nobody fought hard enough to go back for you." Sinclair kept his hands at his sides. "I half-believed it for a year. Now I'm saying it out loud. If you walk after hearing that, we eat the loss." Behind Achilles, a medic's blue-and-yellow bag sat open on a crate, vials catching the late sun. Zelda had been listening from the tent flap the whole time. Achilles worked the armband off his wrist. He held it a moment, then dropped it in the dirt between them. "Buried is buried," he said. "But a man who says it plain is a man I can sit across from." He looked at Marcus. Marcus gave one short nod. "We'll hear your terms. Tonight. All three of us." Sinclair breathed out. The alliance wasn't closed. But the rival's offer was dead on the ground, and the table was finally his to set.

Sinclair walked the cracked lot before sundown. Drums in a ring. Wood stacked clean. A pit ready to light. The table was his now, but one chair still scared him. Achilles had said yes to hearing terms. He had not said he would show. He set the shortwave on a barrel and thumbed the dial. Bunker channel, low static. He keyed twice. Waited. Nothing came back. Marcus would arrive on time. Zelda would arrive early. If the third seat sat empty, the deal died in front of both of them. Sinclair found Achilles by the carrier, hands black with grease. He did not ask. He set the radio on the fender. "Sundown. The lot with the drums. I'm not asking you to promise. I'm asking you to carry this. If you're not coming, key it once. I'll clear the table before they sit." Achilles wiped his hands. He looked at the radio a long moment. "I don't key things I don't mean." He clipped it to his belt. "You'll know I'm coming when I'm there." It was not a yes. It was the closest thing Achilles gave to one. Sundown. Sinclair lit the pit. Marcus came first, hat low, eyes counting chairs. Zelda came next, arms crossed, reading the empty seat like a chart. "Three chairs," Marcus said. "Two men." Sinclair did not answer. He watched the gap in the fence. The fire popped. The radio on his hip stayed silent. Silent was not yes. Silent was not no. Boots on broken asphalt. Achilles stepped into the firelight and took the third chair without a word. Marcus's shoulders dropped a quarter inch. Zelda uncrossed her arms. Sinclair sat down across from all three. The seat was filled. The deal was alive. Now he had to close it.

Sinclair set his hands flat on the table. Three faces waited. He opened his mouth to start when boots scraped the gate. A runner staggered through, jacket dark with blood, a cracked photo frame clutched to his chest. He went down hard near the fire. Zelda was already standing. Sinclair saw the whole board in one breath. If Zelda left the table, the meeting broke. If he waved her back, the runner died and she would never sit with him again. The rusted red-cross kit sat at her feet, set there before the meeting like she had known the night would bleed. She had come ready for both jobs. He had only planned for one. "Go," Sinclair said. He stood with her. "Marcus. Achilles. The table waits. I'm helping her." Marcus tipped his hat back, surprised. Achilles watched without moving. Sinclair knelt in the dirt and pressed his palms where Zelda told him to press. Hot blood pushed through his fingers. The runner's eyes found his. The cracked frame slid free — a woman's face under broken glass, and a folded scrap of paper tucked behind it. Zelda worked fast. Sinclair read the paper one-handed while pressure held. Kira Dallas. Three lines, clipped and exact. Bunker channel burned. Eyes on the yard tonight. Move the meeting or lose it. He folded it small. The mechanic cat trotted up with clean rags and crouched beside Zelda without a word, steady as a nurse. The runner's breathing thinned, then held. "He'll live," Zelda said. She did not look at Sinclair. "That was the right call." She wiped her hands on her thigh and walked back to the table with blood still on her wrists. Marcus had not moved. Achilles had poured a fourth cup. The chair Sinclair left was still warm. Sinclair sat. He set the folded note in the center of the table where all three could see it. "We're being watched right now," he said. "Kira sent this through a man who almost died carrying it. We close tonight, or we move and we close somewhere they can't see us. Your call." The fire popped. The deal was still alive. The yard was not safe anymore.