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"And that's not the only thing we're going to do!"

The crowd surged to its feet, a roaring ocean of signs stamped with one word: ROAK. "When you elected me, I promised you a safer city. And what have I delivered? Crime is at an all-time low!"

Applause thundered.

"The slums are cleaned up—yes, they are! And it wasn't just crime. Look at our schools: the best in the state!"

Another cheer. Roak lifted his hands, basking in the roar as it rolled over him like a wave.

"Give me four more years, and not only will our city stay safe, and our schools stay the best—I'll take on the pollution poisoning us from Dram Co."

The largest roar yet shook the hall.

"I do this for you—and for our children. They deserve a brighter tomorrow. They deserve to ride their bikes safely down the street. They deserve clean air and water. Vote for me, and I will take on the challenge!"

The cheer started ragged, then rose like a drumbeat:

"Roak… Roak… Roak!"

He raised his fists, flashing his ten-thousand-dollar smile. "Thank you. God bless you," he murmured as he left the stage—though no one could hear him. The crowd pulsed like a single living organism, vibrating with energy.

Offstage, a staffer thrust a water bottle into his hand. Liz, his campaign manager, leaned close and shouted, "You're trending like crazy, boss!"

Roak gulped, handed the bottle back, and pushed through the back exit flanked by suited guards. He beamed with pride and confidence. He was born to lead. He slid into the black sedan, waiting for Liz to follow—

But the door slammed shut. The car pulled away.

His heart still raced from the rally. Then it skipped. The driver was John, same as always—but something felt wrong.

"John, what the hell is going on?"

"I've been told not to talk to you, Mr. Roak. I'm sorry."

Roak clawed out his phone and called Liz. She answered on the last ring.

"Bill—I'm sorry."

"What's happening?"

"He wants to see you."

His heart dropped, and his throat tightened.

"Why?"

"He didn't say. I can't say more. Tonight was fire, you're trending off the charts—just… tell him that." Her voice cracked with exhaustion.

Roak hung up, pressed his forehead to the cold glass, and watched the streets darken as the car veered away from his base and into the slums he claimed were cleaned. Police here came in three kinds: corrupt, blind, or absent. He shut his eyes and sighed.

The car stopped

The door yanked open. A man larger than any of his guards stood there, scarred and stone-eyed. Roak almost toppled out of the car. He opened his mouth to protest, but heard himself say, "Sorry."

The brute jerked his head toward the diner.

Inside, smoke and grease hung heavy. A few locals hunched at the counter, staring at horse races on old TVs. Nobody looked up.

And then Roak saw him.

Theo.

Egg-shaped head, hair stringing down his collar, glasses thick as bottle bottoms. A polo shirt stained with grease. Fingers glistening with cheese as he shoveled fries into his mouth. Moaning as he chewed, sucking his fingers clean. The sight made his stomach turn.

He forced himself forward, pulse quickening with every step, and slid into the booth. Theo didn't look up. He devoured another handful of fries, drained his soda, and finally fixed his beady, magnified eyes on Roak.

"You're out."

The words slammed into Roak like a truck. "What do you mean I'm out?"

The man picked his teeth with his thumbnail, examined the morsel, and swallowed it. "You're out, you are not being re-elected."

"Theo, come on. Please."

The pudgy man took another pull on his straw, sucking the last of the soda and melted ice from the bottom of the cup, and leaned back into the booth with a satisfied groan.

"Fine," Roak snapped. "I don't need you. I've outgrown you, Theo. Outgrown this arrangement. You saw my speech. Dram Co. is finished. I'm trending and I'm unstoppable. The whole city is behind me, and there's no competition."

Theo wiped his mouth with a hairy hand. "You're right—there's no competition."

"Damn right there's not. I won by a landslide last time. You need me."

"Roak, you're not grasping the situation."

"No, Theo, you're not."

Theo sighed and grabbed a sliver of fry from the plate, snapping it in his mouth like a dog. He reached beside him and slid a folder across the table. "Go on. Open it."

Roak hesitated, then flipped it open. Photos spilled out—His face drained of color.

Theo leaned back, fat fingers tapping the booth. "You ever take your kid to a puppet show?"

Roak said nothing.

"The puppets dance, sing, make the crowd cheer, all that stuff. But behind the curtain?" Theo smirked. "One man's hands are shoved up both their asses. He's the one doing the talking."

"I'm not a puppet," Roak whispered.

Theo's eyes gleamed behind thick lenses. "You're not? You look like a used sock to me."

Roak lunged across the table, fury boiling, but massive hands clamped under his arms and yanked him back. The brute lifted him clean off the floor and dropped him on the sticky linoleum.

Theo slid from the booth, wiping his greasy fingers on his polo. He pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, and looked down at the crumpled sock of a man on the dirty floor. "Those weren't a warning, they were a preview. You're finished, Roak."

Roak’s entire body clenched.

Theo looked back at his phone and smirked. "You're trending," he said, almost kindly.

Then he turned, waving to the cook as if he were leaving a bar tab, and waddled out into the night. His old sedan coughed smoke as it pulled from the curb.

His phone buzzed in over his heart. One notification. Then another. Then a flood. His hand was cautious as he took the phone from his pocket. He stared at the glowing screen, his face pale in the light. Each ping was another nail in the coffin, another echo of the life collapsing around him.