The Weight of Deals

The Weight of Deals
Crest woke late the next morning, head pounding, mouth tasting of stale whisky. The curtains in his suite were drawn tight, yet the daylight still forced its way in, a soft stab against his temples. He groaned and sat up, one hand pressed against his skull as though to hold the pieces of his head together.

The night before played back in broken flashes—Harland’s booming laughter, the glint of crystal glasses raised in a toast, the smooth legs of Harland’s daughter spinning across the dance floor. He remembered his eyes lingering far longer than they should, but he had never cared much for limits. His appetite had always been the sort that swallowed boundaries whole.

“Water,” he muttered to himself, stumbling toward the sideboard where a half-drunk bottle sat. He gulped directly from it, letting the cool liquid wash the bitterness from his tongue. For a moment, he stood still, shoulders hunched, breathing heavily. Then the real weight returned—the reason for his excess, the constant tightness coiled in his chest. Deals. Promises. Lies spoken too smoothly to be recalled with regret.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He snatched it up, squinting at the screen. The name that appeared there made him straighten, made the dull haze in his head clear like fog lifting from a battlefield.

It was Ortega.

Crest swiped to answer, lowering his voice as though the walls might be listening.

“You’re calling early,” he said, leaning against the table.

“You’ve delayed long enough,” Ortega’s voice rasped from the other side. “Funds are drying. Men are restless. And your promises only buy silence for so long.”

Crest’s jaw tightened. He hated Ortega’s tone, the implied authority. But he needed him—needed the loyalty of his men, the fear he could stir in others. So Crest swallowed the irritation like a man forcing down bad medicine.

“You’ll get what’s due,” Crest said, running a hand down his face. “The contracts are already signed. Once the money is shifted through Harland’s shell accounts, you’ll have your cut.”

“And if Harland grows suspicious?” Ortega pressed.

Crest smirked, though it did not reach his eyes. “Harland is too busy playing soldier at garden parties. He’ll never notice a few missing pieces until the whole puzzle is gone.”

There was silence, then a grunt of approval. “See that you keep your word. Betray me, and you’ll wish you hadn’t woken up this morning.”

The line went dead.

Crest lowered the phone slowly, staring at his own reflection in the black glass. He could see it there—the flicker of doubt, the faint crack behind the polished charm. He rubbed his jaw, muttering under his breath.

“I always keep my word… until I don’t.”

The knock at his door startled him. Crest shoved the phone into his pocket and straightened his shirt.

“Enter,” he called.

A young aide stepped inside, nervously clutching a folder. Crest recognized him as one of Harland’s clerks—the boy could not have been older than twenty, yet his tie was knotted too tight, his skin too pale. He looked like someone drowning in the suit he wore.

“Sir,” the aide stammered, placing the folder on the table. “General Harland requested these reports be delivered personally.”

Crest smiled thinly. “Of course he did. Harland likes his little shows of importance.” He waved the boy closer. “Tell me—do you enjoy working for the General?”

The aide hesitated. “Y-yes, sir.”

Crest’s eyes lingered on him, studying the nervous twitch of his hands, the slight tremor in his voice. He leaned closer, lowering his tone.

“Loyalty, my boy, is worth more than your salary. Remember that. Men like Harland pretend to be righteous, but it is those who whisper in shadows that shape the future. You might want to… keep your options open.”

The aide swallowed, nodded quickly, and left without another word. Crest chuckled softly to himself, then flipped open the folder. Pages of figures, weapon inventories, shipment schedules—all stamped confidential. He traced his finger along the lists, already calculating how much he could skim, how much he could divert to Ortega without anyone noticing.

This was his art. Others painted, wrote, or fought battles. Crest dealt in deception, bending numbers and faces alike to his will. And in that silent room, flipping through the reports, he felt powerful. Untouchable.

Yet somewhere beneath the rush of control, the faintest thread of unease pulled at him. He thought of Ortega’s warning. He thought of Harland’s daughter’s eyes watching him the night before, curious and innocent in a way that made his hunger twist. He thought of the boy who had just left, who might whisper to someone else, who might prove less stupid than he seemed.

Crest shut the folder with a snap and rose to his feet. He crossed the room to the liquor cabinet, pouring a drink though it was barely noon. He drank deeply, letting the burn steady his nerves.

“You’ll keep quiet,” he murmured to the empty room. “They always do. Until they don’t.”

He laughed at that, a hollow sound that echoed too loudly in the silence.

The day stretched before him—another meeting, another bribe to be placed carefully in a waiting hand, another mask to wear so convincingly that no one saw the rot beneath. Crest smoothed his suit, tucked the folder under his arm, and prepared to step back into the theater he had built.

But as he reached for the door, he paused, looking back at the room. At the glass with its wet ring on the table. At the phone with its silent threats still humming through the wires.

For a moment, Crest felt the walls closing in, pressing against his lungs. He forced himself to breathe, forced his grin to return.

“Untouchable,” he whispered.