The Palm Reader's Warning

The Las Vegas heat pressed against Marcus's skin as he stood by the hotel pool, nursing a drink he'd paid too much for. His fedora—the same lucky hat he'd worn to every closing for fifteen years—felt suffocating in the desert sun.

"You have blood on your hands," the woman said, appearing beside him. Marcus hadn't heard her approach. She was maybe sixty, with silver hair and eyes that seemed to see through his bespoke suit.

"Occupational hazard," he replied, his voice dry. "I'm a corporate fixer. People pay me to make problems disappear."

She reached for his hand, her fingers surprisingly strong. "Not those hands." She turned his **palm** upward, tracing a line he'd never noticed. "These hands. The ones you keep hidden."

Marcus tried to pull away, but her grip was iron. The air between them grew heavy, charged with something he couldn't name. Around them, the **pool** continued its chlorinated rhythm—laughter, splashing, the mundane commerce of vacation. But here, in this three feet of concrete space, everything had shifted.

"Your wife knows," she said softly. "About Vienna. About the money you moved. She's known since March."

Marcus's heart hammered against his ribs. "Who are you?"

"Someone who sees what others miss." She released his hand. "The question is: what will you do when she confronts you? Because she will. Tonight."

He watched her walk away, disappearing into the crowd like smoke. His **hat** suddenly felt heavy, a costume instead of armor. The fixer who'd solved every problem for everyone else finally understood: some broken things can't be fixed.

Marcus set his drink on the edge of the pool and walked toward the hotel room, toward the conversation that would end everything. For the first time in fifteen years, he didn't have a plan.