Jack Serrano pulls up to the venue in his customized Audi RS7. The car draws attention. Jack is dressed just under the code, but confidently so. The party is lush, crawling with powerful people. He steps out of the comfort of leather seats into a room designed for his rival, Anna Davis.
---
The V8 purred like it was bored.
Jack Serrano tapped the steering wheel with two fingers, the low hum of the engine vibrating through his chest. The Audi RS7—a custom black Mansory edition with matte finish and forged carbon trim—was his one real indulgence. He could fake humility on campaign posters, but the car didn't lie. Not tonight.
Outside the windshield, the venue loomed—an angular marble-wrapped estate north of downtown, all glass and spotlighted hedges. A long drive flanked by manicured lawns guided guests toward a courtyard bathed in soft gold lighting. Through the huge windows, Jack saw shadows moving in designer suits and sequined dresses. Crystal glasses glinted. Power radiated from the bricks.
He wasn't supposed to be here. Not really.
He downshifted and coasted up to the valet station, easing the car to a stop in a hiss of rubber and elegance. The valet—barely twenty, chewing gum behind a forced smile—blinked when he recognized the car. Or maybe recognized Jack.
"You with one of the campaigns?" the valet asked, stepping forward cautiously.
Jack unbuckled, grabbing the slim black envelope from the passenger seat. "Yeah," he said. "The one nobody thought would make it this far."
He stepped out. Leather shoes on stone. The doors hissed shut behind him, silent as a secret.
A few heads turned from the entrance. He felt it immediately—that tickle behind the ears. He was being watched. The surprise entry. The wrong name on the guest list. Or the right one, depending on who'd sent the invite.
Jack straightened his blazer—navy, deliberately unflashy, sleeves a touch long. He'd done that on purpose. Tailored but not tailored. Respectable enough to pass. Scruffy enough to disarm.
He handed off the key, murmured something about not scratching the rims, and climbed the steps to the massive glass double doors. They opened as if sensing him.
The ballroom was warm, with just enough chill in the air to keep sweat off foreheads. It was already thick with the scent of expensive perfume, lacquered canapés, and power perfumes of another kind—money, ambition, resentment. Music filtered through a jazz quartet in the corner, delicate and non-invasive. Everyone in the room had an agenda.
Jack had one too.
He moved slow, taking in the crowd. High-roller donors in sharkskin suits. Board members from half the city's nonprofits. Some reporters, floating like blood cells through the social network. Champagne flutes, practiced laughter. A minor celebrity here or there. Every inch of the room was curated.
He knew exactly whose event this was.
She stood near the far arch, her back to him at first. Champagne in hand, hair like sculpted copper wire, draped in a deep blue dress that whispered old money. Anna Davis was surrounded by supporters—two state senators, a TV anchor, a woman who ran a media group—and she held court like a monarch tolerating peasants.
Then she turned.
Their eyes locked.
Her expression didn't change at first. She held the gaze like a poker chip. Then her smile faltered, barely.
A beat.
And then—
She stormed across the floor with precise, echoing steps.
People moved aside like water parting around a blade.
Jack didn't move. He didn't even blink.
Anna reached him in seconds, and the first thing she said was not a greeting.
"What are you doing here?" she hissed, her voice sharp and surgical. "This is my event."
Jack tilted his head, casual. "Didn't mean to cause a stir."
She stared, expecting him to flinch. He didn't. Instead, he reached into his inner pocket and pulled out the black invitation envelope—neatly printed, not forged.
"Got an invite." He held it up between two fingers like it was a parking ticket. "Thought it'd be rude not to come."
Anna snatched it from his hand, eyes scanning the text. She made a quiet, furious sound in the back of her throat.
"Who gave you this?" she snapped.
Jack shrugged. "Maybe your friends aren't as loyal as you think."
Her eyes narrowed to slits.
They were inches apart now, two future candidates face to face under soft lights and fake civility. Around them, conversation slowed. A ripple of attention spread like heat through the room.
Jack kept his voice level. "Nice place. Though I was expecting something more... grassroots."
"Don't play clever with me, Serrano." Anna's smile was back, razor-thin and polished. "You don't belong here."
"Maybe not," he said. "But I'm here anyway."
Her lips twitched. "And how long do you think that's going to last?"
Jack didn't answer. He smiled instead.
Anna leaned in close enough that her perfume—white florals laced with something bitter—wrapped around his senses.
Her whisper was silk with a blade in it.
"Watch your step. These floors are marble. Very easy to slip."
She turned and walked away, glass in hand, dress whispering across the tiles. The moment she left, voices returned to the room like the volume had been turned back up.
Jack stood where he was for a second, then calmly tucked the invitation back into his pocket.
He walked toward the bar, as if he'd owned the place all along.
Jack's shoes made no sound on the polished floor, but he felt the eyes on his back as if they had weight. Conversations tried to resume around him—stilted, cautious—but the tension still hung in the air like the last note of a bad joke.
He didn't go to the bar.
Too easy to look like he needed it.
Instead, he slipped past the row of suited donors faking laughter and angled toward the food display near the back corner of the hall. Long white-clothed tables stretched under soft lighting, everything arranged like it had been art-directed: towers of canapés, foie gras on gold spoons, tiny beef sliders, miniature wine-pairing cards.
Jack scanned the spread with a faint frown.
A lot of animal fat. Very little soul.
He picked up a porcelain plate and began assembling a tiny vegetarian selection: marinated olives, roasted baby potatoes in herb oil, some grilled paneer cubes in skewers—surprising, that. The spinach puffs were edible. Everything else reeked of blood or buttered hypocrisy.
He stopped in front of a row of small glazed meats—pork belly, wagyu beef bites, something basted in a sauce that smelled like liquified arrogance. His nose twitched.
"Seriously?" he muttered to no one in particular. "Who eats this stuff?"
A waiter in a crisp black vest appeared at his elbow like summoned.
"Yes, sir?" the young man asked, polite and blank-faced.
Jack turned slightly, gesturing with the edge of his plate. "Remove all this meat. Pork, beef. All of it."
The waiter blinked. "Sir?"
"Gone," Jack said calmly, but clearly. "Not everyone in this city wants to smell burnt cow while they're trying to pretend they have a conscience. Tell your caterer."
"I—uh—" the waiter flinched, eyes darting to his manager a few feet away.
Jack leaned a little closer.
"I'm not drunk. I'm not joking. I'm not here to make a scene. Just get it off the table. I'm Hindu. That stuff shouldn't even be on the same table as the real food."
The waiter hesitated, then nodded with practiced submission. "Yes, sir. I'll speak to the kitchen."
Jack gave him a small smile—just enough to unnerve him further—and turned back to his plate.
He took a slow bite of the paneer skewer, eyes flicking across the room as he chewed. He spotted three people watching him. One raised a glass, slightly mocking. Another whispered something into her phone. The third—a man in a gray suit with a gold lapel pin—smiled with interest. Jack nodded back once, deliberately, and returned to eating.
He didn't drink. Never had. Not even under pressure. And the room was swimming in champagne and politics.
His father had told him once, "You only ever have one thing that belongs entirely to you: control. Don't surrender it to a bottle, or a deal, or a headline."
That stuck.
The soft clinking of cutlery and laughter disguised judgment. He could feel it. The backhanded approval from rich liberals who liked a "disciplined brown boy," and the suspicion from conservatives who couldn't decide if he was a threat or just a photo op.
He ignored all of them.
Instead, he walked to an empty cocktail table, set his plate down, and stood alone, eating slowly. Calm. Centered.
He didn't belong here. And yet… somehow, this room now felt more his than hers.
Across the ballroom, Anna had rejoined her circle, but her smile was hollow. Every few seconds, her gaze flicked to him.
She was rattled.
Good.
Across the room, Anna Davis lowered her glass, her smile freezing mid-sentence. The senator beside her—Dreyson, a fossil with veneers and fake gravitas—was telling some recycled war story about campaign trail blunders, but she no longer heard him.
Her gaze had zeroed in on Jack.
He was standing at one of her tables. Eating her food. Calling her staff over like he was running a damn pop-up.
And now the waitstaff were removing the meat trays.
"What the hell is he doing?" she muttered, mostly to herself.
Veronica Lin, standing at her shoulder like a stylish shadow, sipped from a glass of something expensive. "Making a point," she murmured. "Or making trouble. Possibly both."
Anna's nails tapped her glass once. "He ordered my caterers around. In front of donors."
Veronica didn't flinch. "You said it yourself—he wants to look clean. Unbought. Self-righteous is part of the brand."
Anna's smile twitched, no longer even trying to look real. "He's using religion as a stage prop."
"I'd say he's just using himself as one. That's worse."
Anna shifted slightly. She hadn't stopped watching Jack.
He wasn't doing anything. That's what infuriated her.
He wasn't playing up the moment. No grandstanding, no cheap gestures. He just stood there, eating paneer and roasted vegetables like it was a backyard cookout.
Wearing that jacket that clearly hadn't been tailored properly.
Wearing that face like it hadn't been told to fear her yet.
"He's not even drinking," she said, voice flat.
"Strategic," Veronica said. "People think it's religious conviction. Really, it just keeps him sharp while everyone else is foggy."
Anna finally looked away, but only to set down her glass with more force than necessary.
"I want him out of here."
Veronica's brow arched, amused. "You're going to eject a Democratic mayoral candidate from your charity event?"
"I'm going to remind him whose city he thinks he's walking through."
Without waiting for a response, Anna strode across the ballroom again. Not fast—no, she moved with the confidence of someone who knew everyone was watching. Like a model walking toward a mistake.
Jack looked up when she approached, still chewing.
Anna didn't wait for him to finish swallowing.
"You want to lecture my staff now?" she said quietly, her voice like silk being pulled tight.
Jack met her eyes. Calm. "Didn't realize this was a barbecue. Thought it was a city event."
She took one step closer. "You embarrassed my caterers. In front of people who pay more in taxes than you've seen in your life."
"I doubt that," Jack said, reaching for another skewer.
Someone at a nearby table chuckled. Anna's jaw twitched.
Jack added, "I didn't touch your booze. Or your donors. Just your assumptions."
Anna gave him a tight smile. "You like being difficult, don't you?"
"I prefer the word inconvenient."
"Careful," she said softly. "You're building a reputation. People are starting to call you dangerous."
Jack tilted his head. "Only the right people."
She stepped forward, just enough to make him smell her again—cool florals and threat.
"You're lucky I'm feeling generous," she whispered. "But if you pull a stunt like this again, I won't stop at smiling."
He smiled back. Not wide. Just enough to show he'd already factored in her threat and discarded it.
"I like paneer," he said.
Anna stared at him a beat longer. Then turned and walked away again, heels snapping against the marble.
Veronica was already waiting at her original table, watching Jack the whole time. When Anna returned, Veronica offered her a napkin.
"Still think he's not a problem?" Anna asked.
Veronica grinned. "Oh, he's absolutely a problem. Just not the kind we're used to."
Anna Davis smiled as the city comptroller made a mildly offensive joke about public unions. She let out a precisely-timed laugh, lightly touching his elbow. Her instinct was automatic: charm, redirect, control the tempo.
But her eyes were locked—frozen—on him.
Jack Serrano, standing by the hors d'oeuvres like he'd built the venue himself. He hadn't flinched after their confrontation. He hadn't slunk off into a corner to lick his wounds. No. He was commanding attention now, without even trying.
And then he did that.
She watched his brief, pointed exchange with the waiter. She couldn't hear what was said—but it wasn't hard to read. The way he gestured at the food. The waiter's startled nod. And now?
Now half the meat trays were being discreetly removed by catering staff.
Anna's smile froze like wet cement.
What in god's name was he doing?
She could feel Veronica Lin, her strategist, shift beside her.
Veronica followed her gaze. "Should I send someone?"
"No," Anna said, too quickly. Then she smiled again, colder this time. "He wants a reaction. He's not getting one."
Veronica hesitated. "He just got the wagyu pulled from the table."
"I know what he pulled."
Anna's nails tapped once against her champagne glass. Her father had taught her about these types—loud-mouthed disruptors with enough privilege to play poor and enough ego to think it made them dangerous.
But Jack wasn't yelling. He wasn't making a scene.
He was subtly undermining her. That was worse.
He'd walked into her donor hall, thrown off the temperature, and now half the room was watching him chew spinach like it was a political maneuver.
She excused herself from the comptroller with a smile, stepped aside, and muttered to Veronica:
"He just insulted half our menu. Let's make him regret that."
Veronica leaned in. "Do you want it subtle or televised?"
"Not yet," Anna murmured. "But I want him isolated."
She turned away before anyone could see her jaw clench.
---
Across the room, Jack finished another skewer. He caught a glimpse of Anna's reflection in the mirrored wall panel near the jazz quartet.
She wasn't smiling anymore.
At same time He was licking olive oil from his thumb when she appeared again.
This time, Anna didn't announce herself with words. She walked straight up to the table—heels clipping with an edge sharper than her tone—and placed her empty champagne flute directly in front of him, like a gavel between sparring attorneys.
Jack didn't look surprised. That only made it worse.
"Paneer and potatoes?" she said, looking down at his plate like it contained disease. "That's your big political statement tonight?"
Jack finished chewing, wiped his fingers with a linen napkin, and replied, "I didn't realize eating my own food was political."
"You didn't just eat," Anna said. "You made a point. You humiliated my caterers. You instructed my staff."
He raised an eyebrow. "Asking to remove beef and pork isn't exactly militant. It's called being considerate."
"In front of cameras."
Jack glanced around. "You invited the cameras."
She leaned in slightly, voice lowering. "You're trying to pick a fight."
"No," he said. "If I were picking a fight, I'd ask why the 'charity' in your charity fundraiser still hasn't named a recipient."
A flicker passed over her eyes—something between fury and admiration.
She recovered quickly.
"Do you even know why you're here?" she asked, suddenly light in tone. "Who invited you?"
Jack tapped the black envelope still tucked in his inner coat pocket. "You know I don't crash parties. You know that."
"Then which of my 'friends' sold out my guest list?"
"You really think they're your friends?" Jack asked, folding his napkin slowly, deliberately. "That's cute."
That one landed. Anna's fingers stiffened around her clutch.
Jack continued, his voice calm but slicing: "You want to talk about theater, Anna? This whole night's a performance. Music, glass, wine, lighting. It's a set. And I walked onto it."
"And yet," she said, coolly, "you're the one off-script."
He smiled. "Am I?"
Her silence gave the answer.
For a breath, they just stared at each other. From a distance, it might have looked like intimacy. But the energy between them wasn't romantic—it was charged, radioactive.
Then Anna did something calculated.
She reached across the table and plucked one of the remaining potato bites from his plate.
Held it between two fingers like a live wire.
And ate it.
Without breaking eye contact.
Jack's eyes narrowed.
Anna chewed slowly, swallowed, then licked the tip of her thumb—perfectly manicured, deliberate.
"It's not bad," she said. "Bland. But not bad."
Jack didn't answer.
Anna leaned in, her voice low again. "This city eats what I serve, Jack. Not the other way around."
Then, as if they were just two old friends exchanging recipes, she smiled politely, pivoted, and vanished into the crowd.
---
Jack exhaled—slow, silent.
He hadn't won the moment.
But neither had she.
Not yet.
Anna leaned in, her voice low again. "This city eats what I serve, Jack. Not the other way around."
She plucked a crisp potato bite from his plate, inspected it like it might stain her manicure, and ate it slowly—deliberately. A queen sampling a peasant's offering. She licked her thumb in a way meant to unnerve him.
"It's not bad," she said. "Bland. But not bad."
Jack let the silence hang for a second.
Then he looked up at her and said, calmly—
"It's better that I removed it. Half your supporters are Indians living in this country. They won't eat beef either."
Anna froze mid-shift.
The muscles in her face didn't move, but something cracked behind her eyes—just a little.
Jack continued, soft but cutting:
"You'd know that if you saw them as more than numbers on a fundraising spreadsheet."
The corner of her mouth twitched. Not a smile. A fracture.
Then she took a small breath, recovered, and gave him the coldest, fakest smile he'd seen all night.
"Noted," she said. "Thanks for the cultural consultation."
She turned, perfectly composed again—but her steps were slightly faster this time. Less queen, more retreat.
Jack remained at the table, lifting a toothpick of grilled paneer like a toast to no one. He didn't smile.
But he didn't need to.
She'd come back twice.
And left twice.
Anna's heels echoed as she slipped back into her donor circle, laughing a second too late at a joke she hadn't heard. The mask returned. But her eyes stayed fixed on one thing behind her.
Jack.
He stood still for another moment, then turned toward the catering staff, plate in hand.
"Thanks," he murmured to the nearest waiter. "Good potatoes."
The waiter gave him a nervous smile and took the plate with both hands like it was evidence.
Jack didn't look back at Anna. That was the power move—no final glance, no smug nod. Just quiet dismissal.
He stepped to the side of the hall, where a tall, carved silver basin sat on a decorative pedestal. A subtle touch from the event planners: warm water, lemon peels, a gentle floral scent from a floating blossom.
Jack dipped his fingers in, washed his hands slowly, rolled his cuffs back down. The warmth soothed his knuckles.
He could still feel the faint oil of the food on his skin, and the sharper residue of Anna's presence. Her perfume. Her voice.
He dried his hands on the folded linen provided, nodding slightly to the attendant.
Then he turned toward the ballroom one last time and said, not loudly:
"Guess I'll take my leave, Anna."
The words carried. People turned. She did too.
But he was already walking away.
No handshake. No wave. No need.
He moved through the double doors, down the marble steps, into the soft night.
Outside, his Audi RS7 was already pulling up from valet—its matte black body gleaming under streetlamps like a loaded question.
Jack slid into the driver's seat without a word. The door thudded shut, sealing the noise behind him.
He started the engine.
And smiled.
Not a grin. Just a flicker of satisfaction.
He hadn't crashed the party.
He'd rewritten it.
The Audi RS7 rolled up like it remembered how he'd arrived—silent, sleek, dangerous.
Jack opened the driver's side door and eased in. The leather seats hugged him like memory. Inside, it smelled like clean suede, faintly warm from the city night.
He took a moment before starting the engine.
The ballroom was still glowing behind him, golden through the massive glass walls. People moved like shadows behind it—small, temporary. Jack could imagine the whispered conversations happening already. Who invited him? What was that scene with Anna? Did you see him refuse the wine? Did you hear what he said?
He tapped the start button.
The RS7's engine awoke with a low growl, deep and hungry. Not flashy, just potent—like it had nothing left to prove.
He eased it into gear.
As he pulled away from the valet circle, a few staff outside turned to watch. One or two guests near the entrance glanced over, caught in half-smiles and muttering behind cocktail glasses.
Jack didn't return a single look.
He drove down the curved driveway slowly, letting the heavy tires kiss the stone path one last time. Classical music poured from the estate as the doors swung open behind him—someone else arriving, the next act in the evening's pageant.
But for Jack Serrano, the performance was over.
He turned onto the main road, streetlights streaking across the windshield. The city opened ahead—ugly, beautiful, alive.
And behind him?
A rival fuming in designer heels, surrounded by donors, nursing a bruised ego she wouldn't admit to.
Good.
Let her feel it.
Jack accelerated.
The RS7 roared softly into the night, a quiet storm cloaked in matte black.
After sometime The city rolled by in streaks of sodium light and blurred storefronts. Jack drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the paddle shifter, relaxed but alert. Downtown was alive—bars pulsing, taxis honking, late-night laughter spilling onto sidewalks.
His phone buzzed.
Then again. And again.
Three pings, two vibrations, and a short burst of WhatsApp notification chimes.
Jack exhaled through his nose. "Already?"
At a red light, he tapped the screen. A message preview from his press guy lit up:
> Luis: "You seen what they posted? Scroll fast before it disappears."
Jack swiped up. Twitter—no, X now—was already exploding.
The post was from @AnnaDavisForMayor, blue check, crisp logo watermark in the corner. Already thousands of likes and retweets.
The photo was sharp. High quality. Clearly planned.
It was him—Jack Serrano—caught mid-step leaving the fundraiser. Plate gone, sleeves rolled, RS7 in the background. His face unreadable. Composed. But the way the photo was framed?
He looked... small.
And the caption?
> "Some guests just swing by for the snacks. #Unprepared #Uninvited #PoliticsIsForGrownUps"
Jack stared at it.
A flicker of anger moved through him, but he smothered it fast.
She was faster than expected.
He zoomed in on the image. The angle was from slightly above—someone on the second-floor balcony of the estate, likely staged. Someone had waited for this.
He locked the phone, tossed it into the passenger seat.
The light turned green.
He didn't hit the gas immediately. He let the honk behind him snap him out of it. Then he rolled forward, calm again.
But in his head, he was already calculating.
Not if to hit back.
How.
The RS7 hummed smoothly as it drifted onto the freeway ramp. Jack's mind was already writing counter-messages, headlines, angles. He knew the tweet would cycle out in six hours, tops. Manufactured outrage never lasted more than a news cycle.
He glanced down to adjust the climate controls.
Then stopped.
A small, unnatural bulge pressed through the leather panel near his feet—just behind the front console paneling. Right where the footwell light wiring ran. A slit in the seam, too clean. The faintest glint of metal inside.
He didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
His right hand gently eased the wheel as he signaled and pulled off at the next empty exit. A quiet service road. Dimly lit, no cameras. No foot traffic.
He coasted to a stop under an overpass. Cut the engine. The silence in the cabin was absolute.
Jack popped the glove box. Inside was a multi-tool—Swiss steel, weighted, inherited from his grandfather. He clicked it open with one hand, rolled up his sleeve with the other.
Then, calmly, he got out.
The night air was still. The city hummed in the distance like a sleeping animal.
Jack crouched by the driver's side, flipped on his phone's flashlight, and angled it beneath the dashboard.
There it was.
A homemade device—slim, well-wired, taped to the lower fuse panel. Cheap casing, but efficient. Crude military timing switch, already armed. Trigger likely tied to ignition or motion.
Sloppy.
Too early in the race for finesse.
Jack took a slow breath, then got to work.
No gloves. No gear. Just memory, instinct, and steady fingers.
He snipped one wire. Then another.
Paused.
Snipped the third.
The timer didn't stop—it vanished. Power severed. No detonation. No beeping. Just silence.
Jack exhaled. His pulse hadn't even gone above resting.
He gently pried the device free, walked thirty feet to a public trash bin, and dropped it inside like used coffee grounds.
Then he dusted his hands on his coat, walked back to the car, and slid in without a word.
The engine purred back to life.
The RS7 merged back into traffic like nothing had happened.
---
End of Chapter 1.
---