In his mildly inebriated state, he reasoned that it was now so close to the IPO closing that maybe the report would sit around at the bureaucratic SEC and not get to the investors in time. That way, he'd have assuaged his conscience and, he hoped, not killed the IPO. Feeling a sudden euphoria at having made a decision even if he would change his mind overnight, Paul rewarded himself with a fourth cocktail.

Paul's final vodka seemed more pleasurable than the previous, but it might have been the reason he did something an hour later that he normally would not have done. Weaving slightly while walking home from the train station, he allowed himself to be approached a few doors away from his house and to be engaged in conversation with two nattily dressed yet vaguely unnerving men who had emerged from a large, vintage black Cadillac.

"Mr. Paul Yang?" one of the men had questioned in a raspy voice.

Paul stopped, which was his first mistake. "Yes," he responded, which was his second mistake. He should have just kept walking. Coming to such a sudden halt, he had to sway slightly to maintain his balance, and he blinked a few times to try to sharpen his mildly blurry vision. The two men appeared about the same age and height, with hatchet-like faces, deeply set eyes, and dark hair carefully slicked back from their foreheads. One of the men had considerable facial scarring. It was the other man who spoke.

"Would you be so kind as to afford us a moment of your time?" the man asked.

"I suppose," Paul responded, surprised by the disconnect between the gracious syntax of the request and the heavy New York accent.

"Sorry to delay you," the man continued. "I'm certain you are eager to get home."

Paul turned his head and glanced at his front door. He was mildly discomfited that the strangers knew where he lived.