A familiar, piercing aroma pries Zandra from her hard sleep. It makes her question whether she's still in a hospital. Sitting up straight, she finds a greasy imprint where her head used to lay on a starched pillow that confirms that, yes, she's still in a hospital bed. However, a curtain is now drawn around the bed, obscuring her view beyond a couple feet past the railings.

But the curtain doesn't prevent the cigarette smoke from reaching her nose. She breathes in deep.

Finally, someone with a good idea.

A faint shadow and a pair of black dress shoes beneath the curtain confirm the source of the cigarette. Judging by the quiet, Zandra assumes the door to her room is closed.

I have a visitor. But who? I never formally checked in. And who the hell smokes in a hospital anymore?

Zandra can't help but study the shoes for hints. It only takes a moment, but she's convinced that whoever is on the other side of the curtain is someone important, at least in monetary terms.

It's not that Zandra can tell what brand the shoes are, or how much the shoes cost. It's in the care. They're shiny and unscathed, allowing the masculinity of the black leather to bully each step without impediment. It's obvious the man wearing them is comfortable and confident, which suggests regular use. That means there should be signs of regular wear and tear, but Zandra can't see any, suggesting regular maintenance.

Why is that important? Because it says a lot about the person wearing the shoes.

Do you know who needs to keep dress shoes in tip-top condition? Big business types. Right after a handshake introduction, or maybe right before it, these people consciously or unconsciously observe each other's teeth and shoes for status signals. Watch them. You'll see it.

This person gives a shit about their shoes in the hopes that people will give a shit about him. And it is a him. It's obvious in the shape of the foot.

That's confirmed when the man speaks.

"Do you know why I smoke in hospitals?" he says. His voice is slow, smooth and aged to perfection. He speaks deliberately, as if he's accustomed to people hearing what he's saying.

It's not Gene, though. I know what his voice sounds like. This is someone new.

"I hope it's to provide relief to patients in crisis, such as myself," Zandra says and inhales hard through her nose. She wants to rip the curtain away, but something tells her not to do so.

The curtain must've been drawn deliberately. It ought to stay that way.

"No. I find smoking a disgusting habit. I'm not even puffing on this myself," the man says. "I do it just in case someone forgets that they can't tell me no."

"Charming. You must be great at parties," Zandra says. She licks her dry lips. "If you're not going to burn that heater for yourself, how about giving it to someone who knows what to do with it?"

"The ash is meant to fall to the floor. You should know what that means, since you know Gene so well," the man says.

And so do you, apparently. You're copying his style, you arrogant prick.

"If you're here to kill me, you're doing a great job of it by not bumming me a smoke," Zandra says.

The man paces. Zandra watches his shoes.

The man says, "You see, everyone knows about Gene's scam with his insurance company, about the ways he pulls the strings on everything that happens in Wisconsin and beyond. It's an open secret, and that's why exposing him for the fraud he is won't do anything to derail his gubernatorial campaign. Even pinning a murder on him won't take him down."

I get it now.

"You're the one who hired Vince and Jo," Zandra says. "Have we met?"

"And, by proxy, you. Also, no,," the man says. "At the time I originally contracted those two, it seemed like a good idea to connect Gene to the people he's had murdered. But eventually, I realized that lies and murder weren't examples of Gene's power corrupting. No. They were expressions of that power. The more control he exercises over the state's economy through his insurance company, the more obvious he makes himself out to be a criminal. After a certain line is crossed, the point of fraud and murder isn't to get away with those things out of necessity. It's to assert power, first and foremost. And Gene has never been more powerful."

No shit, genius.

"If you're such a smart guy, why don't you exert a little power of your own and have Gene killed yourself? Maybe you're not such a big shot. Maybe you're just some asshole who smokes in hospitals," Zandra says, feeling her chest swell with piss and vinegar.

A smoldering cigarette joins the shoes on the floor.

"There are good reasons for that, but they're not for you to know," the man says and paces away from the ash.

"Too late. I'm a psychic. I already know everything," Zandra says.

"Indeed you are, and that's why Vince made contact with you in the first place," the man says. "We brought on Zeena originally because psychics, whether they're real or not, represent the coalescence of culture, psychology and manipulation. They can tap into that original source that precedes everything else about a person. It's there that people like Gene thrive. Once you master that domain, you can control everything else."

If you can control the upstream, you can control the downstream. Sounds familiar.

"But Zeena didn't work out," Zandra says.

"Correct. It confirms what I'd suspected. Gene knows the territory he's playing in. He knows how the wheel really turns, so to speak, and that's why he's so dangerous. He'll win the governor's office, but he won't stop there. Unless we cut him off at the knees first, of course," the man says.

Interesting, but the question remains. Who the hell is this guy?

"You want me to keep going," Zandra says.

"Yes. It's unfortunate that Jo and now Vince left the world in the ways that they did. But I must keep up the momentum. It's too important. And I don't lose on my investments," the man says.

Zandra hacks into her sleeve before saying, "This is the part where you tell me who you are."

"You may find answers, and you may not. It's beside the point," the man says.

Actually, it's not.

"You're another guy with a lot of money who wants to play politics. You just so happen to also be opposed to Gene's particular brand of politics. Am I close?" Zandra says.

"For the sake of argument, let's say that's true. What it means for you is the finest defense lawyer money can buy. You've got roughly a day and a half before you're due back in court. You won't get a fair hearing with a public defender in your corner, especially with Gene pulling strings behind the scenes," the man says. "You're looking at serious charges that could put you away for a long, long time. Unless you putting a knife into that man's chest was a justifiable act of self-defense, as my attorneys might argue. They don't like to lose, either."

Prison doesn't scare me. Going to my grave without finishing Gene, that's terrifying.

"So I've got the rest of today and all of tomorrow to come up with some sort of mental trick to take out Gene?" Zandra says.

"Exactly. Sending a hired gun would only rally his supporters, give him more reasons to button up his interests. Gene plays in a different territory, and you, Zandra, are different. Very different," the man says.

Then you're my kind of sucker, just the person I like to do business with.

"I don't suppose you're going to give me any help? Any clues? Hints? I'm starting from scratch here," Zandra says.

"I can't help a person like you," the man says.

Fine. Jerk. I'll help myself then.

Zandra slides off the bed, resting her weight on her good ankle first. She grabs a fist full of the curtain and yanks it to the side.

The man is already gone. In his place are the shoes and the smoldering cigarette on the floor.

"Thanks for the smoke," Zandra says, plucking the cigarette from the floor and raising it to her lips.

Now where do I go from here?