A flyer arrived early in the morning. It was advertising a new self help centre called Spiritual Balance. While it was a well made flyer advertising meditation, tai chi and kung fu it was the man running the place that would grab people’s attention. Hunter Antonescu. He had returned to New York after over a year away.

(OOC: Here’s the thread for Spiritual Balance, any and all are welcome)

“Well.”

“Yes.”

The young man sat with a map of the Middle East spread on the wall behind him and a book on the same tucked in his lap. The large conference table was surrounded by push leather chairs. He was sitting just to the right of the head of table. It was his usual spot, and had been, ever since he’d first claimed the room. The large chair fairly swallowed his lanky frame, and allowed ample room for leg crossing. His socked feet were a common sight, here. Some people had offices. Caleb “Slate” Swartz, Kabal Leader, had a board room.

“Well,” he repeated.

“Yes.” Noin Mortman agreed. She had set the flier on top of the page he was reading, with no preamble. It spoke for itself. “Shall I inform the rest of the staff?”

“Yes, please. I would like volunteers to enroll in his classes, as well. Choose them from Imp’s men, and the newer staff—no one he would recognize.”

“Of course. Assassination?” The nine-fingered secretary offered.

“Just surveillance,” the teenager magnanimously ruled.

The nine-fingered secretary paused to type something into her black berry. In the parking garage, Nigel Banks ordered Charles Triggs to put back the rifle, with a wave of his hand. The assembled team stood down with disappointment.

It was possible, on occasion, for a secretary to be too efficient at anticipating her employer’s desires.

“Will that be all?” Noin inquired.

“Yes.”

Noin turned towards the door. Slate turned back to his studies. As he did so, an empty chair caught his eye. The head of the table, left vacant for over a year.

“Ms. Mortman—I would like that chair removed. If I do not sit there, it is inappropriate for anyone else to.”

“I’ll see to it, Sir.”

“Thank you, Ms. Mortman. That will be all.”

“Sir—if he comes here?”

Baby blue eyes met the secretary’s own gaze. “Well,” he said simply.

Her lips quirked. “Yes.”

She shut the door quietly behind her. The Kabal’s Leader looked at the flier in front of him for a moment more. Then he neatly folded it: in half, and in half again. He’d been wanting a bookmark. Hunter Antonescu always had been good for providing him with the tools he needed.