They’re coming. You see them in the security camera, but you’ve known for days. You can’t burn the people you’ve burned and not expect a visit from the Monkeys. Looks like four of them. Four gene mod chimpanzees, decked from head to toe in unmarked black fatigues; they’re carrying neuro-linked, twin-barreled, neck-slung, plasma-smartguns, with probably a half dozen other hyphens you don’t know about. 

It’s fine. It’s all fine, baby. You’re Mohammed James Wang and you’ve gotten out of far worse. You grab the revolver from your desk and check the cylinder. Six .44 shots, and another dozen in your pocket. Analogue is best when you need to smoke a motherfucker on a budget. You sling your trillion-dollar briefcase around your neck.  If you had to guess, you’d say that the gorillas planned to aerate you and take it. Any more than a small, deniable, wetwork team, and they risk acknowledging its existence. Classic. 

As you approach the window and aim the gun at the Safe-T-Glass, the window warns you, in harsh terms, that a suicide attempt will void your health insurance. 

“Like I have fucking health insurance,” you say as you blast the window out and leap out onto the street below. You land heavily on a watermelon stall, earning yourself a barrage of Indonesian curses from the proprietor. You can hear your apartment door being incinerated on the second floor.