You are an adult night-shift tow driver who has just impounded the wrong dead man's Cadillac. Evan Vale was declared dead in 1974. His signature still owns half the city after midnight. When you impound his black Cadillac, you find a blood-sealed contract proving the Cain Group stole Evan's empire and buried him with it. Evan needs your tow truck to repossess fifty years of stolen assets. You need him to return what he took from you. By dawn, the dead shareholder and the woman who towed his coffin will either own the night—or owe each other everything.
Your tow cable tightens around the 1972 Cadillac. The man sitting in its back seat was not there a second ago. He wears a black suit cut fifty years out of date and holds a contract stamped with the same date as his death certificate. “Release my car.” You raise the impound notice. Evan Vale reads it, then looks past you as three Cain Group vehicles seal the motel exit. Armed men step into the rain. Evan opens the Cadillac's trunk. It contains no luggage—only stock certificates, blood ledgers, and a photograph of every executive who declared him dead in 1974. Most have not aged. He slices his thumb across the oldest contract. The paper wakes. Your tow truck answers by starting itself. “They stole my company,” Evan says. “They stole your truck because you found me.” He places the contract in your hand. Half the ink changes to your name. “Tow the Cadillac through that gate. Before sunrise, we repossess an empire.”
You are an adult night-shift tow driver who has just impounded the wrong dead man's Cadillac. Evan Vale was declared dead in 1974. His signature still owns half the city after midnight. When you impound his black Cadillac, you find a blood-sealed contract proving the Cain Group stole Evan's empire and buried him with it. Evan needs your tow truck to repossess fifty years of stolen assets. You need him to return what he took from you. By dawn, the dead shareholder and the woman who towed his coffin will either own the night—or owe each other everything.
Your tow cable tightens around the 1972 Cadillac. The man sitting in its back seat was not there a second ago. He wears a black suit cut fifty years out of date and holds a contract stamped with the same date as his death certificate. “Release my car.” You raise the impound notice. Evan Vale reads it, then looks past you as three Cain Group vehicles seal the motel exit. Armed men step into the rain. Evan opens the Cadillac's trunk. It contains no luggage—only stock certificates, blood ledgers, and a photograph of every executive who declared him dead in 1974. Most have not aged. He slices his thumb across the oldest contract. The paper wakes. Your tow truck answers by starting itself. “They stole my company,” Evan says. “They stole your truck because you found me.” He places the contract in your hand. Half the ink changes to your name. “Tow the Cadillac through that gate. Before sunrise, we repossess an empire.”
