Per 
Germ Robinson had scarcely grown accustomed to his stinging black eye when he found himself escorted into the back rooms of the bar and shoved into a chair.
He hadn't seen this room before, but the crates piled against the walls indicated it wasn't quite meant for business meetings. There was a large man in a tight suit sitting across the table, picking his fingernails. Behind Germ, his escort had already left the room, and was no doubt guarding the door against interruption.
The air was full of savory cigar smoke, but there wasn't a light in sight. Germ stifled a cough and kept his eyes glued to the table.
"Tell me what happened," the man said, without looking at him.
"Feds hit the warehouse in Pullman," Germ recited, well-rehearsed. "I barely got away."
The man didn't react. Germ continued, "All in all, they've got four men in custody, all dumb muscle, box movers. I got to the safehouse, told people what happened. Now I'm here."
"If I recall," the man said, "you were in charge of making sure the books in Pullman were all up to snuff. That nothing seemed suspicious. Isn't that right, Germ?"
Germ's brow furrowed. "Why're you asking when you already know the answer?"
For the first time, the man turned his gaze to Germ and let it rest there. "I'm interested to see how you spin it. How much you bend the truth when your life's on the line."
"I'm not bending anything. Things went south. It was my fault; is that what you want to hear? I must have missed something in the shipping manifests, left some inconsistency. Must have tipped them off somehow."
"That's a shame. Here I was, hoping you'd have found some silver lining in all this that would undo your colossal failure."
Germ scoffed. "Oh, like the Chicago Spirit won't ever recover from a warehouse raid."
The man squinted at him, and Germ felt the weight on his chest. "Those four men in custody are far more dangerous than any warehouse. They aren't just dumb muscle. They knew that what they were moving wasn't just illicit knick-knacks. When they talk, the cops'll know that, too."
The man set his hands down on the table, and his expression became deadly serious. "When we break man's laws, the police show up. But when we break nature's laws, well, there are far worse authorities to worry about. You've exposed a weak link in our chain, and to keep it safe, we can't let those men talk. That means four men dead or worse, because of you. You starting to see the problem here? They're gonna be gone, but you're still here, taking up space."
Germ adopted a scowl, but his wavering voice gave him away. "So you're just going to kill me, and that's going to make things better somehow?"
The man shook his head. "Germ, as much as I'd like to deal out some justice, you're misunderstanding how things work around here."
He stood up, the barest hint of a sparkle in his eye. "We're going to keep you nice and safe, for now. And when the day comes when you can redeem yourself, when you can leap into certain death to gain the Chicago Spirit even the slightest advantage, you'll do just that. And we'll own every single bit of your death."
Germ gaped at him. "What are you talking about?"
"Every cent in your will, every speech at your funeral, every word of your obituary. If there's a way we can use it, we will. You'll go out when we choose, where we choose, and in the manner we choose. And we'll make the most out of it."
"But there's a silver lining for you, don't worry. You get to know that though your mind and body may die…" The man's face broke into a wide, toothy grin.
"The Spirit will live on."
