Irven-Cain Regional Headquarters

Two incredibly tall, WASPy businessmen stand in what appears to be an empty room. One towers over the other as he rests on one knee, reaching for something on the floor.

"Morning Jerry. How was golf the other day? Sorry I couldn't—"

"Jerry's dead," says the man on the floor.

"Wh—"

"I'm Gale. Gale Irven, henceforth. I'll be filling in for him." Gale gazes at a small beaker he holds in his hand, full of a dark liquid.

"Don Cain himself… it's just been so long. This literally isn't supposed to happen."

"Well, it happened."

The two men stand in the middle of a complex geometric pattern on the floor.

"It's been a long night," Gale says as he recalls the evening in question. A broken wine bottle drips a dark liquid on a bedside table. A large, dark, vaguely anthropomorphic stain covers the floor.

Gale starts to poor the liquid out of the beaker and onto the floor.

"Who's filling in for you?"

"For now, nobody"

"How are we supposed to fulfill our fiduciary duty without the whole 16?"

The drips form a small puddle on the floor between the two men, as they stand in the middle of a heptadecagram. One prong of the star is coloured black, and another white. Three are dark grey, five are a middle shade of grey, and the final seven are light grey.

"We pray."