Good Morning, My Sweet Wife

E City, the most prosperous downtown district. In this modern metropolis of steel and concrete, high-rises stand row upon row. At this hour, the streets clogged with cars and people are exceptionally noisy. A black Aston Martin convertible weaves through them like a fish, then screeches to a halt on the road outside a café window. The car door swings open, and a man wearing sunglasses gets out. He looks young, around twenty-five. He wears a gray shirt and neatly pressed slacks. But two buttons at the top of his shirt are undone, revealing a glimpse of the fabric...