Across town, at the expansive, sterile offices of Milos Markets, Stavros Milos prayed. Not to God—to a supercomputer. He’d replaced his biblical paranoia with algorithmic determinism. Every decision, from produce pricing to parole boards, ran through his machine. But the machine couldn’t explain the snow.

From the motel’s second-floor balcony, a single shot rang out. Malvo flinched—a graze on the shoulder. He looked up.

“The tree.”

“Where to?” Gus asked.