Chapter 5 - The Counter-Move
By Thursday afternoon, the autumn wind had cleared the skies, leaving behind a brilliant, sharp blue canopy over the Chicago skyline.
I had secured a modest, legitimate studio apartment in the Lincoln Park neighborhood—rented directly from an elderly landlord named Mrs. Higgins who didn't use corporate escrow agents, didn't charge relocation fees, and only required a standard month-to-month lease paid in cash or personal check.
I was sitting at my small wooden kitchen table, reviewing a freelance graphic design contract I had just landed through an online platform—my first real, independent source of income in this timeline—when my phone rang.
It wasn't an encrypted federal investigator. It was an incoming call from an unknown, local mobile number.
I let it ring twice, then swiped to answer.
"Marcus? Where the hell are you?" Derek Vance’s voice barked through the speaker. He didn't sound charming anymore. He sounded frantic, breathless, and soaked in raw, unmitigated panic. "My uncle’s office at Apex Freight just got hit by federal marshals and Department of Labor investigators! They’re seizing the servers, freezing our operating accounts, and serving grand jury subpoenas to everyone in the executive suite!"
I leaned back in my wooden chair, keeping my voice perfectly calm and level.
"Is that right, Derek?" I asked mildly. "Sounds like someone didn't read the small print on federal labor regulations."
There was a terrifying silence on the other end of the line. You could hear Derek breathing heavily, his brain desperately trying to connect the dots between the naive, broken kid from Ohio who had stepped off the Greyhound bus on Tuesday morning and the man currently speaking to him with absolute, impenetrable authority.
"You..." Derek whispered, the realization finally dawning on him like a physical blow to the chest. "You set this up. You knew federal investigators were looking at us before you even got off the bus."
"Derek, I didn't set anything up," I replied, my tone dripping with quiet sarcasm. "I just read the lease."
"You son of a bitch!" Derek roared, his voice cracking into a furious, unhinged shriek. "My uncle is going to federal prison! Our entire financing structure is wiped out! I am going to hunt you down, Marcus! I am going to strip you of everything you—"
Click.
I hung up the phone.
May you like
I didn't block his number. I simply powered off the device, tossed it onto the kitchen counter, and walked over to the window to watch the afternoon sunlight glinting off the quiet, tree-lined street below.
The trap Derek had spent months building to swallow my life had completely collapsed inward, crushing his family's criminal enterprise beneath the weight of its own greed.
