Market of Remorse

The Art of the Scams

Chapter 4: The Art of the Scams

Jianro didn’t drink. He stood frozen, the crystal glass a heavy weight in his palm, his eyes scanning the blur of tuxedos and gowns for that flash of red.

"Jianro, seriously, you’re turning gray," Amara said, her voice cutting through his spiraling thoughts. "What’s in the glass?"

"Smell it," Jianro commanded, his voice tight.

Amara leaned in, her nose wrinkling as she took a cautious sniff. She frowned, then snatched the glass from his hand. She took a tiny sip before Jianro could stop her.

"Wait! Don't—"

Amara swirled the liquid in her mouth, then swallowed, looking unimpressed. "It’s a Godfather, Jianro. Scotch and Amaretto. High-end stuff, too. Whoever sent this just has really specific taste in vintage cocktails."

Jianro stared at her, his heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "Amaretto? It smells like bitter almonds. That’s the scent of cyanide."

Amara let out a dry, sharp laugh. "Yeah, because Amaretto is literally made from almond pits, you paranoid mess. It’s a joke. Someone is playing with your head."

Jianro took the glass back, looking down at the amber liquid. The terror didn't leave him, but it transmuted into a cold, hard anger. "No. It’s not just a joke. Someone knows. Someone knows I remember how I died. They sent this as a greeting card."

"Well, it’s a classy greeting card," Amara said, leaning back against the railing. "So, what’s the move, 'King of Tech'? Do we hide in the bathroom, or do we actually do something?"

Jianro dumped the drink over the balcony railing, watching the droplets vanish into the darkness. "We leave. Now. We have a lot of work to do, and I’m not doing it in a rented suit."

*

The 'office' was a cramped, second-story walk-up above a dry cleaner on 6th Street. It smelled of steam, chemical solvents, and the three-day-old pizza sitting in the corner.

"You’re joking," Amara said, standing in the doorway and refusing to touch the doorknob. "This is where the magic happens? This is the headquarters of the Kestane empire?"

"It’s three hundred dollars a month and the Wi-Fi is stolen from the cafe next door," Jianro said, kicking a pile of cables out of the way. "Sit down. Grab a laptop."

"I am not sitting on that," she said, pointing at a chair held together by duct tape. "I’m pretty sure that chair has its own ecosystem. And why is there a neon 'Open' sign in the corner? We aren't a deli."

"It was on the curb. It provides light," Jianro grumbled, already typing furiously. "Stop complaining about the decor. I need you to pull the Sterling Group’s internal projections for the Venn IPO. I know you have the backdoor codes."

"I had them in 2024, Jianro. In 2014, I’m just a junior analyst. I don't have 'backdoor codes' yet."

"Think, Amara. The password protocols at Sterling didn't change for six years because the CTO was a lazy drunk. Try 'BlueMarble88'."

Amara sighed, pulled a sleek, silver laptop from her bag, and sat gingerly on the edge of the desk. A few seconds of typing followed. Her eyes widened. "Are you kidding me? They actually used 'BlueMarble88'? That’s... that’s a security felony."

"Welcome to the golden age of corporate incompetence," Jianro said, a smirk playing on his lips. "Do you see the Qadir Renzo files?"

"Loading... yeah. Oh, god. He’s already leveraged his entire real estate portfolio against the Venn launch. He’s not just investing; he’s all-in. If this stock doesn't hit forty dollars by Friday, he’s liquidated."

"Good," Jianro said, his eyes reflecting the blue glow of the screen. "We’re going to help him. We’re going to pump Venn so high he’ll think he’s a god."

Amara paused, her fingers hovering over the keys. "Wait. You want to pump it? I thought we were the good guys now. A pump-and-dump is literally what got you sent to the federal pen."

"It’s only a crime if you’re the one dumping on the public," Jianro countered. "We’re going to pump it using Qadir’s own shadow accounts. We’re going to bait him into buying more, driving the price into the stratosphere. And then, at the peak, I’m going to release the offshore logs you found in the future."

"The market will crater," Amara whispered. "He’ll lose everything in ten minutes."

"Exactly. It’s a surgical strike. We use the hype to trap him, then pull the rug."

"And what about the coffee situation?" Amara asked, suddenly looking around. "If we’re staying here all night, I need caffeine. And not that instant sludge you have on the counter."

"There’s a Starbucks three blocks away," Jianro said without looking up.

"I don't do Starbucks. I need a pour-over. Light roast. Ethiopian beans if they have them."

Jianro finally looked at her, deadpan. "Amara, we are currently trying to overthrow a billionaire from a room that smells like dry-cleaned pants. You will drink the sludge and you will like it."

"I will drink the sludge, but I will judge you every time I take a sip," she shot back. "And tomorrow, I’m bringing a rug. A real one. My feet are cold."

"Fine. Bring a rug. Bring a mahogany desk for all I care. Just get me those account numbers."

*

Three days passed in a blur of blue light and frantic coding. The office had slowly transformed. There was now a small, expensive-looking rug under Amara’s desk, and a high-end espresso machine sat mockingly next to Jianro’s pile of overdue bills.

"He’s biting," Amara said, her voice crackling with excitement. "Qadir just moved another fifty million into the Venn buy-wall. The ticker is at thirty-eight."

Jianro leaned over her shoulder, his heart racing. "He’s greedy. He thinks the momentum is organic. Is the press release ready?"

"Ready to go. One click and the SEC gets a nice, detailed map of every Cayman account Qadir has used since 2009."

"Wait," Jianro said, staring at a side monitor. "Look at the volume. That’s not Qadir."

Amara frowned, squinting at the data. "What do you mean? It’s a massive buy order. Who else would be jumping in this late?"

"The trade signature... it’s too clean. Too institutional. This isn't a shark trying to eat; it’s a whale trying to stabilize the floor." Jianro’s brow furrowed. "In the original timeline, the volume never spiked like this before the crash. Something is off."

"Maybe people are just excited about AI?" Amara suggested, though she sounded uncertain.

"No. Someone is countering our move before we’ve even made it," Jianro said, his voice dropping. "Amara, hold the release. Don't send it."

"What? Jianro, the price is at forty-two! If we don't drop the news now, he’ll have time to hedge!"

"I said hold it!" Jianro snapped.

Suddenly, the 'Open' sign in the corner flickered and died. On the main monitor, a news alert flashed in bright red.

"Jianro... look," Amara whispered.

A news anchor appeared on the screen, her voice breathless. "In a shocking turn of events that has sent shockwaves through the financial district, the Sterling Group has just announced a definitive merger agreement with the Thorne-Vane Conglomerate. The new entity, Sterling-Thorne, will become the largest private equity firm on the East Coast..."

Jianro felt the air leave his lungs. He slumped into his duct-taped chair, staring at the screen in disbelief. "No. That... that didn't happen for another four years. And it wasn't a merger; it was a hostile takeover after Marcus Thorne went to jail."

Amara was shaking her head, her face pale. "The Venn stocks... look at the ticker!"

The price of Venn Tech wasn't cratering. It was skyrocketing. Fifty, sixty, seventy-five dollars a share.

"They’re absorbing Venn," Amara gasped. "The merger is using Venn as the primary tech vehicle for the new firm. Our 'toxic assets' leak... it won't matter now. They’ve just legalized the fraud by folding it into a larger, regulated entity."

Jianro grabbed the edges of his desk, his knuckles white. "The timeline isn't just fracturing, Amara. It’s being rewritten in real-time."

"By who?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Jianro looked at the computer screen, where the logo for the new Sterling-Thorne conglomerate was being displayed. In the center of the logo, a small, stylized graphic element caught his eye. It was subtle, almost artistic.

A red carnation.

"They aren't just watching us," Jianro said, a chill of pure, unadulterated dread washing over him. "They’re playing the game with us. And they just took the first move."

The phone on the desk—the ancient, clunky model—began to vibrate.

Jianro picked it up. There was no caller ID. He pressed it to his ear, but he didn't speak.

A voice came through the line, distorted by a modulator but carrying a chillingly familiar cadence.

"Nice try with the pump, Jianro. Truly. It was a classic. But you’re playing by the old rules. In this version of the story, the house always wins."

"Who are you?" Jianro hissed.

"I’m the one who bought the scotch," the voice replied. "And I’m the one who’s going to make sure you stay dead this time. Check the news again, Jianro. I think you missed the headline about your partner."

Jianro’s head snapped toward the door just as a heavy thud echoed from the hallway.

"Makari?" Jianro shouted, lunging for the door.

He threw it open. The hallway was empty, but a single object lay on the floor, right in front of the threshold.

It was a red carnation, pinned to a scrap of paper.

Jianro picked up the paper, his hands shaking. It was a printed news clipping, dated for the following morning.

TRAGEDY AT 6TH STREET: Local Tech Entrepreneur Found Dead in Apparent Office Fire.

Jianro looked back at the room. He smelled it then. Not bitter almonds.

Gas.

"Amara, get out!" he screamed, grabbing her arm. "Now!"

The espresso machine sparked—a tiny, blue arc of electricity in the dim room—and the world turned into white heat.