Rebirth of Vengeance

CHAPTER 3 — Memory Is a Weapon

The phone rang. He didn’t reach for it. Instead, he said, “Three seconds.”

The ringing stopped. A message alert chimed immediately after. He exhaled slowly and picked up the phone. Unknown Number: Hey, just checking in. You okay? Big day today.

He stared at the screen. “Linda,” he said softly.

The phone rang again, right on cue. He answered before the first full vibration ended. “You’re calling because you think I’m about to do something stupid.”

There was a sharp pause on the other end. “…How did you know it was me?”

“Because you always do this,” he replied calmly. “Whenever she has a major milestone, and I go quiet, you panic on her behalf.”

“That’s not,” Linda hesitated. “Are you alright?”

“You’re standing in the hallway outside Conference Room B,” he said. “You’re pretending to review notes, but you’re actually watching the clock.”

Silence. Then, very carefully, “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

He leaned back against the kitchen counter, eyes unfocused. “You’ll say I should be proud of her. You’ll tell me this is bigger than our marriage.

Then you’ll remind me again that sacrifices are invisible unless the winner acknowledges them.”

“…You need to stop,” Linda said. “This isn’t the time.”

“You’re wearing the gray blazer,” he continued. “The one you hate because the sleeves are too tight. You skipped breakfast. You’ll bring up therapy before hanging up.”

“Okay,” she snapped. “That’s enough.”

She hung up. He lowered the phone slowly. His reflection stared back at him from the darkened screen. Same face. Same tired eyes.

But behind them, Awareness. He pushed off the counter and began pacing. “Not time travel,” he muttered. “Not exactly.”

The memories weren’t vague impressions or déjà vu. They were precise. Sharp. Indexed. Like files, he could pull at will.

He closed his eyes, the boardroom, six months from now. A man named Harris would spill coffee on his tie before voting yes.

The CFO would hesitate before approving a risky acquisition, and later regret not hesitating longer. The market would dip for twelve minutes at 10:43 a.m.

He opened his eyes. The clock on the wall read 10:31. His phone buzzed again. This time, he smiled. “Ten minutes,” he said.

At 10:41, the news alert came through. MARKET VOLATILITY EXPECTED AHEAD OF MAJOR IPO

At 10:43, the numbers dipped. He laughed, a short, disbelieving sound that turned into something sharp and brittle. “So that’s how it is,” he whispered. “I remember everything.”

He remembered Evan’s first promotion. The one she’d argued for behind closed doors. He remembered the emails she deleted, the off-book accounts.

The shell consulting firm that funneled money to someone who didn’t officially exist. He remembered the night Evan joked about “cleaning things up” if he ever became a problem.

He pressed his palm to his chest. The grief came in waves. Not loud. Heavy. Ten years of devotion. Of quiet pride.

I believed that love was an investment that compounded over time. “I really thought it mattered,” he said aloud.

The room didn’t answer. He walked into the living room and sank onto the couch. For a moment, hatred surged, hot and intoxicating. Then it receded.

What replaced it was colder. Sharper. Control. “She underestimated me,” he said. “That was her first mistake.”

His phone lit up again. This time, it was her. He didn’t answer. “She’ll leave a voicemail,” he said, eyes on the ceiling. “She’ll sound annoyed, not worried.”

The voicemail icon appeared seconds later. He played it. “Where are you?” her voice snapped. “If you’re planning to sulk tonight, don’t. I don’t have time for your drama.”

He deleted it without responding. He stood and walked to the window, staring out at the city below. “I know what happens next,” he murmured.

He knew the divorce attorney she’d consult first. Knew the judge she’d try to steer the case toward. Knew the clause she’d invoke to minimize his claim.

He knew who would betray her. And who would pretend not to? He closed his eyes again. Another memory surfaced, unbidden. A rooftop. Rain-slick concrete.

A maintenance corridor. Two men. Evan’s voice: Cameras down. Blind spot. His jaw tightened. “I won’t be there this time,” he said.

The phone rang again. This time, he answered. “What?” he said flatly.

“You’re not picking up,” she said. “Where did you go?”

“You didn’t ask where I was,” he replied. “You asked why I wasn’t available.”

“That’s not.”

“You’re at the office,” he continued. “You’re pretending to review reports, but you’re watching the elevator.”

She went quiet. “…What are you talking about?”

“You’re wondering if Evan will be bold enough to show up early,” he said. “You’re hoping he does.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“You’re being paranoid.”

He smiled. “You always say that right before you lie.”

“Enough,” she snapped. “If you cause a scene tonight.”

“I won’t escape,” he said.

“What?”

“I won’t disappear quietly,” he continued. “I won’t drink myself numb. I won’t beg. And I won’t forgive.”

Her breathing changed. “You’re scaring me.”

“No,” he corrected. “I’m disappointing you. There’s a difference.”

He ended the call. The silence that followed felt earned. He went to his desk and opened his laptop. Typed and deleted and typed again. Names filled the screen.

Harris. Linda. Evan. The CFO. The security contractor who’d signed off on the blind spot. He stopped. Stared at the last name. His pulse slowed. “Oh,” he said softly.

The memory clicked into place. Not just Evan. Not just her. There had been someone else. Someone who made the call.

Someone who ensured the cameras stayed dark. Someone who benefited most from his absence. He leaned back, eyes cold, and whispered the name. “So you were there too.”

The city lights flickered outside. And somewhere deep inside him, the past sharpened its edge, ready to be used.