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025

2025-05-26 16:00:19

A new threat loomed, one Brent never saw coming. Late one night, an anonymous tip landed in the Foundation’s inbox: Someone was targeting former Chen Industries employees. A list had been leaked online—names, addresses, even children’s schools. The message was clear: “You thought you’d escaped. You were wrong.”

Panic spread quickly. Clients called, terrified. Staff worried for their families. The police were slow to act, treating it as “just another internet threat.” But Brent knew better. He recognized the language, the tactics. It had Victor Lang’s fingerprints all over it.

Victor Lang—Sarah and Robert’s old fixer. He’d vanished after the trial, but Brent had always suspected he was lurking, waiting for a chance to strike back.

Brent called an emergency meeting. “We don’t panic. We protect each other. We move fast, and we don’t let them see us flinch.”

Lucy coordinated with cybersecurity experts, bringing in the best to lock down client data and trace the source of the leak.

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095
The Phoenix Foundation's courtyard was alive with color. Kids chased each other around tables stacked high with fruit, bread, and little cartons of juice fresh from Brent's factory. The air smelled of food and hope. Music played from a battered speaker, just loud enough to drown out the city's noise. Brent Walker stood near the doors, sleeves rolled, greeting people as they came. He shook hands, posed for photos, and hugged old men who remembered when the neighborhood was just concrete and dreams. Lucy floated nearby, hair up, cheeks flushed with laughter as she corralled kids toward the crafts table. For a few hours, everything felt simple. Tommy and Jessica manned the grill. Adam darted between booths, his phone at the ready, snapping pictures for the Foundation's social feed. Sofia handed out pamphlets on workplace rights, her smile infectious. Even Ling had let herself dress down, sipping lemonade and watching the crowd with cautious satisfaction. People came i
095
Sofia sat in the back of the rideshare, knuckles white on her phone. Her nerves had barely settled since her undercover day at Marion Blake’s office. She kept replaying the moment Marion caught her in the office, the sharpness in her eyes, the threat in her voice. “If I catch you in here again, you’re gone.” That voice echoed in Sofia’s head as the city lights whirred past. She got out two blocks from the Phoenix Foundation, moving fast and glancing over her shoulder. She’d taken the long way, sure she was being followed. It didn’t help that someone in a gray sedan had tailed her for three turns before peeling off. She climbed the stairs two at a time and let herself into the Foundation’s back door. Ling was waiting in the kitchen, eyes dark with worry. “Did you get anything?” Ling whispered. Sofia nodded, pulling out her phone. “I took pictures of everything I could. There’s one more thing. Marion’s shredding files. I saw her feed whole stacks into the machine. She’s scared.”
093
Prison wasn’t built for men like Victor Lang. He was used to deals in smoky boardrooms, not iron bars and cold food. But he adapted—he always did. He watched, he waited, he learned the routines. It took weeks, but eventually he found the weak link—Warden Harris, a man with expensive tastes and a failing marriage. Victor called him over one evening, voice low. “You like horses, Harris?” The warden stiffened. “What’s it to you?” Victor smiled. “I have friends on the outside. They could help with your debt. All I need is a favor.” Harris hesitated, but Victor saw the hunger in his eyes. “What kind of favor?” the warden asked. “I want a meeting. Me, Sarah Chen, Robert Chen. One hour. No guards, just us.” Harris shook his head. “Impossible.” Victor leaned forward, voice a whisper. “Nothing’s impossible. Not with the right incentive.” He slid a slip of paper across the table. Harris read it, eyes widening at the number. “Half now, half after the meeting,” Victor said. Harris
092
Ling spent her nights with paperwork, her days with suspicion. Since the audit began, she’d barely slept—her mind kept chasing threads, chasing secrets. Tonight, she sat at her kitchen table, files spread out, coffee going cold. She scanned emails, payroll logs, council expenditures. Then—there it was. A payment from Robert Chen’s offshore account, dated five years back. The recipient: Marion Blake. Ling’s pulse quickened. The amount wasn’t huge, but it was enough. She dug deeper—more payments, spread across months, always right before key city council votes. Blake’s name, always the recipient. Ling stood, pacing the small kitchen. This was it—the proof she needed to bring Blake down. But it was circumstantial. Without a smoking gun—an admission, a contract, an email—Blake would walk. She called Brent, her voice low. “I found something,” she said. “Blake took bribes from Robert. Small amounts, but consistent. The money’s real, but unless we get her to admit it, or find a docu
091
Jessica always woke before dawn. She liked the quiet, the way the city still slept, the factory cool and silent before the shift began. For a few minutes, it was hers alone. She walked the floor, clipboard in hand, ticking off inventory and safety checks.The new sardine line gleamed under the overhead lights. Tommy was already there, eyes red from lack of sleep. “Morning,” Jessica said, forcing a smile. “Hey honey.” Tommy didn’t look up from the machine he was checking. “Pressure valve’s acting up again.” Jessica frowned. “That’s the third time this week.” “Yeah,” he said. “And I don’t buy it’s just bad luck.” They worked in silence, inspecting each valve, every belt and panel. When Jessica reached the main processing machine, her stomach twisted. The safety latch was bent at an odd angle. She’d seen it yesterday—intact, brand new. She called Tommy over. “Look at this.” He knelt, running his finger over the latch. “Somebody forced it. See the scoring?” Jessica nodded. “Th
090
Brent Walker hated politics. He hated the backroom deals, the fake smiles, the way people shook your hand while planning to stab you in the back. But sometimes, you had to wade into the muck to get anything done. He stood outside City Hall, tie straight, notes in hand. The air smelled like rain and old cement. Around him, TV vans jostled for space. Adam gave him a thumbs-up from the crowd, and Ling waited at the steps, her phone glued to her ear. “You ready?” Ling asked. Brent nodded, but his stomach twisted. “As I’ll ever be.” Inside, the council chamber was packed. Reporters lined the back wall. Factory workers and Foundation staff filled the seats, their faces tense and hopeful. At the front, a long table faced the city council—seven men and women, each with a nameplate and a poker face. Brent took a seat at the table, notes spread before him. The meeting began with roll call, minutes, procedural nonsense. Brent listened, his heart pounding, until the council chair fin

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