THE HIDDEN HEIR'S VENGEANCE

CHAPTER 14 : Involvement with the Underground Network

Autumn rain lashed the city of New York, turning asphalt streets into black rivers that reflected the glow of neon lights. Inside a private penthouse overlooking Central Park, the silence was broken only by the soft hum of the coffee machine and the rhythmic tapping of fingers across a holographic tablet screen.

Matthew Thomas sat on the edge of the bed, his face looking noticeably healthier, no longer as pale as it had been four days earlier when he collapsed behind the podium after the fundraising event for Project Monolith.

Four days after the physical incident that forced him to “power down,” his body had recovered at an unnatural speed, another side effect of his symbiosis with the ARC System. But that recovery did not come for free.

“You’re staring at that screen like you want to burn it with your mind,” Viviane’s gentle voice broke Matthew’s concentration.

She entered the bedroom carrying a tray with a light breakfast and painkillers. She was dressed in a charcoal gray business suit that fit her elegantly, ready to head to Lane Corp.

Matthew quickly shut down the tablet and offered a faint smile. “Just checking the morning cash flow. Lane Corp is stable, but…”

“But?” Viviane sat beside him, placed the tray on the bed, and met her husband’s eyes with an intensity that had only appeared in recent weeks. Once, that gaze was filled with doubt. Now it held trust and concern.

“But we’re being watched,” Matthew replied quietly as he picked up the coffee cup and inhaled its aroma. “Your mother, Carol, is probably licking her wounds for now, but she has spies in every logistics department. If I want to move materials for Project Monolith, I can’t use official company channels. Mark Davies and his uncle are still circling too.”

Viviane let out a long breath. “Lane Corp logistics are full of old people,” she said uneasily. “They were loyal to my father, then to my mother. Changing that loyalty takes time, Matt.”

“We don’t have time, Vie,” Matthew cut in firmly. “I need a ghost route. Something off the books, invisible to customs satellites, with no digital trail that Carol’s auditors can trace.”

“That’s illegal, Matt,” Viviane whispered, though there was no real resistance in her voice.

“But necessary,” Matthew corrected. “I need an operator. Someone who knows the underbelly of New York.”

Matthew set his coffee cup down on the nightstand. Suddenly, a sharp pain stabbed into his left temple. A familiar vibration hummed at the base of his skull.

[SYSTEM WARNING]

[Urgent Mission: Recruitment of ‘The Ghost’]

[Target: Hector Alvarez. Status: Mortal Danger.]

[Location: Sector 4 Warehouse, Bronx Harbor.]

[Quantum Scan Activation Cost: 50 Vitality Points.]

[Mission Cost: Severe headache (neural strain).]

"Damn it, this cursed ARC system," Matthew cursed silently as he grimaced and rubbed his temple. “If you’re going to dump information on me, at least give me a warning so I can prepare.” The pain felt real, the price of momentary omniscience.

“You’re in pain again?” Viviane touched his shoulder, panic flashing across her face.

“Just a normal headache,” Matthew lied, steadying his breath. “Vie, I have to go. There’s an asset I need to secure before someone else destroys it.”

“You just recovered, Matt,” Viviane protested. “At least take bodyguards.”

“No. Bodyguards would draw attention,” Matthew replied as he stood up, walked to the closet, and took the black suit hanging there, slipping it on.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror, but his focus was not on himself. It was on the stream of data flooding his retina.

“Besides, I won’t be using my fists today,” Matthew said flatly. “I have a far deadlier weapon.”

Viviane said nothing. She stepped closer, nodded slowly, and straightened his collar. “Be careful,” she said softly. “If you die, I’ll kill you again.”

Matthew smirked. “Trust me. I’ll be careful.” He left the room quickly, leaving Viviane standing there alone.

***

One hour later, at the Bronx harbor. This area was a graveyard of rusted containers and failed industrial dreams. Inside an old warehouse that smelled of used oil and rotten fish, Hector Alvarez was on his knees.

Fresh blood trickled from his temple, dripping onto the cold concrete floor. Around him stood five large men holding blunt weapons. Their leader, a man with a snake tattoo on his neck named Salvas, toyed with a folding knife, wearing a vicious grin.

“You know the rules, Hector,” Salvas said, his voice rough like sandpaper. “You borrow from the Vega Cartel, you pay on time, and the interest runs by the hour.”

Hector spat, blood mixed with saliva splashing onto Salvas’s boots. “I already told you, Salvas. My shipment was seized by harbor police. Give me two days.”

“Two days?” Salvas laughed and kicked Hector hard in the ribs.

“Argh!” Hector groaned, his body curling forward as he fought the pain.

“We’ll take your kidney as a down payment,” Salvas hissed, signaling his men. “Hold him.”

Two thugs grabbed Hector’s arms with brutal force. He struggled, but he had no strength left. Salvas stepped closer, knife drawn.

Before Salvas could plunge the blade toward Hector’s abdomen, a voice suddenly spoke behind them.

“Excuse me…” The voice was calm, flat, and completely out of place.

Every head turned toward the warehouse door, now wide open. A man’s silhouette stood there, illuminated by a flash of lightning from outside.

Matthew Thomas stepped inside with an unhurried stride, his polished shoes untouched by the filth of the warehouse. In his left hand, he held a thin tablet.

“Who the hell are you?” Salvas barked. “This is private business. Get lost, or you’ll get cut too.”

Matthew did not stop walking. He looked around the warehouse with an analytical gaze, as if calculating property value rather than counting enemies.

“Hector Alvarez?” Matthew asked, completely ignoring Salvas.

Hector, one eye swollen shut, lifted his head. “Who’s asking?”

“Me! My name is Matthew Thomas. I need your logistics expertise,” Matthew replied casually.

Salvas bristled at being ignored. “Hey, you suit-wearing bastard. Who do you think you are, walking in here like this?” Salvas stepped forward, pointing the knife at Matthew’s face.

Matthew stopped. He glanced at the blade, then at Salvas’s eyes. There was no fear there, only boredom.

“Titanium-coated folding knife, mass-produced. Cheap,” Matthew commented. “About as cheap as you are, Salvas.”

“You know my name?” Salvas looked startled for a moment, then grinned. “Good. Then you know you should be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid of a man with four hundred and fifty thousand dollars in gambling debt to a Macau syndicate and a mortgage three months overdue,” Matthew said coldly.

His fingers moved rapidly across the tablet. Blue light reflected off his expressionless face.

Salvas froze mid-step. His face drained of color. “What… how do you know that?”

“Your banking system leaks like a broken faucet, Salvas,” Matthew continued calmly. “And your boss, the Vega Cartel, is having serious liquidity problems right now.”

“Bullshit!” Salvas shouted. “Kill him!” he ordered. The thugs surged forward.

Matthew did not move. “In three seconds, all your phones will ring.”

Exactly three seconds later, every phone in the room vibrated and chimed at once. The thugs froze in confusion. One of them checked his screen.

“Boss… m-my bank account… it’s empty,” he stammered.

“Mine’s frozen!” another yelled.

Salvas pulled out his own phone. His eyes bulged as he stared at the screen. “What did you do?” he shouted.

“I just performed rapid debt arbitrage,” Matthew explained casually, his voice echoing through the silent warehouse. “I bought all your debt from third parties at a discount and triggered the instant repayment clauses. Technically, I now own your house, your car, and even the clothes on your back, Salvas.”

“You…” Salvas’s hands began to shake, cold sweat soaking his back.

“But that’s not the best part,” Matthew said, tapping the tablet once more. “I just sent your GPS location to harbor police, labeled ‘narcotics distribution.’ You’ll hear sirens in two minutes.”

As if on cue, distant police sirens wailed outside, confirming the threat. Panic spread across the thugs’ faces.

“You’re insane,” Salvas whispered, backing away, sweat now pouring down his face.

“Run now, and you might still have time to hide in a sewer before you’re arrested,” Matthew said flatly. “Or stay here and deal with my personal lawyers, who will make sure you rot in prison for tax fraud.”