THEY HUNTED THE WRONG MAN

The ink on the contract was still fresh, the kind of success that felt like a phantom limb. Idris Morrow stood in the doorway of his apartment, the sleek, velvet-lined box in his pocket feeling like a lead weight. 

He smiled. All he could do was smile. He deserved this and he knew it!

Seven years. Seven years of eating dust in the Wards, dodging shakedowns, and building Ironwall Security from a two-man operation into a legitimate powerhouse. Today, Harlow Consolidated had signed off. Today, he had arrived finally and the world was finally going to know his fucking name!

He pushed the door open, ready to tell Amara they were done with the cramped, drafty life they’d been living. She’d stuck with him through thick and thin. At some point, she’d become the only reason he kept pushing on in fact.

He was going to pay it all back. His heart was bubbling with so much excitement that he could literally cry.

The scent hit him first. Not the familiar, comforting vanilla of her shampoo, but something heavier, sharper. It smelt of expensive cologne and stale gin he couldn’t afford yet.

Idris stepped into the bedroom, his smile dying before it could reach his eyes. Derek Lavier was there, sprawled across the bed like he owned the mattress and everything resting on it. Amara was beside him, her hair disheveled, her eyes meeting Idris’s with a terrifying, emotionless stillness.

"Idris," Derek drawled, not moving, his hand tracing the curve of Amara’s shoulder. "You’re late. Or maybe, you’re just early for the wake.”

Idris’s pulse thrummed violently against his ribs. It felt like he had walked right into a brick wall. He was stunned down to his spine. He didn't shout, nor did he bother charge—he couldn’t. He just watched, frozen, as Derek lazily reached for his own phone. 

“I heard you secured a gem of a contract while I was busy with your woman,” Derek said with a smirk, “such a shame boy.”

He held it up, tapped a button, and held it to his ear while never breaking eye contact with the man he’d been trying to dismantle for two years.

"Cancel it," Derek said into the phone, his voice smooth as oil. "The background check flagged something. Yeah…The Wards don't close deals like this, Idris. They just think they do."

Thirty seconds later, the buzz in Idris’s pocket sounded like a death knell and it made his heart drop to his stomach. He pulled out his phone. 

An automated notification from Harlow: Contract Terminated. Clause 4.1: Moral and Background Integrity.

The room felt like it was shrinking, the walls pressing in with the weight of seven years of sweat, blood, and broken bones. Amara finally looked away, her voice barely a whisper, devoid of any shred of regret. 

"I needed someone going somewhere, Idris. You were stalled."

He scoffed bitterly, his eyes gathering with tears as he thought of everything he’d planned for her. What he was willing to give for this very woman..

He reached into his pocket, pulled out the velvet box, and placed it gently on the dresser. It looked pathetic to be honest—a tiny, glittering apology for a future that had just been burned to the ground. 

He turned on his heel without uttering a word, his movements fluid, precise, and entirely numb.

He made it to the lobby before his phone buzzed again. This time it was his accountant. 

The words were just full of technical jargon, but the meaning was clear: the Ironwall business account had been flagged for fraudulent activity thanks to the man fucking his girl.

Everything—every cent he’d clawed out of the Wards—was frozen.

One hour. He had lost the contract, the woman, and the company. The life he had built was stripped down to nothing but the keys in his pocket and the phone in his hand.

He walked out into the biting wind of the city. He didn't have a destination, so he stopped at a lonely, iron-wrought bench facing the empty street. The cold gnawed at his skin like a mockery, but he didn't feel it. He felt only the hollow space in his chest where his purpose used to be.

He watched the streetlights flicker, a slow, mechanical pulse against the darkness of the sad night. He was thinking about the Wards, about the grime and the violence he had fought so hard to rise above, when the world tore itself apart.

A sleek, black sedan suddenly came screaming around the corner, fishtailing on the wet pavement. It swerved violently, tires screeching a high-pitched protest against the smooth coal tar, and slammed into a fire hydrant with a deafening crash that made Idris wince. 

Water erupted in a geyser, and panic filled the quiet night suddenly.

Without thinking, Idris instantly reacted, scraping to his feet. He sprinted toward the wreck, his boots pounding against the concrete. The driver’s side door was crumpled, steam hissing from the radiator. He yanked the door open.

Inside, an old man—seventy, if a day—lay slumped against the steering wheel. He was clothed in an expensive glistening suit, now ruined, and the sharp, nauseating scent of whiskey hung heavy in the air. His face was a map of deep-set lines, pale and slick with cold sweat.

There were no passengers and no phone either. Just the old man, hanging onto the edge of consciousness by a very thin thread.

As Idris reached in to pull him out, the man’s eyes snapped open. They were cloudy, rimmed with red, yet they held a startling, frantic intensity. He reached out, his hand snapping onto Idris’s collar with a grip that felt like a vice.

"Don't let them take it," the man rasped, blood flecking his lips. His voice wasn't a plea; it was a desperate, rattling command. "It was never... supposed to be theirs."

The old man went limp, his grip loosening, his head rolling back against the headrest.

Idris stood frozen, the water from the hydrant soaking his clothes, the siren of a distant police cruiser starting to wail in the dark. He looked at the man, then at the empty, shadowy street. He didn’t know what to do, but those words terrified him.