THEY HUNTED THE WRONG MAN

CHAPTER 9

The USB drive sat on the kitchen island, a small, sliver of justice that felt as if it carried the gravity of the entire city. 

Idris didn’t take his eyes off it.

Sera had spent the last three hours verifying the files—the emails, the bank records, the audio logs—and it was a masterpiece of cold, calculated documentation. 

If this evidence reached the right desk, Conrad Veil’s probate claim wouldn't just be denied; it would be completely destroyed.

But the city was a cast of shadows, and they were trying to navigate it while being hunted by the man who had laid out the maze.

"Filing this through the standard digital portal is suicide," Sera had warned hours earlier, her eyes weary but sharp. "Conrad has tentacles in every office that handles incoming litigation. He’ll see the complaint before the clerk even finishes the intake form. He’ll have it killed before it hits the docket."

She had insisted on going to Fitch alone.

Now, Fitch was an investigator who lived in the forgotten corners of the judicial oversight commission, a man who had spent three years throwing his head against the brick wall of Veil’s influence.

He was the only person left in the bureaucracy who hadn't been bought. 

After she left, the townhouse fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Idris stayed with Walter. The old man hadn't gone back to bed; he sat in his armchair, a blanket draped over his thin frame, staring at the muted cityscape as the night slowly bled into morning.

At 4:00 AM, the silence became unbearable. Idris made coffee, the scent of the dark roast filling the kitchen. Walter joined him, taking a seat at the island, his gaze drifting over the polished granite.

"Tell me about the Wards," Walter said suddenly, his voice raspy and thin.

Idris didn't want to talk—he wanted to calculate, to prepare, to sharpen his mind for the coming collision—but there was something in Walter’s eyes that demanded the truth. He spoke for an hour. 

He told him about his mother, the woman who worked double shifts to keep the lights on and whose resilience had been the only shield he’d ever known. He spoke about the block that felt like a prison until he started Ironwall out of a $200 second-hand laptop and a rusted-out borrowed van.

 He spoke of the grinding, hopeless labor of building something legitimate in a neighborhood that only knew how to take.

Walter listened like a man collecting memories. He didn't offer advice or platitudes; he just absorbed the words, his face softening with a strange, contemplative quiet.

 He sat there, a titan of industry, listening to the story of a boy from the bottom of the pile who had refused to die.

As the first gray light of dawn began to bleed through the blinds, Walter sighed, a slow, rattling sound that seemed to pull the tension from his shoulders. 

"I spent forty years building three billion dollars, Idris. I have offices in every tower in the skyline. And yet, I never had anyone to talk to at 4:00 AM. I was surrounded by sycophants, sharks, and people who only wanted to know how much I was worth. You had nothing, yet you had everything."

Idris didn't answer. He watched the steam rise from his mug, feeling the phantom weight of the future pressing against his skin.

"Don't lose that," Walter said, his eyes locking onto Idris with a terrifying intensity. "Don't let the money change the rooms you’re in. Don't let the status of the people around you dictate the value of your own soul. The moment you start needing the approval of the people in those ivory towers, you’ve already lost the game."

Idris watched him, wondering if the old man was offering a warning or a final piece of advice before the end. He didn't have time to process it, though. At 6:51 AM, his phone vibrated against the granite.

It was Sera. Her voice was too controlled, the kind of stillness that preceded a hurricane.

"Idris," she said, her tone clipped. "Fitch was pulled from his position at midnight last night. Emergency reassignment. He’s gone."

Idris felt his gut tighten, a cold shiver of dread washing over him. "What are you saying? Was he bought?"

"No," she continued, her words coming fast. "He was silenced. His entire case file on Conrad has been archived under a departmental review order, which essentially means it’s been shredded by the bureaucracy. Conrad didn't just reach the registration office, Idris. He reached someone senior enough to move a high-level judicial investigator out of his way without a whisper."

"How senior?" Idris asked, his pulse starting to hammer against his ribs.

There was a long silence on the other end, the kind of silence that held the weight of a city falling.

"The reassignment order was signed by the Deputy Commissioner of City Oversight," Sera said.

Idris leaned against the counter, the floor beneath him feeling like it had lost its foundation and strength. The realization hit him with the force of a landslide: the fraud wasn't just a technicality; it was part of a systemic takeover.

"Idris," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "Conrad isn't just a developer. He has the city. He isn't just buying the game—he’s rewriting the rules of the board in real-time, and he has the people who are supposed to be the referees sitting on his payroll."

He looked at the USB drive on the counter, then back at Walter, who hadn't moved. The old man remained still, his face an unreadable mask of calm. 

Conrad Veil wasn't just coming for the estate anymore; he was coming for the very idea of justice in a city he had turned into his personal playground. Idris realized then that the USB drive wasn't just a tool—it was a declaration of war against an enemy that owned the horizon. 

The hunt had escalated, and now, they were the only ones standing between Conrad and absolute, unchecked authority.