Knew something was off about that one.
Can't trust these arena types. Once a fighter, always a criminal.
Feel bad for Maris. Poor girl got played hard.
Bet that viral video was staged from the start. Whole thing's probably a scam.
The words multiply, spreading like rot through fresh wood. I watch the goodwill from yesterday's kitten video curdle in real time, all that warmth and hope souring into suspicion. Into bile. The poison spreads fast, and Maris's name appears again and again, dragged through the same filth they're using to bury me.
My chest feels tight. Wrong. Like someone's wrapped chains around my ribs and started pulling.
The phone rings. Same unknown number glowing on the screen.
I swipe to answer. Press the cold glass to my ear.
"Mr. Olden." The voice slides through the line like oil over water. Smooth. Male. Familiar in a way that makes my jaw clench. "This is Marcus Vance. I believe it's time we had a conversation."
The name snaps into place. The developer. The man who sent those goons to my door, who thought muscle and threats would be enough to move me.
"Got nothing to say to you," I growl. My voice comes out rougher, tusks pressing hard against my lower lip.
"I disagree. See, there's been a misunderstanding. A clerical error with your property deed. Easily corrected, but it requires your cooperation. Meet with me. Tomorrow. We'll sort this out quietly, no need for further unpleasantness."
"No."
"Mr. Olden, be reasonable. This situation affects more than just you. The Saltwater Cat Café, for instance. Lovely establishment. Be a shame if health inspectors found violations. Or if that viral fame turned into viral infamy. Fraud allegations. Conspiracy. The internet's fickle, you know. Turns on people fast."
Threat's clear. Crystal.
Maris gets hurt if I don't comply.
"What do you want?" I ask.
"A conversation. Tomorrow. Ten a.m. My office. Come alone, come ready to negotiate, and perhaps we can make this whole mess disappear."
He hangs up before I can respond.
I peer at the phone. At the forum post. At the comments piling up.
Should tell Maris. Should warn her.
But the comments are already about her. Already calling her gullible, calling the café a front, dragging her name through the same mud they're slinging at me.
If I stay, it gets worse.
If I fight, she gets caught in the crossfire.
The old instinct kicks in. The one that kept me alive in the place, kept me moving after Korvak and Lira died.
Run. Disappear. Protect the good things by getting far away from them.
I grab my jacket. The cigar tin. Leave everything else.
Make it halfway down the stairs before I stop.
The kitten.
Pebble's still at the café. Still small and trusting and purring against Maris's apron.
