I've survived worse than internet rumors. Survived chains and blood and crowds screaming for my death.
I'm not running from pixels and doctored photos.
I'm staying. And whoever's behind this is going to regret making me visible.
Maris spreadspapers across the café counter. Late afternoon light slants through the windows. Makes the space feel amber and safe.
I watch her work. The way her brow furrows when she concentrates. The way she taps her pen against her teeth.
She's been at this for hours. Cross-referencing names. Dates. Incidents.
"Here." She stabs a finger at a printout. "Janelle Kovic. Assistant to Marcus Thorne. The developer."
"Okay."
"She was at the fundraiser. I remember because she asked weird questions. About our lease. About how long I'd been operating. Whether I owned the building or rented."
"Lots of people ask questions at fundraisers."
"Not like this. She was fishing. And look." Maris slides another page across. "Three other businesses on this street closed in the last year. All of them had sudden problemsright before they folded. Burst pipes. Health code violations. Mysterious vandalism."
I lean forward over the counter, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from the papers. My shadow falls across her work. Study the timeline she's sketched out. Dates and names and little notes in her precise handwriting. The pattern's there if you know how to look. If you've seen cruelty dressed up as opportunity before.
"You think she's sabotaging tenants?" My voice comes out harder than I mean it to. "Deliberately breaking things? Hurting people's livelihoods?"
"I think she's creating pressure points." Maris doesn't look up. Keeps her finger moving down the page, tracing connections. "Strategic weaknesses. Making it easier for Thorne to swoop in and buy cheap when everyone's desperate and broken."
The words sit heavy between us. I feel my jaw tighten.
"That's. Evil." Simple word. Only one that fits.
"That's real estate." Her tone is dry. Bitter. Like she's tasted this truth before and knows exactly how it goes down.
I shake my head. Humans. Orcs fight direct. Fists and blood and clear outcomes. This sneaking around, destroying lives from the shadows—it's worse.
"How do we prove it?" The question feels heavy on my tongue. All this knowledge, all these patterns Maris has laid out so carefully—and still we're grasping at smoke.
"That's the problem." She leans back in her chair, one hand rubbing at her temple like she can massage the frustration away. "It's all circumstantial. Patterns aren't evidence. No court's going to care that three businesses failed in suspicious succession unless we can draw a direct line from Thorne's hand to each disaster."
I think. Let the pieces turn over in my mind. Slow and deliberate. Like sorting through my tin of tokens, looking for the one that matters.
"The photo," I say finally. "The one they used. Someone had to doctor it. Fake it. Send it out to all those people. Maybe we can trace that? Find who did the work?"
"Already tried." Her voice goes flat. Defeated. "Posted from a burner account on some generic image-sharing site. No registration info. No IP tracking. Complete dead end."
I grunt. Of course it is. These people know how to hide.
"What about Cara's cat, then?" The idea comes together as I speak it. "If we can prove they used her image without permission, took her photo and twisted it into something false. That's something. Right? There has to be some kind of law against that."
Maris pauses. Goes still. Then she looks up at me, and something shifts in her expression. Recognition. Hope.
"That's actually not bad." She's already reaching for a fresh piece of paper, pen moving before she's finished speaking. "Copyright infringement at minimum. Harassment. Possibly defamation if we can prove malicious intent. It's not enough to pin the whole scheme on her—not yet—but it's a start. It's something concrete we can take to the authorities."
She scribbles notes. Fast and focused.
I watch. This. This is why I stayed. Not just because Maris demanded it. But because together we're stronger. Smarter.
Alone I would've run. Hidden. Let the accusations fester.
