"This is Faugh Goir," I say, keeping my voice low and measured, each word precisely enunciated in that formal cadence that signals I am done with pleasantries. "I am Chantel Evans' mate and co-resident of apartment 4C. I have listened to your proposal, and I must inform you that we will not be vacating the premises."
There is a pause on the other end, a stuttering intake of breath that tells me the landlord was not expecting resistance, certainly not resistance delivered in a tone that carries the full weight of my physicality even through a phone line.
"Now listen here," the landlord starts, his voice climbing into that particular pitch of human male indignation. "I don't carewho you are or what kind of arrangement you have with Miss Evans. The sale is final, the contracts are signed, and you have thirty days as per the lease agreement to?—"
"No," I interrupt, and I let the single syllable hang in the air with absolute finality. I tighten my arm around her waist, anchoring her to me as I continue. "You will provide us with copies of all sale documentation, all development permits, and all legally filed notices of eviction. You will deliver these documents to this address within forty-eight hours. If you fail to comply, I will be forced to pursue legal remedies that will prove considerably more expensive for you than honoring the existing lease terms. Do you understand?"
The landlord sputters through the phone line, his voice rising into a register that borders on genuine hysteria, cracking with the strain of someone entirely unaccustomed to being challenged. "You can't just, this is a legitimate sale, you can't threaten me with—" he stammers, the words tumbling over one another in his desperation to regain some semblance of control over a situation that has clearly spiraled beyond his expectations. His indignation wars with something darker, something that sounds uncomfortably close to fear.
"I am not threatening you. I am informing you of your legal obligations. I suggest you consult with your attorney before proceeding further. Good day."
I disconnect the call with a decisive tap of my finger against the screen, the sharp sound of finality cutting through the tension that has settled over the apartment like a heavy fog. I turn and extend the phone back toward Chantel, watching as her small hand reaches out to take it from me. Her fingers tremble slightly as they brush against mine, and I can see the exact moment her brain catches up with what I have just done, what I have just committed to on her behalf. She stares at me with the kind of bewilderment reserved for moments whenreality has fundamentally shifted, as though I have genuinely developed another head right before her eyes, complete with all the attendant impossibility that such an occurrence would entail. A faint sound escapes her throat, not quite a word, not quite a gasp, just a small, helpless noise of disbelief.
"What the hell was that?" she asks, her voice climbing into that breathless, rapid-fire cadence that signals she is about to spiral into full-blown panic mode. "Faugh, you can't just tell a landlord we're not leaving. He owns the building. The building is sold. We have to leave. That's how evictions work. That's how capitalism works. You can't just, we can't fight this."
I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to meet my eyes, to see the absolute certainty written across my features. "We are not leaving," I repeat, slower this time, enunciating each word so there is no possibility of misunderstanding. "This is our home. You are my mate. I will not allow anyone to force you from a place where you have built your life and your art. Not a landlord, not a corporation, not anyone."
She opens her mouth, clearly preparing to launch into a detailed explanation of why my Orc stubbornness cannot override human legal systems, but I silence her with a firm kiss, pouring every ounce of possessive certainty I possess into the contact. When I pull back, her cheeks are flushed and her breathing has shifted from panicked to something considerably more interested.
"Trust me," I say quietly. The words carry absolute certainty, the kind of unwavering confidence that comes from someone who has spent years handling situations far more complicated than a simple real estate dispute. "I will handle this. All of it. You have my word, and I do not give my word lightly."
I straighten to my full height, my massive frame casting a shadow across the small living room as I move toward the door. Behind me, I can feel her watching, can sense the warringemotions playing across her features, the desperate need to believe me, the ingrained human anxiety about fighting systems designed to grind people like her into dust, the fragile hope that perhaps, just this once, someone truly will come through. I will not fail her. The very concept is intolerable.
I leavethe apartment three hours later, dressed in my sharpest charcoal suit, the one I had custom-tailored when I first arrived in the city and needed to project an image of controlled, civilized professionalism despite my monstrous physiology. The fabric stretches perfectly across my shoulders and biceps, the seams reinforced to accommodate my frame without sacrificing the clean, severe lines that humans associate with authority and competence.
Chantel watches me from the couch, her legs tucked beneath her and her paint-stained fingers wrapped around a mug of coffee. She looks small and worried and achingly vulnerable, her chestnut hair falling in messy waves around her face as she tracks my movements with those expressive hazel eyes.
"Where are you going?" she asks, her voice tight with barely suppressed anxiety, the question tumbling out in that particular cadence she adopts when she's trying very hard not to spiral into worst-case scenarios. Her fingers tighten around the ceramic mug, the knuckles going pale as she watches me move toward the door, searching my face for answers I am deliberately withholding. The coffee inside has already begun to cool, forgotten in her worry, and I can see the rapid rise and fall of her breathing, the telltale signs of a mind already racing through every possible disaster, every bureaucratic nightmare, every way this could all fall apart despite my assurances.
"Errands," I say simply, because the full truth would only increase her stress, and I refuse to burden her with the detailsof what I am about to do until I have concrete results to present. I cross the room in three long strides, lean down to press a lingering kiss to her forehead, and breathe in the scent of lavender and turpentine that clings to her skin. "I will return this evening. Do not open the door for anyone except me."
She frowns, clearly suspicious of my vague explanation, but she nods anyway, trusting me in a way that makes something primal and fiercely protective roar to life .
I will not fail her.
The first stopis the city records office, a bureaucratic labyrinth of filing cabinets and overworked clerks who move with the speed and enthusiasm of sedated sloths. I spend two hours navigating the system, my physical presence and formal, unrelenting politeness eventually wearing down the resistance of a particularly stubborn records clerk who initially insists that sale documents are not available to non-parties.
I convince her otherwise.
By the time I leave, I have copies of the building sale contract, the development permits, and the original lease agreements for every unit in the building. I read through the documents as I walk, my eyes scanning the dense legal language with the focus I once reserved for tracking potential threats during my years working security.
The contracts are sloppy. Rushed. There are at least four major procedural violations in the eviction notices, including a failure to provide adequate notification timelines and a blatant disregard for rent-stabilization protections that still apply to buildings constructed before 1985.
This building was constructed in 1978, which means it falls squarely under the protective umbrella of rent-stabilization laws that this development company apparently believes do not applyto them. The landlord, in their eagerness to clear the building and maximize profits, has made a critical and potentially catastrophic mistake. One that I intend to make abundantly clear.
The second stopis considerably less civilized.
I arrive at the development company's headquarters, a sleek glass tower in the financial district that screams corporate arrogance and disposable capital. The lobby is all polished marble and minimalist furniture, designed to intimidate and diminish anyone who walks through the doors.
I am not diminished.
The receptionist, a painfully young human woman with flawlessly applied makeup and a practiced customer-service smile, visibly pales when I approach her desk. Her eyes travel up, and up, and up, widening with each inch until she is staring at my face with the kind of fear that tells me she has never interacted with an Orc outside of sensationalized news coverage.
"I need to speak with the development director regarding the property acquisition at 1247 Ashford Street," I say, keeping my voice low and even, deliberately non-threatening despite the fact that my mere presence is clearly triggering every prey instinct she possesses.
"Do you have an appointment?" she asks, her voice wavering slightly as she clutches her desk phone like a lifeline. The question comes out thin and reedy, barely above a whisper, and her knuckles have gone white from the force of her grip. She is clearly hoping that formality, the institutional shield of scheduling protocols and procedural requirements, might somehow protect her from the reality of my presence looming over her desk. It will not.
"No," I say simply. "But he will want to speak with me. Inform him that Faugh Goir is here regarding significant legal violations in his recent eviction notices, and that I am prepared to file a class-action lawsuit on behalf of all affected tenants if he does not address the matter immediately."
