The building loomed over us like a rotting tombstone. "Block 13" wasn't just a housing project; it was a festering wound in the city’s side. The windows were boarded up with plywood, graffiti covered every inch of brick, and the smell of sulfur and burning plastic—the signature scent of "Blue Devil"—wafted out to the street.
I placed my laptop on the hood of Gara’s Cadillac. The screen glowed blue in the dim streetlight. "Briefing time," I announced, ignoring the screams coming from the third floor.
Scene 1: The Briefing
Gara didn't look at the building. He was too busy looking at his car. He circled the Cadillac, wiping a speck of imaginary dust from the fender with his sleeve. "Boss," Gara muttered, his eyes twitching. "This is a high-risk parking zone. Look at that curb. It’s jagged. If I park too close, I scratch the rims. That’s a $200 refurbishment fee. And if one of these junkies touches my paint... oh god, the resale value will plummet."
He looked at me, pleading. "Can I stay in the car? Engine running? You know, for a quick extraction? I can’t let the asset depreciate, Boss!"
"No," I said, typing a command on my keyboard. "You are Logistics. You carry the flashlight."
I looked at the rest of my team. They were trying to look brave, but body language never lies.
Daniel stood tall, puffing out his chest in his designer jacket. He was trying to channel his inner "Godfather," but his focus was entirely wrong. He kept glancing down at his shoes—limited edition loafers made of Italian calfskin. "I’m ready, Boss," Daniel said, his voice cracking an octave higher than usual. "Just... uh... is the floor inside... sticky? These soles are leather. They absorb fluids. I really don't want to absorb poverty fluids."
And then there was Benny. He stood slightly apart from us, hunched over like a gargoyle. His back was a curved arch of tension. He stared at the front door with dead, unblinking eyes. He wasn't scared. He wasn't worried about shoes or paint. He was waiting. He breathed in slowly—a deep, raspy sound—like a diesel engine warming up.
"Listen closely," I pointed at the blueprints on my screen. "This is not a street fight. This is a demolition."
"Benny," I said. "You are the Vanguard. You break the door. You draw their fire. You are the Asset that depreciates their morale." Benny grunted. "Break... door. Okay."
"Daniel," I looked at the giant shivering in Off-White. "You are the Tank. You stay on my flank. Your job is to make sure no one touches me. I am the Intellectual Property of this organization. If I get scratched, you get fired. Understood?" "Understood," Daniel swallowed hard, his 1m95 frame trembling as he tried to protect the 'Intellectual Property. "Protect the... Intellectual Property. Got it."
"Gara," I handed him a heavy flashlight. "Logistics and Crowd Control. Watch our rear. If anyone tries to flank us, you introduce them to your wrench."
I closed the laptop. "Let’s go acquire some assets."
Scene 2: The Audit
We stepped into the lobby. The smell hit us instantly—a mix of urine, rotting garbage, and chemical smoke. It was thick enough to taste.
The elevator was broken (obviously). The stairs were covered in filth, black puddles of unknown origin, and scattered syringes. Every shadow seemed to move.
I watched Daniel navigate the stairs. It was a performance art of panic. He was a 1m95 giant moving like a ballerina. He tip-toed on the dry spots, hopping over the puddles with exaggerated leaps. "Ew, ew, ew," Daniel whispered, lifting his knees high. "Don't splash! Don't splash! Boss, this place violates so many health codes. Can we report them to the city before we beat them up?"
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Gara walked backward, shining his flashlight into dark corners, swinging his wrench at nothing. He kept checking his pocket watch. "Five minutes," Gara muttered to himself. "If we’re not back in ten, someone’s gonna steal the catalytic converter. I know it. I can feel it in my bones. I should have installed the anti-theft flamethrower..."
I stopped on the second-floor landing. I adjusted my glasses and scanned the hallway. Half a dozen figures were slumped against the walls. Junkies. Users of Blue Devil. Their skin was gray, their eyes wide and bloodshot, mouths hanging open.
Analysis:
- Target: Mad Dog Junkies.
- Condition: Highly Intoxicated. Pain receptors inhibited.
- Threat Level: High (Unpredictable).
- Value: Negative. These are Toxic Assets. Bad debt walking on two legs.
"Keep moving," I ordered, stepping over a comatose addict without breaking stride. "Our client is on the top floor. And Daniel? If you complain about your shoes one more time, I’m deducting the cleaning bill from your salary." Daniel shut his mouth instantly.
Scene 3: The Failed Negotiation
Apartment 404. The door was already open. Inside, it looked less like a home and more like a garbage dump inside a war zone. Pizza boxes, drug paraphernalia, and stolen electronics were piled high. The walls were stained with things I didn't want to identify.
Sitting on a throne made of duct-taped beer crates was Junkie Joe. He was skinny, wired, and shirtless, displaying a chest covered in erratic, prison-style tattoos. His eyes were spinning pinwheels of madness. Around him stood twenty of his "Mad Dogs"—men and women with weapons ranging from rusty knives to chains.
"Well, well," Joe cackled, twitching violently. "Look what the cat dragged in. Fresh meat! And look at those clothes! Fancy boys!"
He hopped off his crate, moving with the jerky, unnatural speed of an addict. He circled us, sniffing the air. He stopped in front of me. He looked at my suit. He looked at my clean shoes. Then he looked at the aluminum briefcase in my hand.
"What's in the box?" Joe hissed, reaching out with a hand covered in grease and soot. He ran a dirty finger across the pristine aluminum surface of the case, leaving a black smear. "Cash? Drugs? Or maybe your mommy's lunch?"
I looked down at the smear on the briefcase. Asset Damage: Superficial. Cleaning required. I didn't pull away. I didn't flinch. I just watched him.
"Mr. Joe," I said calmly, my voice cutting through the chaotic music. "I represent Mr. Moretti. I am here to restructure your outstanding debt of $50,000. We are offering a repayment plan. 10% interest, spread over twelve months."
Joe blinked. Then he laughed. The whole room laughed. It was a screeching, hyena-like sound.
"Repayment plan?" Joe stepped closer, invading my personal space. His breath smelled like battery acid. "I don't pay debts, four-eyes! I collect heads! You think you can walk in here with your suits and your big words and tell ME what to do?"
He gathered a glob of saliva in his mouth and spat. Ptooo. The glob of spit flew past my face, missing my cheek by mere centimeters, and landed with a wet splat on the floor, right next to my polished Oxford shoe.
The room went silent. The Mad Dogs waited for a reaction. They expected fear. They expected anger.
I looked down at the saliva near my shoe. I didn't look disgusted. I looked... bored. Like an auditor finding a typo on page 400 of a tax return.
I adjusted my cufflinks, the movement precise and clinical. In this room, everyone saw a target. I only saw a bad debt that needed to be written off.
I slowly reached up and adjusted my glasses, pushing them up the bridge of my nose. The lens caught the fluorescent light, turning opaque white.
Internal Analysis:
- Client Status: Insolvency confirmed.
- Negotiation Probability: 0%.
- Biological Hazard: Present.
- Verdict: Liquidation required immediately.
"Kill them," Joe shrieked, raising a machete. "Strip them naked! I want that giant's jacket! And bring me the nerd's glasses!"
Daniel whimpered. Gara raised his wrench, terror in his eyes. Benny cracked his knuckles, the sound like a gunshot in the small room.
I sighed. It was a sigh of deep professional disappointment. I stepped back, behind Benny.
"I offered you a merger, Joe," I said, my voice dropping to absolute zero.
I checked my watch. "You chose bankruptcy."
End of Chapter 6
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