I guided Old Simon to sit on a crate, then fished the bottle of nitroglycerin pills from his pocket. Placed one under his tongue.
That's when I heard it.
The faint, throaty roar of engines drifting in from outside.
My heart skipped.
*He's here.*
In the showroom, the red carpet had been rolled out.
Manager Whitney and Hudson Pruitt stood at the end of it, practically vibrating with deference. Hudson had changed into a suit, his hair slicked back with enough gel to reflect the overhead lights.
A convoy arrived. An elderly man stepped out of the lead vehicle, leaning on a cane. Despite his age, he radiated authority—the kind that made the air heavier. Bodyguards in black suits flanked him instantly.
Hudson lunged forward first, presenting a bouquet prepared well in advance.
"Hello, Chairman! Thank you for your hard work! I'm Hudson Pruitt. I've heard legends of your business acumen for years. Seeing you in person today..." He practically genuflected. "You have even more presence than the rumors say!"
Grandpa took the flowers without a smile.
Handed them immediately to an assistant.
His sharp eyes swept the empty showroom. His brow furrowed slightly.
"Where is Elena Henson? I recall from last month's report that she was the sales champion."
Whitney stepped in smoothly, arranging his face into a mask of pained righteousness. "Chairman! You don't know the half of it."
A dramatic sigh.
"Elena Henson relied on her seniority to form cliques and bully the new hires. When we tried to correct her, she held a grudge." He shook his head. "Out of personal spite, she deliberately damaged the limited-edition supercar on tour! We were preparing to call the police, but she... she fled to avoid punishment."
Hudson added a theatrical sigh. Pulled out his phone to display the photo of the burned seat. "Yes, Chairman. I tried to advise Elena not to be so extreme, but she wouldn't listen. It's a tragedy, really."
Grandpa's face darkened.
He tapped his cane against the floor.
*Tap. Tap.*
"Is that so?"
The words hung in the air.
"Since the exhibition car is damaged, we will need spare parts. Take me to the storeroom." His voice was flat. Unreadable. "I wish to inspect your inventory management standards."
Whitney and Hudson froze.
Their breath hitched.
"Ch—Chairman!" Whitney scrambled to block the path. "The storeroom... it's currently being renovated! Full of dust and debris. I couldn't possibly let you ruin your shoes. Why don't we go to the office for some tea—"
Inside the warehouse, I pressed my ear against the cold metal door.
Listening to Whitney's clumsy lies, a cold smile touched my lips.
I turned back to the darkness. Signaled Evelyn and Old Simon.
"Grab the tools."
We fumbled until our hands closed around heavy wrenches.
*CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!*
Metal against metal. The sound echoed through the building.
In the showroom, everyone froze.
All eyes turned toward the warehouse.
Grandpa stopped walking. His eyes—cloudy with age but razor-sharp—locked onto Manager Whitney.
His voice was devoid of emotion.
"Renovation?"
A beat.
"That does not sound like a renovation crew."
Whitney's smile turned brittle. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. "It... it's rats! Chairman, you have no idea—we have a terrible rat infestation. The rats here are enormous! We're about to hire exterminators—"
"Oh?"
Grandpa let out a cold scoff.
"I have never heard of a rat big enough to knock on a door."
He glanced at the head bodyguard.
"Kick it down."
His voice dropped.
"I want to see exactly how big these rats are."
The bodyguard nodded. Whitney and Hudson made a move to stop him, but two other guards stepped in their path.
Silent. Immovable.
The head bodyguard approached the warehouse. Raised his leg.
Drove his heel into the lock.
*CRASH!*
*Bang!*
The lock surrendered with a deafening crack.
Light flooded the warehouse—harsh, blinding, merciless. I threw my arm over my eyes, squinting against the assault. Beside me, Evelyn and Uncle Simon did the same. We must have looked pathetic, illuminated like criminals in a police lineup: faces streaked with grime, clothes disheveled, blinking like moles dragged into daylight.
Hudson recovered first.
His finger shot toward us, trembling. "Security! Get in here!" His voice cracked on the words. "Arrest these three criminals immediately! They've damaged company property! Don't let them near the Chairman!"
He lunged for my arm.
I didn't flinch. Didn't even look at him. Just shoved his hand aside and walked past him like he was furniture.
I stopped directly in front of Manager Whitney. Let the silence stretch.
"Manager Whitney." My voice came out flat. Steady. "Is this the full report you gave the Chairman?"
Whitney's mouth opened. Closed. Whatever bluster he'd prepared died somewhere between his brain and his tongue.
Because Grandpa wasn't looking at him anymore.
Grandpa was looking at my hand.
The rough wood of the doorframe had gouged a scratch across my skin. A thin line of blood welled up, bright red against my pale fingers.
His expression went dark. He tossed his cane aside.
*Smack!*
The backhand connected with Whitney's face before anyone could blink. The sound ricocheted through the showroom like a gunshot, cutting off Whitney's stammering mid-syllable.
"You *bastard*." Grandpa's voice shook—not with weakness, but with barely leashed fury. "Who gave you the courage to lock my granddaughter in a place like that?"
