Volume 9: Showdown on Wall Street
Summary: Jack and Kevin work tirelessly, night and day. At last, they uncover the irrefutable proof that could bring down the masterminds behind the conspiracy.
Chapter 1: The Final Evidence
3:17 AM. A run-down internet café in Lower Manhattan—an outcast corner of the city, forgotten by time—exhaled a stale breath of decay. Neon lights flickered through greasy windows, casting eerie shadows across Jack Carter's gaunt face. His cheekbones jutted sharply beneath his skin, his jawline shadowed with days-old stubble. Once piercing blue eyes were now bloodshot, like shattered rubies, burning with exhaustion and unyielding resolve.
The air was thick with a suffocating cocktail of scents—burnt tobacco from cheap cigarettes, the artificial spice of instant noodles, and the sour stench of unwashed synthetic fabric. It was the unmistakable aroma of the underbelly, the scent of survival at its most desperate. Jack had long since become numb to it.
His fingers flew over the worn plastic keyboard, hammering keys in a relentless rhythm—a battle hymn played by a man clinging to the edge of ruin. Lines of code slithered across the screen like venomous snakes, weaving an impenetrable encryption wall. He hadn't left this chair in seventy-two hours. Sleep was a luxury he couldn't afford. His body screamed for rest, but he couldn't stop—not now, not ever.
These encrypted files held Richard Blackwood's crimes—the final hope for Jack to claw his way out of hell, the only weapon left in his arsenal. Richard, once his closest partner, his most trusted friend, had become the demon who devoured everything Jack had built and cast him into an abyss from which few return.
Memories surged like a merciless tide, battering his fragile mind. He saw again the glittering towers of Wall Street, the golden era when power and wealth danced in his hands. His corner office with panoramic views of Manhattan, the clinking of champagne glasses after each successful deal, the roar of triumph echoing through marble halls. And Susan—his beloved Susan—her perfectly made-up face, her enchanting smile, so close yet so far. Now, he was nothing more than a ghost hiding in the shadows, surviving on stolen Wi-Fi and expired snacks.
"Damn this encryption! Five more minutes! Just five!" Jack rasped, his voice hoarse and raw. His eyes burned into the screen, knuckles white from gripping the keyboard too hard. Susan's words echoed in his mind, sharp as an ice pick: "Jack, you're not good enough for me anymore." That single sentence had pierced his heart, shattering what little hope he had left. Everything—his power, his fortune, his love—was stolen by Richard's meticulously orchestrated betrayal.
But Jack Carter was not a man to bow to fate.
Pride ran deep in his blood, along with a fierce refusal to accept injustice. It was what kept him alive, what kept him fighting. He would have revenge. Richard would pay dearly. And beyond him lurked a darker force—one Jack would expose, destroy, and make bleed for every wrong done to him.
The progress bar on the screen crawled forward like a sluggish snail, each percentage mark stretching into eternity. Time slowed to a crawl, each second dragging like an hour. Jack grabbed his cold coffee, swallowing it in one bitter gulp. This wasn't just another file. It was a verdict. A rebirth. A declaration of war.
Then suddenly, the progress bar hit 100%.
A green message flashed on the screen: Decryption Successful.
Jack jolted upright, a surge of energy flooding his exhausted body. Hands trembling, he took a deep breath, steadied himself, and clicked open the file.
Rows upon rows of transaction records filled the screen—bank transfers, internal memos, damning evidence of insider trading, illegal profits, and even money laundering for foreign entities. The proof was undeniable, overwhelming. These documents alone could send Richard to prison, dismantle his empire, and brand him a traitor to the world.
"Richard… you're finished," Jack whispered, a cruel smile curling his lips. The grin carried the weight of years of suppressed rage and vengeance, like a caged beast finally baring its fangs.
Just then, the café door burst open with a violent crash, startling the drowsy owner and other patrons. Several men in black suits stormed in—towering figures with chiseled physiques hidden beneath tailored clothing. Their faces were expressionless, their eyes scanning the room with practiced precision. They moved like predators, hunting.
Jack's stomach twisted. A chill shot up his spine. Richard must've sensed something. These men—sent to silence him, to take back the evidence—were here.
"They can't get this. Not now. Never," Jack thought, adrenaline surging. In seconds, he copied the files onto a pre-prepared USB drive and slammed the delete key, erasing all traces from the computer. Every line of data vanished, leaving only a blank screen.
"Can I help you gentlemen?" The café owner—a balding middle-aged man—stepped forward, sweat beading on his forehead. His voice trembled, a nervous smile plastered on his face.
"We're looking for someone," one of the men replied. His voice was low, smooth, and threatening. "A suspicious figure. Disheveled, secretive, always hanging around here. Have you seen him?"
Jack lowered his head, pulling his ragged cap lower to hide his face. He forced himself to blend in, pretending to be a typical teenager lost in an online game. If they caught him, everything—every sacrifice, every sleepless night—would be for nothing. He'd be dragged back into darkness, never to escape again.
The men exchanged glances and split up, methodically searching each row of computers. Their footsteps grew louder, closer, like a death march pounding against Jack's chest.
Time was running out.
He slipped the USB drive into the sole of his old sneaker, wrapping it tightly in his sock. Then he stood slowly, scanning the room, calculating his escape route. He needed to get out—to deliver the truth, to expose Richard, to drag his crimes into the light.
His gaze sharpened, no longer uncertain. No hesitation. No fear.
He wouldn't surrender.
He would fight.
The final evidence was in his hands—and he would not let go.
He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, feeling the sting of pain. The storm was coming. But Jack Carter was ready.
He had returned.
And those who destroyed him would soon bleed for it.