Alexander Voss moves like a shadow through the decrepit halls of The Plaza, eyes fixed on every creaking door, every hushed voice behind paper-thin walls. Sent by Adams, he's been tailing Andrew Williams and the mysterious new arrival.
He reports back to Mr. Adams and Gideon Clarke at their law firm on the ground floor.
"He's got the look of a Bond villain," Voss mutters, "but in a designer suit and funeral-level charisma."
Adams frowns. "What the hell is a man like that doing renting a unit above my office?"
Gideon leans forward. "Should we be worried?"
Adams doesn't hesitate. "Alert the tenants. All of them."
⸻
The truth is, The Plaza is half-empty. Virexon's aggressive buyouts have driven most tenants out. Only a few remain: a stubborn mix of oddballs, resisters, and survivors. Adams's law firm is one of the last holdouts.
Upstairs, Andrew leads Ethan through what looks like a forgotten wing of a dying building. The lights flicker overhead like a warning. The roof groans, leaking onto curled business flyers taped to dusty windows.
As they pass each remaining shop—bookstores, bakeries, storage rooms—Ethan earns nothing but cold stares and whispered slurs.
"They're a bit… unwelcoming," Andrew mutters.
"They're animals," Ethan says flatly. "Where's the vault?"
Andrew gestures to the floor beneath a modest storefront: Nanyak Temple.
Inside, a Buddhist monk sits cross-legged in meditative serenity—right atop the secret entrance to Ethan's crypto vault. Ethan suppresses a smirk at the irony.
A second monk opens one eye and addresses Andrew.
"Nanyak Temple has joined the Development Opposition Committee," he says coolly, "led by your friend Mr. Adams."
Then, with a pointed glance at Ethan's dirtied designer suit, the monk adds, "You may want to find a laundromat. You smell like…lost privilege."
⸻
Enter Nathaniel Cross, the dry cleaner with the sarcasm of a stand-up comic and the patience of a saint.
"This suit?" Ethan hisses. "Custom-made. Limited run."
Nathaniel squints at the label. "Huh. Sounds a lot like the Xhosa word for… testicles."
Ethan stares at him.
"And no, I can't clean it by tomorrow. This is South Africa, not Milan."
Outside, a crowd has gathered. Tenants peek through half-shuttered windows and around open doors. Whispers follow Ethan like smoke.
Adams steps forward. "New face in the building, huh? Name?"
"Ethan. Ethan Cole," he replies, adding smoothly, "Attorney."
The crowd murmurs, visibly confused. Ethan? Cole? Foreign. Clean-shaven. Sounds like trouble.
When someone hears he's Italian, the group lights up—especially Chef Adrian Wells, who brags about training in Milan.
"Oh, really?" Ethan asks in fluent Italian.
Adrian's face drains of color. "Uh… s-sì…"
The lie is clear.
Adams narrows his eyes. "So… you're here to help Andrew sell the place?"
Andrew quickly interjects, "We're not selling. Haven't changed our minds."
No one believes him.
Ethan glances at the skeptical crowd and smiles faintly. "I'll explain everything tomorrow at the tenants' meeting."
That night, Ethan returns to his temporary quarters—where the shower switches from freezing to scalding in a blink. He emerges, soaked, angry, and very nearly boiled alive.
Half-naked, he throws himself onto the mattress, only to be kept awake by a persistent pigeon cooing outside his window.
Annoyed, he opens a file.
Stella Morgan file case.
We flashed back to her trial where Ethan watched from the gallery.
Stella a former house keeper stands trial for the murder of Chairman Sebastian. Her hands tremble, her eyes defiant.
The prosecution paints her as unstable, even cruel—emphasizing that she gave her child to an orphanage, weaponizing her poverty.
Her court-appointed lawyer sits motionless.
Until finally, she explodes.
"He raped me. And not just me. There are others. But no one cares because we're poor, and he was rich!"
No one listens. No one moves. Ethan watches as her words fall into a courtroom vacuum.
Now, in the present, he reads the latest update.
Stella's been offered a retrial.
Her new lawyer? Mr. Adams.
Stella has refused.
Ethan stares at the document in silence.
"Not for long," he mutters.