The old library on the city's south side didn't scream importance. It whispered it.
Faded red bricks. Wooden shelves warped by time. A faint musk in the air that clung to paper and bone. This was the kind of place most people forgot existed.
Jason stepped in, flanked by his security detail, all in black suits. He raised a hand, signaling them to wait by the front door.
Behind the counter, a tired librarian glanced up, pushing her glasses higher on her nose. "Can I help you, sir?"
Jason smiled politely. "Morning. I've been trying to find this book for a while. What's the name again… ah—Money Over Morals and Ethics?"
The moment the title left his mouth, her entire demeanor changed.
She blinked. Then slowly nodded.
"Take 124 steps west," she said softly. "You'll find what you're looking for."
Jason gave a short nod of thanks and made his way down the corridor, counting every step.
At step 124, he turned, facing a dusty old shelf tucked between two towering ones. He found the book almost too easily—its faded title just barely legible on the spine.
He gripped it and gave it a firm pull.
The center section of the shelf clicked and slid left, revealing a narrow opening. A pair of eyes peered out from the darkness behind the shelf.
"Name?"
Jason raised an eyebrow. "You letting me in or not?"
There was a pause. Then the sliding panel closed, followed by a mechanical groan as the entire shelf opened outward like a hidden door.
Jason stepped in without hesitation.
The man behind the wall gave a slight nod. "Welcome young Master Jason."
Jason returned the gesture, saying nothing. He was guided down a long, dimly lit hallway, the air cooler and denser the deeper they went.
Eventually, he was led to a small carpeted room with low lighting and a single round table.
He took a seat, placing his duffel bag on the ground beside him.
A few minutes later, a woman entered.
If it weren't for the ridiculous getup—purple hair, long cloak, silver mask—Jason might've found the scene comical. She looked like a walking cliché from an anime fortune-telling booth.
"Good morning, Young Master Jason," she said, bowing slightly.
He nodded. "Likewise."
He studied her out of habit—breast size, height, bone structure—trying to piece together her identity, even knowing full well it'd be a waste. In the original novel, she was never unmasked, only referred to as a powerful figure from a very old, very rich family.
"I need everything you have on the Vanessa Clark case," Jason said, leaning back.
"That won't come cheap," she replied, tone calm but firm.
"How much?"
"1.5 million."
Jason unzipped the duffel bag and lifted it onto the table. "There's three in here. The rest is a donation."
She peered into the bag, then gave a slight smile. "You're quite generous."
"I also need evidence. Enough to bury Manager Park."
She paused. "And what makes you think we can deliver that?"
Jason didn't blink. "Because I just gave you a million reasons to."
"…Fair point."
She tapped twice on the table. A moment later, another person—hooded—entered, placing two locked metal cases on the table in front of Jason.
One was labeled For Legal Court Use. The other, Full Record – Eyes Only.
Jason popped them open.
Photos. Flash drives. Reports. Handwritten statements. Even phone records.
"Two copies of everything," she explained. "Lose one, you've got backup. Lose both, and the replacement fee triples."
Jason nodded slowly, impressed. "Efficient."
He skimmed through the files until he found a folded sheet detailing every piece of evidence inside—timestamped footage, witness names, financial trails, and two USB drives containing unedited video of what had happened to Vanessa.
He gave a low whistle. "This'll do."
The masked woman nodded. "We don't miss."
Jason stood and gave her a small bow before turning to leave.
As the hallway swallowed him again, she turned to the man beside her.
"He's different," she murmured.
The man nodded. "He knew the location. The phrase. He wasn't nervous. He walked in like he's done it before."
"Mark him as a top priority," she said, voice sharp now. "I have a feeling he'll be back soon."
—
Jason returned to the car and slid into the back seat.
"Where to now, sir?" his driver asked.
"Park's company. Langston Group."
As the car pulled away from the curb, Jason opened the legal-use case, double-checked the files, and set aside one of the labeled folders.
He typed out a text to Daisy:
Tell Langston and Manager Park we're coming for a meeting. Private room. No media. No press. Make sure they think it's good news.
Seconds later:
On it. They just responded. Sound excited.
Jason closed the file and stared out the window.
The files marked "Full Record" contained more than enough to destroy Park and the CEO. But they weren't admissible in court—how the evidence was collected was murky at best. Still, in a negotiation? It was pure gold.
The car pulled up outside the Langston Group headquarters.
Sure enough, Park and Langston were waiting by the front doors, all smiles. They probably thought Jason was here to invest—or even buy them out.
They all exchanged fake pleasantries, and Jason was quickly ushered into a private elevator and up to a sleek, windowed meeting room.
They even gave him the center seat.
Jason sat, silent for a moment, letting the tension simmer. Then he spoke.
"I'm not here to buy your company."
The smiles faltered slightly. Park looked confused. Langston furrowed his brow.
"Then… you're here to invest?" Langston asked, feigning curiosity.
Jason leaned forward. "No. I'm here because of a man named Hendricks Sang."
Park stiffened. His mouth twitched.
"I've come to respect his work recently," Jason continued. "But when I tried to hire him, I learned something strange—he'd been blackballed. Quietly. Unofficially."
Langston tried to laugh. "There's a lot of… politics in interior design."
Jason didn't smile.
"And then I found out something worse. The person most responsible for his career ruin… was also tied to Vanessa Clark's murder."
Now the room went cold.
Jason reached into his bag, pulled out a laptop, and slid a USB into it. The screen lit up on the wall.
Jason inserted the second USB. Crystal-clear footage. Park, in a parking lot, pulling a tarp from the back of a van. Langston nearby, lighting a cigarette.
A third video. Vanessa, clearly drugged, being dragged into a back room by both men.
He let it hang in the air.
"I'll make it simple," Jason said. "Drop all charges against Hendricks. Public apology video. Clear his name."
Park was sweating. Langston looked pale.
Jason leaned back. "And in exchange, I'll hand over every piece of evidence to you. Plus the location of the person who uncovered all this."
Langston swallowed. "And if we say no?"
Jason's tone didn't change. "Then I'll walk out of here, and your faces will be all over the evening news."
Silence.
Then Park pulled out his phone and dialed. "Get Hendricks' ex on the line. Ask what it'll take for her to recant."
There was back and forth. She resisted. Demanded five million and a lighter sentence. They argued her down to 3.5 and a conditional plea deal.
Jason handed over both cases.
"Once the apology goes live and Hendricks is cleared," he said, "you'll get the final location. Don't delay."
They nodded, rattled but relieved.
Jason turned and walked out.
His security didn't say a word. They'd seen the videos. They'd heard it all.
Back in the car, Jason handed one of the men the legal-use case.
"Drop this off with Lawyer Hanson. Tell him I want the Vanessa Clark case in court—soon as Hendricks' name is clear."
The guard hesitated. "I thought… you were letting them off?"
Jason glanced out the window. Obviously "I lied."
The car drove on.
Jason checked his watch.
"Antique market," he said. "Drop me off there."