Harbor Lights was a monument to Thorne ambition, a skeleton of steel and concrete clawing its way out of the docklands. For Marco, it was purgatory. Every rivet gun blast echoed his frustration. Every aching muscle screamed his resentment. The dust choked him; the isolation gnawed at him. And the knowledge that Alex was now working *days* in the gleaming tower, closer to *him*, was a constant, corrosive acid.
He started drinking. Not heavily, but enough. A few beers after shift at the grim portside bar, trying to numb the helpless fury. Trying to drown the image of Alex, caught in Ethan Thorne's calculating gaze, slowly being reshaped into something useful to the empire that sought to crush them.
One rainy Tuesday night, soaked and shivering after a grueling shift wrestling with waterlogged rebar, Marco sat at the bar. The TV above showed a business news segment. A sleek graphic of Thorne Tower filled the screen. The caption: *Thorne Enterprises Announces Innovative Green Tech Integration in Flagship Tower Renovation.* A brief clip showed Ethan Thorne, cool and impeccable, cutting a ribbon. In the background, blurred but recognizable to Marco, Alex Moretti stood near a group of Facilities staff, holding a toolbox.
The sight was a spark in dry tinder. Alex. In a suit jacket? No, just a cleaner-looking version of the coveralls. But *there*. Part of the Thorne machine. Smiling politely? Marco couldn't tell, but the proximity, the implication, was enough. The careful control Marco had clung to snapped.
He slammed his empty beer bottle on the bar, drawing stares. "Another," he growled.
Later, stumbling back towards his cramped, shared crew-bunk trailer in the rain, the alcohol and rage merged into a toxic, reckless impulse. He pulled out his phone, fingers clumsy. He didn't call Alex. He pulled up the main switchboard number for Thorne Tower, memorized from a discarded pamphlet. His thumb hovered over the call button. What would he say? Scream into the void? Threaten the untouchable Ethan Thorne?
Then, a different number surfaced in his foggy mind. The community center. Ms. Flores. The recipient of Ethan Thorne's anonymous, manipulative "charity." The place Alex fought for. The place Thorne had callously threatened.
A vicious, drunken idea took hold. Thorne wanted to play anonymous games? So could he. He dialed the community center's number. It rang late, but someone might be there cleaning up.
A tired voice answered. "East End Community Center?"
Marco took a deep, shaky breath, pitching his voice lower, rougher. "Yeah. Listen. About that fancy art supply donation you got. The anonymous one?" He injected a sneer. "It ain't anonymous. And it ain't charity. It's blood money. From Ethan Thorne."
Silence on the line. Then, "Who is this?"
"Doesn't matter," Marco slurred. "Just know why he sent it. Guilt. For ruining a little girl's painting. For nearly destroying this place because his precious suit got dirty. He suspended the real donation, the one that could fix your roof, over his fucking ego! The art supplies? That's his conscience cleaner. So he can sleep in his penthouse thinking he's done good. But he hasn't. He's just playing with you. Like he plays with everyone." The words tumbled out, fueled by alcohol and years of pent-up fury for Alex, for Sofia, for the whole damn unfair system Thorne represented. "Don't thank him. Don't trust him. He'll crush you the second you stop being useful or convenient." He hung up abruptly, his heart hammering, the rain mixing with sudden, hot tears of shame and fury. He'd done it. He'd poisoned the gift. Just like Thorne poisoned everything.
**(End of Chapter 24)**