The ink on the acquisition contract was still drying when I made my first call.Not to Lena, not to legal, not to my new COO.
To a journalist.
Her name was Clara Wynne, and she owed me a favor. Or rather, she owed my old self, Ethan Cross. The kind of favor you don't repay with a simple "thank you."
She picked up on the second ring. "I was wondering when you'd crawl out from under your rock," she said.
"I prefer the term 'strategic silence,'" I replied. "I have a story for you."
"I'm listening."
"Not here," I said. "The usual spot. Thirty minutes."
By the time I arrived, Clara was already seated in our usual corner booth, her coat draped over the back of the chair, a recorder on the table between us. She liked to pretend our meetings were strictly professional. We both knew better.
I slid a folder across the table. Inside were copies of internal memos, supplier disputes, and quietly buried lawsuits from one of the Cross family's most profitable subsidiaries—Valen Dynamics.
"These are gold," Clara said, flipping through the pages.
"They're uranium," I corrected. "Handle them right and they'll power your career. Mishandle them, and they'll blow a hole in your life."
She smirked. "You always did have a flair for drama. What do you want out of this?"
"I want a story," I said. "Front page. I want the words 'financial instability' and 'possible fraud' in the same sentence as Valen Dynamics. I want nervous shareholders. I want the market to smell blood."
Her eyes narrowed. "You're trying to tank their stock."
"I'm trying to give the public the truth," I said, deadpan. "The fact that the truth will cause their share price to drop is… a side effect."
Clara leaned back, studying me. "And what's in it for me?"
"Exclusive access when the real storm hits. And a piece of the next story."
We both knew she'd say yes. Clara had been chasing the big leagues for years, and this was her ticket.
By the time I left the café, the Black Ledger had already crunched the numbers. If the story went live by Friday, Valen's stock would take a 7% hit in the first 48 hours. That might not sound like much, but in the world of billion-dollar valuations, it was enough to trigger automated sell orders from institutional investors—orders that would accelerate the drop into double digits.
A small wound that would bleed them out if left untreated.
The trick wasn't to destroy them in one blow. The trick was to make the market lose faith in them, piece by piece, until the valuation collapsed under its own weight.
I spent the next two days preparing the second strike. My newly acquired company—Hargrave Systems—was a nobody in the industry, but I was about to make it the wedge that split Valen's armor.
The first step was perception. The market didn't care who you really were; it cared who it thought you were. And perception could be bought.
We launched a press release announcing Hargrave's "strategic expansion into autonomous logistics technology," a field Valen Dynamics happened to dominate. The release hinted—without outright lying—that we had secured a major undisclosed investor. The phrasing was deliberate: enough to spark speculation, vague enough to avoid legal trouble.
Then we quietly hired a handful of high-profile engineers from Valen's competitor. A few of them didn't even have relevant skills for our supposed "expansion," but that didn't matter. What mattered was that LinkedIn lit up with job changes, and whispers started circulating in industry forums.
By Thursday, Clara's article dropped.
"Valen Dynamics Facing Internal Turmoil Amid Supplier Disputes and Legal Questions."
It was a masterclass in implication. Clara didn't accuse them of fraud outright—she didn't need to. She let the leaked memos and subtle phrasing do the work. Words like "unconfirmed allegations" and "possible irregularities" were enough to plant the seed.
The market reacted exactly as I'd calculated. Valen's stock slid 6% in the first day. Not a crash—yet—but enough to make analysts shift their tone from "strong buy" to "hold."
That night, I sat in my apartment, watching the numbers scroll across the Black Ledger's interface. The AI plotted scenarios in real time, showing me the cascading effects. Supplier confidence down. Credit insurance premiums up. Employee attrition climbing.
Every variable had a value. Every value could be shifted.
Lena called around midnight. "You're making noise," she said without preamble.
"That's the point," I replied.
"Noise attracts attention. You're not exactly in a position to invite scrutiny."
"I'm not inviting it," I said. "I'm directing it. There's a difference."
She sighed. "You've been back in the game for five minutes and you're already playing like you're untouchable."
"I'm not untouchable," I said. "I'm just faster than the people who think they can touch me."
By Friday morning, Valen's stock had dipped 11%. Small investors were panicking, big investors were sniffing for an exit, and somewhere in the Cross family's penthouse, someone was asking who the hell Adrian Kane was.
Exactly as planned.
The next phase would be riskier. A stock drop was one thing—public humiliation was another. And humiliation was a weapon that left scars long after the numbers recovered.
I picked up my phone and dialed a number I hadn't used in years. When the line connected, a familiar voice said, "This better be worth my time."
"Oh, it will be," I said. "I need a shareholder meeting… disrupted."
There was a pause, then a low chuckle. "You always did have a taste for theater."