The morning had fully settled by the time Stephanie and her mother stood at the front of Riley's house.
The air was calm—almost deceptively so.
Ethan walked them to the steps himself, tablet tucked under his arm, expression professional but warm. The guards remained at their posts, silent and watchful.
"Well," Ethan said, adjusting his glasses, "this is where we part for now."
Stephanie nodded, fingers clasped together. "Thank you. For everything."
He smiled. "You're welcome. And—" he paused deliberately, "you'll officially begin your role as Head of Tactical Design first thing Monday morning."
Her eyes widened.
"M-Monday?" she repeated, a nervous laugh slipping out. "That's… soon."
"Very," Ethan agreed cheerfully. "But you'll manage. You already survived Riley's interview."
Her mother chuckled softly. "I think that qualifies her for anything."
Stephanie groaned. "Please don't remind me."
Ethan laughed, then grew more serious. "A vehicle will pick you up daily. Security protocols remain in place along with a nanny who will be taking care of your mum when you aren't around."
Stephanie hesitated. "Is that really necessary?"
Ethan met her gaze. "Yes."
She didn't argue after that.
They exchanged farewells, and soon Ethan watched as Stephanie and her mum went back toward their home prepared by Riley.
Along the way, Stephanie was deep in thought, heart pounding.
Head of Tactical Design.
The words felt unreal.
---
Ethan didn't linger outside after Stephanie and her mum arrived at their home.
The moment the two of them disappeared from view, his demeanor shifted. He turned and headed straight back inside, walking with purpose.
He found Riley in the study.
The large screen in front of him displayed layered data—financial records, shell companies, interest spikes, intimidation reports. Names blurred into one another until they stopped at a single point.
Riley stood with his arms folded behind his back.
"He didn't start as a loan shark," Riley said without turning.
Ethan closed the door quietly. "No. He started as a facilitator."
Riley's fingers tightened slightly.
"He targeted widows," Riley continued. "Military families. People with predictable pride and limited support."
Ethan nodded. "Debt structures were designed to collapse within eighteen months. After that, enforcement took over."
Riley finally turned.
"And the lure?"
"Medical assistance grants," Ethan replied. "Fake. Branded as veteran relief programs."
Silence fell.
Stephanie's father's face flashed briefly across Riley's mind—unbidden, unwelcome.
"So," Ethan said carefully, "you've identified him."
"Yes." Riley's voice was flat. "I know exactly who put them in that position. Who signed off on the structure. Who profited before handing them to Viper's network."
"And?"
Riley's gaze hardened, something lethal settling behind his eyes.
"He didn't just lure them into debt," he said.
"He used my people to do it."
Ethan inhaled slowly.
"That's a declaration of war," he said.
Riley turned back to the screen.
"No," he replied coldly. "It's a confession. And he is about to do it publicly. Ready the car, let's go pay him a visit."
The screen dimmed.
Outside, Crescent City moved on—unaware that a line had just been crossed.
And this time, Riley Styles wasn't reacting.
He was preparing.
———
By day, he wore kindness like a uniform.
The office was modest—too modest for the kind of money flowing through it. Posters lined the walls: Veteran Relief, Medical Assistance, Emergency Housing Support. Soft chairs. Warm lights. A kettle always boiling.
People trusted places like this.
A middle-aged woman sat across from him, hands trembling as she clutched a folder of medical bills.
"I don't know what else to do," she whispered. "They said you could help."
He smiled gently.
"That's what we're here for," he said, sliding a form toward her. "Just a short-term loan. Minimal interest. Once you're back on your feet, it disappears."
Her eyes filled with tears of relief.
"Thank you," she breathed.
He nodded, already calculating.
By afternoon, there were three more like her.
A laid-off dockworker.
A widower with a disabled son.
A young couple drowning in rent arrears.
Different faces. Same desperation.
Same trap.
By the time night fell, he locked the office with a satisfied hum, slipping his coat on as he stepped into the cool evening air. His phone buzzed—confirmations, numbers, projections.
Good haul today.
Big fish.
He drove home smiling.
---
The house lights were on when he arrived.
That was strange.
He frowned slightly as he unlocked the door, stepping inside. The scent of his expensive cologne lingered in the air—mixed now with something colder. Metal. Rain. Leather.
The living room light flicked brighter.
He froze.
They were already there.
Four men stood spaced evenly around the room, dressed in black, faces unreadable, posture relaxed in a way that screamed discipline. Not thugs. Not enforcers.
Soldiers.
And at the center of it all—
Riley Styles sat on his couch.
One leg crossed over the other. Hands resting calmly on his knee. Expression unreadable, eyes sharp and mercilessly focused.
The man's mouth opened.
No sound came out.
"You had a productive day," Riley said calmly.
The man staggered back a step, hand shaking as it moved instinctively toward his pocket.
A gun was pressed lightly against the side of his head before he could blink.
"Don't," one of the men said quietly.
Riley stood.
Slowly.
"You market hope," Riley continued, voice even. "You sell relief. You target families with military backgrounds because you know they won't ask questions."
The man swallowed hard. "I—I don't know what you're talking about."
Riley stepped closer.
"You flagged Stephanie Rogers' mother personally," he said. "You rerouted her to Viper's network once she stopped complying."
The man's knees buckled.
"She wasn't special," he stammered. "None of them are! It's just business!"
Riley's eyes darkened.
"She is special," he said softly. "Because she is now under my protection."
The words landed like a death sentence.
"I didn't know," the man sobbed. "I swear—I didn't know who you were—"
"That," Riley interrupted, "is the only reason you're still breathing."
Silence swallowed the room.
Riley straightened, turning slightly.
"Take him," he ordered.
Hands seized the man instantly. He screamed as he was dragged toward the door, terror finally shattering the illusion of control he'd lived under for years.
As he was hauled away, Riley spoke one last time—cold, precise, final.
"You don't collect debt," he said.
"You collect suffering."
The door slammed shut.
Riley didn't watch them leave.
He simply picked up his coat and walked out into the night—already moving on to the next name on the list.
Because this wasn't revenge.
This was cleanup.