The Andrew Garfield persona was no longer an idea. It was a routine.
The restroom transformation, the taxi rides, the polished shoes—it all became a well-rehearsed play. The UIAF office was his stage, and he was learning his lines:
"Maximizing inherent value." "Balancing historical preservation with modern amenity."
He spoke the language of money and it opened doors.
His first solo client was not a widow, but a man.
Mr. Sundrew. A man with the same cold efficiency, a mid-level functionary in the city's planning department.
He needed a discreet consultant to evaluate a portfolio of properties he'd inherited, wanting to offload them without drawing attention from colleagues or tax assessors.
It was a test. A small, dirty piece of the political machine. Foster—Andrew, took the file.
He spent a morning touring dilapidated warehouses and a small, vacant lot on the edge of the old city. The work was simple, but the context was messy.
This was about hiding assets, about leveraging inside knowledge. This was the grimy underbelly of the "urban infrastructure" he was supposed to be analyzing.
As he stood in the vacant lot, making notes on his data-slate, his police mind kicked in.
The lot was overgrown, but the ground felt… wrong. Too soft in one specific area. He knelt, brushing away leaves and dirt.
His fingers found not soil, but a layer of wood, recently placed. A makeshift cover.
He didn't open it. He wasn't Foster Ambrose here. He was Andrew Garfield, a housing consultant.
But the discovery sent a chill through him.
This was the reality of his new side job. It wasn't just about finding nice homes for rich people, it was about navigating a world of secrets and lies, some of them potentially buried in shallow graves... literally.
He finished his report for Mr. Sundrew, valuing the properties based on their public-facing potential and carefully omitting any mention of the soft spot in the vacant lot.
He included a standard disclaimer about recommending a full geotechnical survey prior to any sale—a piece of professional cover that felt like a cop's coded warning.
The payment hit his account, the number a balm to his constant financial anxiety.
It was more than he made in two weeks at the police station. The relief was immediately followed by a wave of self-loathing.
He was now complicit.
He was using a fake identity to help a city official possibly conceal… something.
He had plunged into the political mess he'd wanted to avoid, all for the sake of a stable life for a brother who wasn't even his.
—
That evening, as Foster Ambrose, he went over the mill homicide photos, the brutal death a stark counterpoint to the quiet corruption of his day.
He was living in both the symptom and the disease.
The Lonely Saviour was funding his war by becoming a part of the very system he was fighting.
The irony was a bitter pill, but it was one he had no choice but to swallow.