Gerald Marsh had the posture of a man who had been looking forward to this conversation.
Ryan pulled into the parking lot at 9 AM and saw it immediately — Gerald positioned in front of the building entrance, arms crossed, wearing the expression of someone who had rehearsed their leverage in the bathroom mirror. The lock cylinder on Ryan's apartment door was new. Edges sharp. Installed sometime in the last twelve hours.
"Morning," Gerald said.
"The lock's been changed," Ryan said.
"It has."
"My due date is tomorrow."
"I moved it." Gerald spread his hands with the pleasant ease of a man who believed he held all the cards. "Someone came through here yesterday, very interested in this specific unit. Willing to pay five hundred a month. You're at a hundred and fifty." His eyes tracked to Ryan's VW. "Match it, or we have a different conversation."
Ryan pulled out his phone and dialed.
"What are you doing?" Gerald asked.
"Reporting a potential theft. There's cash stored in that apartment. You've changed the locks without lawful written notice — I can't account for the contents." He gave the address to the dispatcher. "A significant sum of cash. Approximately twenty dollars. The apartment has been illegally secured."
Gerald stared. "*Twenty dollars.* In that apartment."
He started to laugh.
The sirens arrived nine minutes later.
Officer Dylan Turner pulled up, recognized Ryan Mercer standing next to a brand-new VW, and removed his sunglasses. He studied Gerald. Studied Ryan. Put his sunglasses back on.
"You changed the lock without written notification?" Turner asked Gerald.
Gerald produced his keys with the energy of a man donating a kidney.
Ryan went inside. Forty seconds. He came back carrying the glass jar.
He set it on the hood of the VW with a soft, absolute sound.
Gerald Marsh stopped breathing.
The jar sat there in the morning light — dollar bills in stacked layers, silver coins four inches deep at the base, the accumulated evidence of a man who had spent two years dismissing small things because he didn't understand their new value. In Riverdale City's recalibrated economy, what sat on that hood wasn't loose change. It was more money than Gerald Marsh would earn in three lifetimes.
"I'd estimate fifteen to twenty dollars in there," Ryan said pleasantly. "You're welcome to count it."
"The rent," Gerald said. His voice had lost its architecture. "The — the rate stays at —"
"A hundred and fifty," Ryan said. "As agreed. Through end of month." He paused. "And I'll need an apology."
Gerald looked at Harold Mercer, who had arrived that morning and was standing quietly by the car with the dignity of a man who had built things with his hands and lost them and was still standing. Then Gerald looked at the jar. Then at Ryan.
"I'm sorry," Gerald said.
It was stiff. But it was complete.
Twenty feet away, a young woman in an oversized trench coat had been filming since before the sirens arrived.
Ryan crossed to her in eight steps.
"ChloeGoesOutside," he said.
She lowered her phone. Her eyes were alert, slightly cautious, carrying the look of someone who had found something she hadn't expected and was still deciding what it meant. "You know who I am."
"You texted me last night."
"I said we should talk. I didn't say you should find me in a parking lot."
"I didn't find you. You came back."
She had no immediate answer to that.
"You filmed the jar," Ryan said.
"I film things. It's my job."
"Don't post my name."
She looked at him for a long moment — at his face, at the jar on the hood, at Harold standing by the car. Something was working behind her eyes. "Why?"
"I'm working on something. I don't need an audience yet."
Another long look. "Okay."
Just that. No negotiation.
Harold watched her for a moment, then looked at his son. Something had resolved in his face. He turned to where Chloe was still standing.
"That's my son," he said, with the quiet, uncomplicated pride of a man who had been worried about something for a long time and had just stopped.
Chloe's phone buzzed in her hand. She looked at the screen. Three hundred new comments. Her audience had been watching the whole time.
**[SYSTEM: Contact — Chloe Parker: ACTIVE.]**
*Mission incoming: TikTok LIVE Battle follow-up. Timer: 6 hours.*
> **[Hook]** *Chloe was composing a reply to Ryan's "don't post my name" message when a second notification appeared — not from Ryan, but from an account she didn't recognize: "I saw you filming Ryan Mercer. I'll pay you five hundred dollars for everything you have on him." She stared at the screen. Five hundred dollars. Someone wanted information on Ryan badly enough to offer five hundred dollars to a stranger. She thought about the jar. She typed back: "Not interested." Then she blocked the account and called Ryan.*