The air inside the Hobart Tannery was entirely still, completely isolated from the toxic, freezing rain of the city by two feet of reinforced brick and heavy iron plating.
Cole stood in the center of the luxurious, heavily carpeted second floor living quarters. He was fully dressed in his bespoke, three piece suit of dark charcoal worsted wool. The crisp white Egyptian cotton collar of his shirt was perfectly starched. The silk tie was knotted with absolute, mathematical precision.
He did not wear the heavy black cashmere overcoat. It draped neatly over the back of the polished mahogany wheelchair, which now sat completely empty in the corner of the room.
He held a heavy, exquisitely crafted walking cane in his right hand.
Weaver had procured it the previous evening from an artisan in the commercial district. The shaft was made of solid, polished ebony wood, incredibly dense and nearly unbreakable. The handle was a heavy, cast silver falcon head, smoothed entirely by fine sanding to fit perfectly into the palm of a hand. It was designed as a mobility aid for the wealthy, but in Cole's grip, it was a perfectly balanced, highly lethal blunt force instrument.
Cole took a step forward.
He applied weight to the ebony cane, transferring the physical burden away from his healing right tibia. His gait was slow, methodical, and heavily pronounced. He walked with a distinct, undeniable limp.
But he did not look like a crippled victim.
The immaculate tailoring of the dark suit, the cold, completely dead expression in his pale eyes, and the heavy silver handled cane entirely transformed the limp into a highly intimidating, aristocratic swagger. It looked like the deliberate, unhurried stride of a predator who possessed absolutely no reason to run.
Weaver stood near the heavy iron door of the living quarters, holding his own leather medical satchel. The doctor watched Cole pace across the room, his eyes filled with a mixture of profound medical pride and deeply ingrained terror.
"The mobility is excellent, Mr. Mercer," Weaver stated, his voice carrying the respectful, highly subservient tone he now maintained permanently. "The cane successfully mitigates the structural stress on the calcified bone. You can traverse short distances without risking a secondary fracture."
Cole stopped pacing. He turned slowly, leaning both hands onto the silver falcon head.
"We are going to traverse exactly three blocks today, Silas," Cole replied softly, his voice carrying the cold, absolute certainty of a steel trap snapping shut.
"We have hidden in this fortress for six weeks. We have gathered the intelligence. We have smelted the capital. But raw, liquid cash stored in an iron box is entirely useless in the broader mechanics of the city. A man who simply spends large amounts of money without an explanation is a target."
"A man who owns a legitimate, highly visible commercial enterprise is a citizen. A citizen pays taxes, employs workers, and interacts with the elite on a foundation of documented reality."
Cole walked toward the heavy cashmere coat. He pulled it smoothly over his shoulders, letting the long, dark fabric fall past his knees, completely obscuring his thin frame.
"We are going to purchase a reality today."
They exited the heavily fortified tannery. Weaver locked the massive iron door behind them, securing the multiple reinforced deadbolts.
A private, enclosed carriage was waiting for them in the muddy alleyway, prearranged by Weaver. The driver, completely unaware of the fortress hidden behind the boarded windows, tipped his hat respectfully as the wealthy heir and his private physician climbed into the plush velvet interior.
The carriage rolled smoothly out of the industrial sector, heading toward the bustling, highly organized chaos of the municipal shipping district.
Cole sat in the dark interior, looking at the blue text hovering silently in his retinas.
[Current balance: 305.6 Silver Eagles.]
He had spent exactly twenty Eagles running simulations over the past six weeks, compiling a massive, flawless database of the city's power structures. He knew exactly which businesses were thriving, which were failing, and which were secretly controlled by the Iron Foundry Cartel.
He did not want a thriving business. A thriving business was expensive, heavily scrutinized, and structurally rigid.
He wanted a dying business. He wanted a commercial corpse that still possessed valid municipal licenses, legitimate property deeds, and a desperate, highly pliable owner.
"The target is Osgood Freight and Storage," Cole instructed Weaver as the carriage navigated the crowded streets.
"It is a mid sized logistics firm located on the edge of the railyards. They possess three heavy transport wagons, a large commercial warehouse, and highly valuable municipal shipping permits that allow them to move massive, sealed cargo crates through the city without police inspection."
"Thomas Osgood, the owner, is currently on the verge of catastrophic bankruptcy. We are going to acquire his entire operation."
Weaver nodded, entirely trusting the boy's impossible, omniscient intelligence gathering.
The carriage halted outside a large, incredibly dilapidated brick warehouse. The painted sign above the main office door was faded and peeling. Several large, empty transport wagons sat rusting in the muddy yard.
Cole and Weaver exited the carriage. Cole leaned heavily on the silver cane, his black cashmere coat snapping in the cold wind sweeping off the nearby railyards.
They entered the main office of Osgood Freight.
The interior was dusty, smelling of cheap cigar smoke and profound failure. Stacks of unpaid invoices and foreclosure notices littered the front desk.
Sitting behind the desk was Thomas Osgood. He was a heavily sweating, middle aged man with thinning hair and entirely bloodshot eyes. He looked up as the elegant silver bell on the door chimed, his expression shifting from deep despair to confused annoyance as he saw the highly tailored aristocratic boy and the sharp looking doctor.
"We are closed," Osgood grunted, wiping his sweating forehead with a dirty handkerchief. "Not taking any new shipping contracts. The company is undergoing restructuring."
It was a pathetic, transparent lie.
Cole did not walk to the desk. He stood perfectly still in the center of the dusty floor, resting both hands on his cane, staring at Osgood with absolute, mechanical detachment.
"You are not restructuring, Mr. Osgood," Cole stated, his voice completely flat. "You are completely insolvent. The municipal bank is foreclosing on this warehouse at exactly eight o'clock tomorrow morning."
Osgood froze. His bloodshot eyes widened in sudden, highly defensive panic.
"Who the hell are you?" Osgood demanded, standing up behind the desk. "Are you from the bank? You have no right to come in here and harass me. I have until tomorrow morning."
Cole looked at the man. He needed to completely break Osgood's defensive pride. He needed to purchase the entire company, including the physical assets and the municipal permits, for a fraction of their actual value. To do that, he needed absolute, undeniable leverage.
He needed to know exactly how desperate Osgood truly was.
"System," Cole whispered internally. "Deduct 1 Silver Eagle. Initiate simulation."
[Balance updated. Current balance is 304.6 Silver Eagles.]
[Simulation starting in 3, 2, 1.]
The dusty office completely vanished in a blinding flash of white light.
Cole opened his eyes in the projected future.
"I am not from the bank," Cole stated in the simulation. "I am a private investor. I am willing to offer you fifty Silver Eagles for the complete transfer of all deeds, physical assets, and municipal permits associated with Osgood Freight."
Osgood laughed bitterly, a harsh, desperate sound.
"Fifty Eagles?" Osgood spat. "The warehouse alone is assessed at three hundred. The permits are worth another hundred. You are out of your mind, boy. I will let the bank foreclose before I sell my legacy for fifty Eagles."
Cole observed the man's posture. Osgood was bankrupt, but he still possessed the stubborn, irrational pride of a business owner.
In the simulation, Cole decided to apply absolute pressure.
"If you do not sell to me, you will leave this office with absolutely nothing," Cole countered sharply. "Fifty Eagles allows you to purchase a train ticket out of this city and start a new life."
Osgood's face turned completely red with sudden, violent anger. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a heavy, rusted revolver.
"Get out of my office before I shoot you for trespassing," Osgood roared, entirely losing his temper.
Cole did not retreat. He stepped forward.
Osgood pulled the trigger. The bullet struck Cole in the shoulder, throwing him backward. Weaver screamed. Osgood fired again, striking Cole in the chest.
[Simulation terminated. Host vital signs depleted. Cause of death: Dual ballistic trauma to the cardiovascular system.]
[Resetting temporal coordinates.]
Cole gasped slightly, his eyes snapping open in the dusty office.
Only a single second had passed. Osgood was still standing behind the desk, demanding to know if they were from the bank.
The first parameter was established. Osgood was highly volatile, heavily armed, and completely unwilling to accept a massive financial loss based on generic logic. His pride was a fatal barrier to the transaction.
Cole needed to find the hidden variable. Why was Osgood so terrified? A bank foreclosure was a legal process, not a death sentence. Osgood's level of sweating and panic indicated a physical threat.
"System. Deduct 1 Silver Eagle. Initiate simulation."
[Balance updated. Current balance is 303.6 Silver Eagles.]
[Simulation starting in 3, 2, 1.]
Cole awoke in the second projected future.
This time, Cole did not offer to buy the company immediately. He needed intelligence.
"I am not from the bank," Cole said smoothly in the simulation. "I am from Silky Sullivan."
It was a calculated gamble, using the name of the Cartel lieutenant Cole had learned about during his six weeks of espionage.
The reaction was instantaneous and utterly catastrophic.
Osgood dropped the dirty handkerchief. His entire body began to shake violently. The stubborn pride vanished, completely replaced by pure, unadulterated terror.
"I... I told Sullivan's men I would have the money by midnight," Osgood stammered, entirely abandoning his desk and backing away until he hit the dusty filing cabinets. "I swear. I am selling the heavy wagons today. Please, you don't have to break my legs. I have the money."
Cole simply watched the man crumble.
He had found the absolute vulnerability. Osgood did not just owe the municipal bank. Osgood owed the Iron Foundry Cartel. A bank foreclosure meant losing a building. Defaulting on a Cartel loan meant losing a life.
Cole needed to know the exact mathematical value of the debt to execute the perfect hostile takeover.
"How much do you currently owe Mr. Sullivan," Cole demanded coldly.
"One hundred and twenty Silver Eagles," Osgood sobbed, sliding down the filing cabinets to his knees. "With the interest. It was only forty Eagles originally, but the interest is forty percent a week. I can't keep up. The bank froze my accounts."
Cole possessed the exact data.
He did not need to run the simulation any further.
"System. Terminate simulation protocols."
[Confirmed. Simulation protocols suspended.]
Cole blinked, returning to the absolute reality of the dusty office.
He looked at Thomas Osgood, who was still trying to project arrogant defiance.
Cole swung his silver cane forward, taking a slow, highly deliberate step toward the desk. He did not blink. He did not smile.
"I am not from the bank, Mr. Osgood," Cole stated, his voice dropping to a terrifying, conspiratorial whisper.
"I am aware that the municipal bank is foreclosing tomorrow. But we both know the bank is the least of your concerns."
Cole stopped directly in front of the desk, leaning his weight onto the silver falcon head.
"Your immediate, highly lethal concern is the one hundred and twenty Silver Eagles you currently owe to Silky Sullivan and the Iron Foundry Cartel. A debt that is due entirely by midnight tonight."
Osgood froze completely. The color drained entirely from his sweating face, leaving him looking like a bloated corpse.
He stared at the sixteen year old boy in absolute, mind shattering horror. Nobody knew the exact amount of the debt except Osgood and Sullivan's enforcers.
"How... how do you know that?" Osgood wheezed, his chest tightening with panic.
"I know everything, Thomas," Cole replied smoothly, fully weaponizing his omniscient alias. "I am Cole Mercer. I command resources that you cannot possibly comprehend. And I am currently standing in your office to offer you your absolute, undeniable salvation."
Cole snapped his fingers without looking back.
Weaver immediately stepped forward, placing the heavy leather medical satchel onto the dusty desk. He unbuckled the straps and pulled out a thick, heavy stack of circulated Federal Bank Notes.
He counted out exactly one hundred and thirty Silver Eagles onto the wood.
Osgood stared at the massive pile of liquid currency. It was more money than his failing business had generated in six months. It was exactly enough to pay off the Cartel, avoid a brutal execution, and buy a train ticket to the coast.
"This is the transaction," Cole stated flatly, his eyes locked onto Osgood's terrified pupils.
"You will sign over the absolute deed to this building, the titles to the three transport wagons, and the complete, unadulterated transfer of all municipal shipping permits directly to the Mercer Company."
"In exchange, you will take those one hundred and thirty Silver Eagles. You will pay Sullivan his blood money. And you will be on the three o'clock train to the Eastern seaboard before the sun sets."
"If you refuse, I will walk out of this door with my capital. The bank will take your building tomorrow. And Sullivan's enforcers will take your life tonight."
It was a completely flawless, inescapable psychological cage.
Cole had used Osgood's own impending murder as the ultimate financial leverage.
Osgood looked at the money. He looked at the heavy, rusted revolver hidden in his desk drawer. He realized that even if he shot the boy and took the money, Weaver would alert the police, and the Cartel would hunt him down regardless.
The only viable, rational path to survival was absolute surrender.
Osgood slowly opened his desk drawer. He did not reach for the gun. He pulled out a thick stack of legal documents, property deeds, and municipal permits.
He picked up a dipping pen. His hand was shaking so violently he splattered dark ink across the blotter.
He rapidly signed his name across every single document, legally transferring his entire legacy, his warehouse, and his fleet to the Mercer Company.
He pushed the stack of papers across the desk toward Cole.
Osgood then reached out and desperately grabbed the stack of Federal Bank Notes, shoving the money frantically into his coat pockets.
"Take it," Osgood whispered, his voice broken and entirely defeated. "Take the rotting building. Take the broken wagons. This city is cursed. You are cursed."
Osgood did not pack a bag. He did not look back. He simply ran out of the office, disappearing into the cold, gray rain, desperately rushing to buy his life back from the Cartel.
Cole stood in the quiet office.
He looked down at the signed deeds and permits. He had just purchased a massive commercial warehouse, a fleet of heavy transport wagons, and highly restricted municipal shipping licenses for a pathetic fraction of their actual market value.
He now possessed a completely legitimate, heavily documented commercial front in the center of Terminus City.
"Collect the paperwork, Silas," Cole ordered, turning slowly on his cane.
"Find a local sign painter immediately. Have the Osgood name completely painted over. The sign will read Mercer Logistics."
Weaver gathered the documents, placing them carefully into the leather satchel.
"This warehouse is massive, Mr. Mercer," Weaver noted, looking out through the dusty window into the huge, empty storage bay. "It is structurally sound, but completely exposed. We have no security here."
"We do not require security here," Cole replied smoothly. "We will not store the gold here. We will not conduct illicit operations here. This warehouse exists solely to generate legitimate paper trails, to employ legitimate drivers, and to provide a physical address for the Cartel to recognize."
Cole walked toward the door.
"And they will recognize it very quickly."
Cole was entirely correct.
In Terminus City, the transfer of a commercial property was not a private affair. The municipal clerks who registered the deeds were entirely compromised. They routinely sold copies of property transfers directly to the Iron Foundry Cartel.
Any new business owner in the industrial or shipping districts was immediately subjected to the Cartel Tax. It was an unspoken, highly violent law of the city. You paid a twenty percent gross tribute to the local Cartel Boss, or your warehouse burned down with your employees locked inside.
Cole knew this. He had witnessed it multiple times in the void during his six weeks of espionage.
He had intentionally bought a business to trigger the Cartel's attention. He wanted them to come to him.
Three hours later, the sign painter had finished his work. The faded Osgood name was gone, replaced by crisp, sharp black letters reading Mercer Logistics.
Cole sat behind the heavy wooden desk in the main office. Weaver stood near the window, watching the muddy street outside.
"They are here," Weaver whispered, stepping back from the glass, his face entirely pale.
A heavy, dark enclosed carriage pulled into the muddy yard of the warehouse.
Four massive men stepped out. They wore heavy leather dusters over sharp suits. They carried repeating rifles and heavy iron crowbars.
The leader of the group was a tall, heavily muscled man with a thick neck and a highly distinctive, jagged scar running vertically down his left cheek.
Cole recognized him instantly from his simulations.
His name was Garrick Stone. He was a high level enforcer, a lieutenant directly reporting to Malachi, one of the three Bosses of the Iron Foundry Cartel triumvirate.
Garrick Stone did not knock. He kicked the main office door open with his heavy leather boot, shattering the elegant silver bell above it.
He marched into the office, his three armed thugs spreading out behind him, immediately blocking the exit.
Garrick looked at the gaunt doctor standing nervously by the window. He then looked at the sixteen year old boy sitting calmly behind the desk, wearing an expensive cashmere coat and resting his hands on a silver handled cane.
Garrick frowned, clearly confused by the sheer lack of terror in the room. Usually, new business owners were sweating and pleading by the time he kicked the door open.
"You the new owner of this mud hole?" Garrick demanded, his voice a deep, aggressive rumble that vibrated the dusty glass of the windows.
"I am Cole Mercer," Cole replied flatly, not rising from the chair. "I own Mercer Logistics. You are trespassing on private commercial property."
Garrick laughed. It was a dark, highly violent sound. The three thugs behind him chuckled, racking the bolts of their repeating rifles.
"Private property doesn't exist in the railyards, boy," Garrick sneered, stepping directly up to the desk and slamming his massive, calloused hands onto the wood.
"This district belongs to Boss Malachi. Osgood paid twenty percent of his freight profits every month to operate here. Since you bought the permits, you bought the tax. And since you look like you can afford expensive coats, the tax just went up to thirty percent."
Garrick leaned heavily over the desk, his scarred face inches from Cole's.
"You are going to open whatever safe you have back there, and you are going to hand over fifty Silver Eagles as an introductory fee. Or we are going to break your other leg, burn this warehouse to the ground, and sell your doctor to the chemical wards."
Weaver completely froze, his eyes darting frantically between the rifles and the door.
Cole sat perfectly still.
He was at the absolute, critical nexus of his grand architecture.
If he simply paid the tax, he established himself as a weak, compliant victim. The Cartel would slowly bleed him entirely dry, exactly as they had done to Osgood, until he was bankrupt and murdered.
If he ordered Weaver to draw a weapon, they would be immediately shot to pieces by four repeating rifles.
He could not submit, and he could not fight. He had to completely dominate the psychological battlefield. He had to break Garrick Stone, a hardened Cartel lieutenant, in front of his own men.
To do that, he needed absolute, devastating leverage. He needed to find the flaw in Garrick's armor.
"System," Cole whispered internally, his face a completely emotionless mask. "Deduct 1 Silver Eagle. Initiate simulation."
[Balance updated. Current balance is 303.6 Silver Eagles.]
[Simulation starting in 3, 2, 1.]
The dusty office and the scarred enforcer vanished in a blinding flash of white light.
Cole opened his eyes in the projected future.
He was staring directly into Garrick's scarred face.
In the simulation, Cole decided to test the limits of Garrick's loyalty to Boss Malachi.
"I will not pay Boss Malachi a single Copper Pence," Cole stated coldly in the void. "I represent an Eastern syndicate. If you attempt to extort me, we will initiate a violent, full scale territorial war against the Iron Foundry Cartel."
Garrick did not even blink.
The enforcer simply reached across the desk, grabbed Cole by the throat with one massive hand, lifted him out of the chair, and slammed him violently into the brick wall.
"We don't care about Eastern syndicates," Garrick roared, pulling a heavy hunting knife from his belt. "This is our city."
Garrick drove the heavy knife directly into Cole's stomach, twisting the blade with practiced, brutal efficiency.
[Simulation terminated. Host vital signs depleted. Cause of death: Massive abdominal trauma and exsanguination.]
[Resetting temporal coordinates.]
Cole gasped slightly, returning to reality.
The first parameter was established. Generic threats of external violence did not work against mid level lieutenants. They operated entirely on local, immediate power dynamics. Garrick was absolutely confident in the Cartel's supreme dominance over Terminus City.
Cole needed specific, highly localized leverage. He needed to find a secret that Garrick was hiding from his own Boss.
"System. Deduct 1 Silver Eagle. Initiate simulation."
[Balance updated. Current balance is 302.6 Silver Eagles.]
Cole ran four consecutive simulations.
He died four brutal, agonizing deaths. He was stabbed, shot, and beaten with an iron crowbar.
But during the simulations, Cole systematically interrogated Garrick, using his own impending deaths to push the enforcer into revealing information. Cole analyzed Garrick's reactions, looking for micro expressions of fear or hesitation when specific topics were mentioned.
In the fourth simulation, Cole intentionally provoked Garrick into a prolonged beating, using the time to carefully observe the physical items the enforcer carried. As Garrick stood over him, preparing to deliver a fatal blow, Cole noticed a highly distinctive, heavy brass key hanging from a chain around Garrick's thick neck.
The key possessed a unique, triangular head. It was not a standard municipal lock key. It was a specialized, high security lockbox key used exclusively by the subterranean smuggling vaults located near the river docks.
Why would a Cartel lieutenant reporting to Boss Malachi possess a private, highly secure smuggling vault entirely outside of Cartel territory.
The answer was simple, raw mathematical logic.
Garrick was stealing from the Cartel.
Garrick was skimming high value cargo from the railyards before reporting the yields to Boss Malachi, and hiding the stolen goods in a private vault near the river.
It was the exact same flaw Cole had exploited in Victor Vance. Greed was the universal corrosive agent that destroyed loyalty.
Cole had the absolute, devastating leverage.
"System. Terminate simulation protocols."
[Confirmed. Simulation protocols suspended.]
Cole sat in the absolute reality of the dusty office.
He was staring directly into the scarred, highly aggressive face of Garrick Stone.
"Fifty Eagles, boy," Garrick sneered, totally unaware that the teenager sitting in front of him had just spent hours dissecting his life in the void. "Right now."
Cole did not blink. He did not reach for his wallet.
He leaned slightly forward, resting his chin on his hands, perfectly completely calm.
"I am not going to pay you fifty Silver Eagles, Garrick," Cole stated, his voice incredibly smooth, entirely devoid of fear.
Garrick's eyes narrowed. He signaled the three thugs behind him. The sound of rifle bolts racking echoed loudly in the small room.
"You must have a death wish, crippled boy," Garrick growled, reaching across the desk.
"My death will not benefit you," Cole interrupted sharply, his voice slicing through the physical threat with absolute, terrifying authority.
"My death will only result in a heavily sealed envelope being delivered directly to the personal residence of Boss Malachi."
Garrick stopped. His massive hand hovered in the air above the desk.
He looked at the boy, a flicker of highly paranoid confusion crossing his scarred face.
"What are you talking about?" Garrick demanded, his voice losing a fraction of its aggressive rumble.
Cole did not raise his voice. He spoke with the cold, mechanical precision of a firing squad commander reading a sentence.
"I am talking about the heavy brass key with the triangular head that you currently wear on a chain around your neck, Garrick."
Garrick physically flinched. His left hand instinctively flew to his chest, pressing against his heavy leather duster to feel the outline of the hidden key.
The three thugs standing behind him exchanged confused, nervous glances.
Cole pressed the absolute advantage, entirely dismantling the enforcer in front of his own men.
"I am talking about the private, high security subterranean smuggling vault you currently rent near the river docks, completely outside of Boss Malachi's operational territory," Cole continued flawlessly, his pale eyes burning into Garrick's soul.
"I am talking about the crates of imported silk, the unrefined silver ore, and the heavy repeating rifles that you have systematically, quietly skimmed from the railyard shipments over the past six months before reporting the final manifests to your superiors."
The blood completely drained from Garrick's scarred face. He looked exactly like a man who had just stepped on a live landmine.
If Boss Malachi discovered that one of his most trusted lieutenants was secretly stealing Cartel cargo and hoarding it in a private vault, Malachi would not simply shoot him. Malachi would have Garrick completely flayed alive in the center of the foundry, and he would murder every single man in Garrick's crew for complicity.
Garrick stared at the sixteen year old boy in absolute, mind shattering terror.
How could this crippled, aristocratic stranger possibly know about the key? How could he know about the vault? It was entirely, mathematically impossible.
Unless the boy was exactly what he appeared to be: an immensely powerful, flawlessly informed operator backed by an organization that possessed unlimited intelligence capabilities.
"Who... who the hell are you?" Garrick whispered, his entire body trembling slightly. The threat of the repeating rifles had completely vanished, entirely neutralized by the absolute threat of exposure.
Cole sat back in his chair, resting his hands gracefully on the silver falcon head of his cane.
"I am Cole Mercer," Cole repeated, his voice echoing with absolute supremacy.
"And I do not pay taxes to lieutenants."
Cole stared deeply into Garrick's terrified eyes, officially executing his hostile takeover of the Cartel's lower hierarchy.
"You are not going to extort this warehouse, Garrick. You are going to return to Boss Malachi, and you are going to report that Osgood Freight was purchased by a highly legitimate, heavily funded Eastern logistics firm that possesses valid municipal permits and completely refused to be intimidated."
"You will tell Malachi that I am a legitimate businessman, and you will ensure that your men provide absolute, unyielding protection for my transport wagons in this district."
Cole leaned slightly to the left, his gaze turning to pure ice.
"You work for me now. If any of my wagons are delayed, if any of my shipments are inspected, or if you ever demand a single Copper Pence from this office again, the envelope containing the exact location of your river vault will be handed directly to Boss Malachi."
It was a complete, flawless psychological checkmate.
Cole had completely inverted the power dynamic. He had turned the Cartel's violent extortion attempt into an absolute, highly effective security detail, funded entirely by blackmail.
Garrick Stone, the brutal, highly feared Cartel enforcer, swallowed hard. He looked at the three thugs behind him, who were now staring at the floor, terrified of being implicated in their lieutenant's treason.
Garrick slowly lowered his hands from the desk. He took a heavy step backward, his posture completely submissive.
"I understand, Mr. Mercer," Garrick rasped, his voice completely broken by fear. "Your warehouse is secure. We... we will report back to Malachi."
"Get out of my office," Cole commanded softly.
Garrick turned around, practically shoving his own men out of the way in his desperate haste to escape the terrifying, omniscient presence of the crippled boy.
The heavy, dark carriage sped out of the muddy yard, leaving the warehouse entirely silent.
Weaver stood by the window, his entire body shaking violently. He leaned against the brick wall, wiping cold sweat from his pale face.
"You just blackmailed a lieutenant of the Iron Foundry Cartel," Weaver whispered, entirely unable to process the sheer magnitude of the suicidal audacity. "You turned a Cartel hit squad into a private security detail using nothing but words."
Cole stood up from the desk. He gripped his silver cane and walked slowly toward the door.
"I did not use words, Silas," Cole replied, stepping out into the cold, gray rain of Terminus City.
He looked up at the crisp, newly painted black sign reading Mercer Logistics.
"I used leverage. Capital purchases buildings. Leverage purchases men."
Cole looked at the blue text hovering silently in the gray smog.
[Current balance: 302.6 Silver Eagles.]
The architecture of legitimacy was complete. The Mercer Company was officially established. The Cartel was entirely blind to the threat growing within its own territory.
Cole Mercer stood in the rain, leaning on his silver cane, his dark suit blending perfectly into the shadows of the city.
The first piece of the grand machine was fully operational. Now, it was time to start feeding it capital.