I shook my head, the stale air of the basement office suddenly thick with unspoken threats.
“I won’t sign it, Mr. Holloway,” I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my chest. “I can’t shift liability without understanding the full scope of these filings.”
Victor Holloway’s expression didn’t change, not a flicker. His eyes, dark and unblinking, simply took me in, like a predator assessing its prey.
“A regrettable decision, Mr. Banneker,” he said, his tone flat, devoid of emotion. He picked up his massive legal binder. The leather creaked.
He didn’t say another word, just turned and walked out, the soft click of the closing door sounding like a final verdict. I watched the spot where he’d been, a cold dread settling over me. I knew it wouldn’t be the end.
But I didn’t expect how quickly, or how deeply, he would strike.
Two days later, my phone buzzed with an alert from my bank. Then another. And another.
I pulled it from my pocket, my thumb hovering over the screen, a knot tightening in my stomach. The first notification was from my primary checking account: “$0.00 available balance due to legal injunction.”
My hands started to shake. I swiped to the next notification. My savings. Also frozen.
I felt a sudden, dizzying lurch. Just that morning, I’d been planning to grab some groceries for dinner. Now, even that seemed impossible.
A third notification flashed, this one from City Hall’s internal system. My municipal clearance, the very access that allowed me to do my job, was suspended.
The system locked me out entirely. I couldn’t even log into my city email.
The chilling precision of it hit me. This wasn’t just about the grant money. This was personal. Holloway wasn’t trying to win a court case; he was trying to bury me.
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