THE MAN WHO BOUGHT MY ASHES

Victor brought the boys to a hidden safehouse nestled in the basement of an old clock tower near the city's original industrial sector. It was completely off the grid—no smart devices, no internet connection, and no digital footprints that Beatrice’s private security apparatus could track.

While the boys slept on makeshift cots, Victor spent the remaining hours of the night examining the magnetic tape drive. He connected it to an antique, air-gapped terminal.

The data Michael had hidden was staggering. It contained offshore banking logs, shell company registries, and email correspondences linking Beatrice Sterling to private arson contractors and corrupt city inspectors.

The Genesis Tower fire had eliminated sixty million dollars of toxic debt, allowing Vance Global to rise from the ashes while clearing prime real estate. But more horrifyingly, the documents revealed that Beatrice was planning an identical "incident" for the East District tenement blocks tomorrow evening to bypass the historic preservation laws holding up her new development project.

Thousands of working-class families lived in those blocks.

Victor stared at the screen, horrified. Twelve years ago, his cowardice had allowed Beatrice to take the reins of his ambition. He had traded his moral compass for prestige, ignoring the red flags because success cushioned the pain.

A small hand touched his elbow. He turned to find Toby holding a crumpled drawing—a crayon sketch of a man with broad shoulders holding two boys beneath a large oak tree.

"Dad said you used to build playgrounds before you built towers," Toby whispered.