Hudson Pruitt stood safe and dry behind the glass, cradling a steaming cup of coffee. He raised his phone, snapping a photo of our miserable, drenched figures in the rain, and posted it immediately.

The caption glowed through the window: *"Senior colleagues work so hard, staying serious even in the rain. Guess I need to step up my game too~ Cute."*

Evelyn Fox stared at the post. Her knuckles went white around the bucket handle. "I'm going to kill that little bastard."

I caught her arm before she could move. "Don't."

"He's mocking us!"

"Smash the glass, you pay for it. He's not worth the debt." I kept my voice low, steady. "Besides. He won't be jumping around much longer."

For the New Year's Day event, headquarters had transferred a limited-edition global supercar to our showroom—a one-week exhibition piece worth nearly twenty million. Pitch-black. Lines smooth as a hunting cheetah. The kind of machine that didn't ask for attention.

It demanded worship.

Manager Whitney called an all-hands meeting specifically for this car. His voice dropped into a grave register he usually reserved for funerals.

"Listen up! This car is our ancestor! No one touches it. Chip a single flake of paint and selling your organs won't cover the cost." He puffed out his chest, radiating self-righteous authority. "Especially the interior. Genuine leather. Hand-stitched by top Italian craftsmen. Extremely precious. Do not touch it."

He scanned the room.

"Do you hear me?"

Heads bobbed frantically.

But the moment the meeting ended, Whitney ushered Hudson Pruitt into his office. When Hudson emerged, a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. Barely concealed arrogance.

I had a suspicion.

Sure enough—when the staff headed to the cafeteria for lunch, Hudson sneaked back into the showroom. Alone.

He fired up a livestream titled: *"New ride just dropped. Taking the bros for a spin."*

He mounted his phone on the steering wheel, tilting the angle to capture his "perfect" side profile and the luxury logo on the headrest.

"Family, look at this interior—pure handmade, low-key luxury." A wink at the camera. All performance. "This car's just so-so. Bit over twenty million. I usually just use it for grocery runs."

The chat exploded. Viewers who didn't know better spammed "666" and "Rich boss, take me for a ride!"

Intoxicated by the flattery, Hudson pulled a cigar from his pocket. Lit it. Inhaled deep. Blew a slow, pretentious smoke ring.

"A man must have taste," he declared.

Then his hand twitched.

A clump of burning ash fell directly onto the pristine white leather of the passenger seat.

A black hole. Fingernail-sized. Seared into the material.

Hudson froze.

The blood drained from his face.

He killed the livestream. Scanned the room frantically. His gaze landed on a work jacket hanging on a nearby rack.

Moving with the guilt of a thief, he sprinted over and stuffed the smoldering cigar butt into the jacket's pocket.

Half an hour later, Manager Whitney's roar shook the walls.

"Who did this?! Who is responsible?!"

He pointed a trembling finger at the glaring black hole. His face twisted into an ugly shade of green. Staff crowded around. When they saw the damage, a collective gasp sucked the air from the room.

A twenty-million-dollar supercar.

One burn hole could cost a house down payment.

Hudson cowered behind the crowd, feigning shock.

"Manager... I... I think I saw Uncle Simon wandering around the car earlier. He... he looked like he was smoking..."

Every head turned toward Old Simon, who had just walked in from the cafeteria.

Old Simon blinked. Completely bewildered. "Why are you all staring at me? I didn't do anything."

Manager Whitney didn't give him a chance to speak. He lunged at the old man, patting him down roughly. "You think I'd accuse you without proof?"

Seconds later, Whitney pulled the cigar butt from Simon's jacket pocket.

It still reeked of burnt tobacco.

"Caught red-handed!"

Whitney held the evidence aloft, screaming in Simon's face. "Simon Dickerson! You have some nerve! The company explicitly forbade anyone from touching this car, and you dared to smoke inside it?"

He jabbed a finger at Simon's chest.

"You are deliberately destroying company property! I'm calling the police. You're going to jail!"

Old Simon stood frozen. "No... it wasn't me! I smoke ten-buck packs of Red Pagoda. I can't afford cigars!"

Sweat beaded on his forehead. His face went ashen. His breathing turned ragged.

Hudson rushed forward, grabbing Whitney's arm. Playing the benevolent peacemaker.

"Manager, please. Calm down." His voice dripped with fake sympathy. "Uncle Simon probably just had a moment of confusion. I'm sure it wasn't intentional. How about... we let him pay for the damages privately? Don't call the police. He's old. If word gets out, it'll ruin him."

Old Simon shook with rage. He pointed a trembling finger at Hudson.

No words came.

I couldn't watch this charade any longer.

I stepped forward and caught Simon as he swayed, barely keeping him upright.

"Hudson Pruitt."

My voice cut through the noise.

"When you finished your livestream just now, did you forget to turn off the replay function?"

Hudson stiffened.

"Right now, hundreds of thousands of viewers are watching a crystal-clear recording of you holding a cigar in that car." I tilted my head. "Acting like a pretentious clown."

I held up my phone. Hit play.

High-definition footage. Hudson's smug face. The tremble of his hand. Ash falling onto leather.

Crystal clear.

Hudson's face turned deathly pale.

He threw himself at Manager Whitney's legs, hugging his thigh and wailing like a toddler. "Manager! Manager, I was wrong! I didn't mean it! I did it to promote the store! I just wanted people to see our inventory—I had good intentions!"

Whitney glanced at the video on my screen. His expression shifted rapidly.

Calculating.

Then he snatched the phone from my hand and dashed it against the tiled floor.

*Crack.*

The screen shattered into a spiderweb of glass.

"What video?" Whitney roared. He pointed a finger at the three of us. "That was obviously faked! You three—you gang up to bully a newcomer, and now you're forging videos to frame him?"

His voice rose to a shriek.

"You are the cancer of this store! Parasites!"

He barked at the security guards nearby. "What are you staring at? Lock these three criminals in the warehouse! They maliciously damaged company property and tried to pin it on a colleague!"

He straightened his jacket.

"I'll deal with them after I contact legal."

The guards exchanged hesitant glances.

"I am the Manager!" Whitney bellowed. "My word is an order!"

Intimidated, the guards moved in. Grabbed us by the arms.

"Jackson Whitney!" Evelyn screamed, struggling against the grip. "This is illegal detention! Are you insane?"

We were shoved into the storage warehouse. The heavy door slammed shut.

The lock clicked.

A moment later, the lights cut out.

Total darkness.

The air was thick with the scent of rubber tires and stale engine oil. No windows. Only piles of junk in the corners.

Evelyn groped for the wall to steady herself. Her voice trembled in the dark.

"They... they actually dared to do this..."

I guided Old Simon to sit on a crate, then fished the bottle of nitroglycerin pills from his pocket. Placed one under his tongue.

That's when I heard it.

The faint, throaty roar of engines drifting in from outside.

My heart skipped.

*He's here.*

In the showroom, the red carpet had been rolled out.

Manager Whitney and Hudson Pruitt stood at the end of it, practically vibrating with deference. Hudson had changed into a suit, his hair slicked back with enough gel to reflect the overhead lights.

A convoy arrived. An elderly man stepped out of the lead vehicle, leaning on a cane. Despite his age, he radiated authority—the kind that made the air heavier. Bodyguards in black suits flanked him instantly.

Hudson lunged forward first, presenting a bouquet prepared well in advance.

"Hello, Chairman! Thank you for your hard work! I'm Hudson Pruitt. I've heard legends of your business acumen for years. Seeing you in person today..." He practically genuflected. "You have even more presence than the rumors say!"

Grandpa took the flowers without a smile.

Handed them immediately to an assistant.

His sharp eyes swept the empty showroom. His brow furrowed slightly.

"Where is Elena Henson? I recall from last month's report that she was the sales champion."

Whitney stepped in smoothly, arranging his face into a mask of pained righteousness. "Chairman! You don't know the half of it."

A dramatic sigh.

"Elena Henson relied on her seniority to form cliques and bully the new hires. When we tried to correct her, she held a grudge." He shook his head. "Out of personal spite, she deliberately damaged the limited-edition supercar on tour! We were preparing to call the police, but she... she fled to avoid punishment."

Hudson added a theatrical sigh. Pulled out his phone to display the photo of the burned seat. "Yes, Chairman. I tried to advise Elena not to be so extreme, but she wouldn't listen. It's a tragedy, really."

Grandpa's face darkened.

He tapped his cane against the floor.

*Tap. Tap.*

"Is that so?"

The words hung in the air.

"Since the exhibition car is damaged, we will need spare parts. Take me to the storeroom." His voice was flat. Unreadable. "I wish to inspect your inventory management standards."

Whitney and Hudson froze.

Their breath hitched.

"Ch—Chairman!" Whitney scrambled to block the path. "The storeroom... it's currently being renovated! Full of dust and debris. I couldn't possibly let you ruin your shoes. Why don't we go to the office for some tea—"

Inside the warehouse, I pressed my ear against the cold metal door.

Listening to Whitney's clumsy lies, a cold smile touched my lips.

I turned back to the darkness. Signaled Evelyn and Old Simon.

"Grab the tools."

We fumbled until our hands closed around heavy wrenches.

*CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!*

Metal against metal. The sound echoed through the building.

In the showroom, everyone froze.

All eyes turned toward the warehouse.

Grandpa stopped walking. His eyes—cloudy with age but razor-sharp—locked onto Manager Whitney.

His voice was devoid of emotion.

"Renovation?"

A beat.

"That does not sound like a renovation crew."

Whitney's smile turned brittle. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. "It... it's rats! Chairman, you have no idea—we have a terrible rat infestation. The rats here are enormous! We're about to hire exterminators—"

"Oh?"

Grandpa let out a cold scoff.

"I have never heard of a rat big enough to knock on a door."

He glanced at the head bodyguard.

"Kick it down."

His voice dropped.

"I want to see exactly how big these rats are."

The bodyguard nodded. Whitney and Hudson made a move to stop him, but two other guards stepped in their path.

Silent. Immovable.

The head bodyguard approached the warehouse. Raised his leg.

Drove his heel into the lock.

*CRASH!*

*Bang!*

The lock surrendered with a deafening crack.

Light flooded the warehouse—harsh, blinding, merciless. I threw my arm over my eyes, squinting against the assault. Beside me, Evelyn and Uncle Simon did the same. We must have looked pathetic, illuminated like criminals in a police lineup: faces streaked with grime, clothes disheveled, blinking like moles dragged into daylight.

Hudson recovered first.

His finger shot toward us, trembling. "Security! Get in here!" His voice cracked on the words. "Arrest these three criminals immediately! They've damaged company property! Don't let them near the Chairman!"

He lunged for my arm.

I didn't flinch. Didn't even look at him. Just shoved his hand aside and walked past him like he was furniture.

I stopped directly in front of Manager Whitney. Let the silence stretch.

"Manager Whitney." My voice came out flat. Steady. "Is this the full report you gave the Chairman?"

Whitney's mouth opened. Closed. Whatever bluster he'd prepared died somewhere between his brain and his tongue.

Because Grandpa wasn't looking at him anymore.

Grandpa was looking at my hand.

The rough wood of the doorframe had gouged a scratch across my skin. A thin line of blood welled up, bright red against my pale fingers.

His expression went dark. He tossed his cane aside.

*Smack!*

The backhand connected with Whitney's face before anyone could blink. The sound ricocheted through the showroom like a gunshot, cutting off Whitney's stammering mid-syllable.

"You *bastard*." Grandpa's voice shook—not with weakness, but with barely leashed fury. "Who gave you the courage to lock my granddaughter in a place like that?"