Before the officer could take the memory card, Dexter lunged forward and snatched it away, hurling it down onto the concrete floor. He crushed it under the heel of his leather shoe until the plastic casing shattered into pieces.

Dexter shrugged. "What memory card? I didn't see anything."

Jim immediately supported his claim. "I didn't see it either. Officer, she's having another episode and keeps insisting there was some kind of card."

The officer frowned but ultimately wrote only a single line in the report, stating that both parties had failed to reach an agreement.

Before leaving, the officer pulled me aside and whispered, "Miss, you're not completely innocent in this either. He's just doing his job. Don't take things so seriously. Just let this one go."

"How far should I let it go? Until he breaks down my door and rapes me?" I asked.

The officer's expression stiffened. He said nothing more, got in his car, and drove off.

…

Early the next morning, I headed downstairs to the underground parking lot.

Construction debris was piled waist-high in my parking space, including broken bricks, chunks of concrete, and renovation waste. The pink Rolls-Royce Phantom was covered in a thick layer of brick dust, and several fresh scratches were clearly visible across the paint.

Just then, rain started pouring down. I took off my blazer, rolled up my sleeves, and cleared the bricks and rubble alone in the pouring rain.

Dexter sat beneath the awning at the parking lot entrance, legs crossed, smoking and laughing loudly with his coworker. "See that? That's what happens when people don't listen. Can you believe she called the cops? I'll make sure she gets out of this complex!"

Another security guard held up his phone to record me, doubling over with laughter.

After clearing the last brick, I was soaked through. I got into the car, opened the hidden compartment in the passenger-side glove box, and pulled out a black waterproof metal case. Inside, three brand-new memory cards lay neatly arranged.

The one that had been crushed was just a blank card worth less than a dollar. All the original data had already been automatically uploaded to a private cloud server through the car's built-in system three days earlier.

In the rearview mirror, I saw Dexter's smug grin.

Then, Dexter stood with his hands on his hips, blocking the gate at the complex entrance. "What memory card? I genuinely didn't see one. Prove that you got this car legally, and I'll let you through.

"This car of yours probably came from somewhere shady, right? Did some guy give you a stolen car? We don't allow criminals in this complex!"

He deliberately raised his voice, drawing the attention of nearby residents.

I didn't argue with him. I shifted into reverse, parked the car in the public parking area outside, and began walking in and out of the complex instead.

…

That afternoon, I returned to the complex carrying my briefcase.

Dexter stopped me right at the security booth. "Stop! Routine inspection! We've had things go missing around here lately. We suspect someone may be smuggling stolen goods out of the complex."

He snatched my bag and flipped it upside down onto the pavement. My lipstick, keys, notebook, and several packs of sanitary pads scattered across the ground.

Dexter nudged the lipstick with the tip of his shoe. He bent down, picked up a pack of sanitary pads, and waved it in front of more than ten residents. "Oh, this brand is pretty expensive. These are imported, right? Did your sugar daddy buy these for you, or did you earn the money by sleeping with someone?"

Passersby covered their mouths as they snickered, while a few older women pointed at me and whispered among themselves.

A young security guard who had only recently joined the team stood by the booth, his face flushed red. He stepped forward and tugged at Dexter's sleeve. "Dexter, that's enough. She's a woman."

Dexter spun around and smacked the young guard hard on the back of the head. "Who the hell asked for your opinion? Are you taking her side now? Get lost if you don't want this job anymore!"

That same afternoon, Jim fired the young guard. The guard passed by me while carrying a cardboard box, not even daring to look up. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"I'm sorry."

I watched the young guard walk away and noted down his badge number.

The next day, the property management office posted a public notice on the bulletin board. The heading was printed in large red letters that read, "Notice of Mandatory Removal of Residents with Misconduct Records."

Their stated reason was that I had seriously violated community regulations and damaged the complex's reputation. They demanded that I move out within 30 days.

The notice was stamped with the property management's official seal. Attached beside it was a sheet filled with more than ten residents' signatures. Most of those signatures had been collected by Dexter, who went door-to-door pressuring residents into signing.

I went to a nearby real estate agency to check the market. The moment I walked in, the agent looked me up and down with a suggestive expression. "Chantelle, it's you. Someone's made an offer on your unit, which is 40% lower than the market price."

"Why has the price dropped so much?" I asked.

The agent lowered his voice. "Word has already spread throughout the area that a woman of bad character lives in your building and brings trouble.

"Chantelle, you should sell it while you still can. If you wait any longer, you won't even get this price."

When I went back, the chubby elementary school boy from next door was holding a bottle of ink and splashing it against my security door.

I seized his wrist. "Who taught you to do this?"

The boy burst into tears. The door across the hall flew open, and his mother rushed out, crossing her arms as she blocked the hallway. "What are you doing? Let go of my son! He's just a child and doesn't know any better. You're an adult. What are you picking on a kid for?"

I pointed at the ink-covered door. "He vandalized my property."

The woman spat on the ground. "What property? A filthy woman like you living here is what's corrupting my child. Throwing ink at your door was just the right thing to do. You had it coming!"

She yanked her son away and slammed the door shut.

…

At 11:00 pm that night, I walked home through the underground parking lot after working late at the office. The lights were dim and flickering. The moment I turned the corner, three security guards in casual clothes blocked the passageway, reeking of alcohol.

Dexter grabbed my wrist and shoved me against the concrete wall. His breath hit my face, thick with alcohol and cigarette smoke. "Go ahead and run. Why aren't you running? If you stayed with me, you wouldn't have to suffer so much. Wouldn't that be better than what you're going through now?"

Another guard turned on his phone's flashlight. The harsh beam made it hard for me to keep my eyes open. He laughed. "Don't rush. I'm going to record a video to keep as a memory and let everyone in the residents' group chat see how wild this bitch is in bed."

I pulled out my phone and tried to record them. Dexter smacked it out of my hand, grabbed my hair, and slammed my head against the wall.

I gritted my teeth and drove my knee hard into his groin. He let out a muffled grunt and doubled over.

Just as I tried to break free, the second man shoved me hard from behind. I lost my balance and crashed heavily to the ground. My elbows and the corner of my forehead scraped across the concrete surface, and blood seeped out.

Dexter spat beside me. "You ungrateful bitch! If you dare call the cops again, it won't just be a shove next time."

All three of them swaggered off deeper into the parking lot.

I sat on the concrete floor as blood from my forehead trickled down my cheek and dripped onto my white shirt.

The pinhole camera hidden in my shirt's buttonhole had already captured everything in 4K resolution and transmitted it in real time to an encrypted group chat. The group chat was named "Execution Team".

The latest message in the group came from someone labeled "Legal Director".

"The video has been secured as evidence. The threshold for criminal charges has been met. Ms. Stanton, are we ready to make our move?"

I typed on the screen with my bloody fingers. "Tomorrow."