Chapter 6 Six
The financial irregularities weren’t minor—they were glaring.
Ethan sat cross-legged on the floor in his new apartment. He didn’t have any furniture yet, just a box of documents, his phone, and the system screen floating in front of him like a weird secret window. He started digging through the files the system flagged.
Lawrence Luther’s father, Gerald Luther, ran Luther Holdings. On the surface, it looked like your typical diversified investment firm—some real estate, private equity, a tiny logistics arm. Everything looked clean. Respectable. The kind of company that pops up in business articles next to words like “stalwart” and “established.” Gerald had spent thirty years building it, and by any public standard, he was above board.
The system didn’t care about appearances.
It had uncovered something buried deep under layers of shell companies and hidden offshore accounts. We’re not talking about some minor accounting slip-up, either. There was a forty million dollar hole—money Luther Holdings claimed as returns on investments that, once you traced them, simply didn’t exist. The investments themselves were real. The returns, though? Completely made up. The money had been shuffled from somewhere else and moved so fast that if you weren’t looking closely, you’d miss it.
Ethan read through it twice, just to be sure.
Then he closed the system and sat there in the silence, thinking about what he held in his hands.
He couldn’t use this right away, and that was the first thing that made sense. Walking into a police station with info pulled from a supernatural database only he could see wasn’t exactly workable. If he tried to use it out in the open, someone would start asking questions he couldn’t answer. But it was real, and real means it leaves traces—traces someone else could dig up, if they knew where to start.
He needed someone who knew how to dig.
Ethan reached for his phone and pulled up a browser.
Marcus Webb had a bare-bones website and zero social media—could be a warning sign, or maybe he just didn’t need any. He’d spent eleven years as a forensic accountant with the federal government, then went private. His focus? Financial fraud investigations. The office was only twelve minutes away by cab.
Ethan dialed the number listed on the site bright and early at eight o’clock.
A man answered on the second ring, voice clipped and no-nonsense. “Webb.”
“My name is Ethan Cole. I need an investigator. I’ve got a target, some starting points, and I need someone who can build a case from scratch without setting off alarms.”
Pause. “How’d you find me?”
“You were the third result for forensic fraud investigator in the city, not tied to any firm.”
“What’s wrong with firms?”
“Too many bodies. I need quiet.”
Longer pause this time. “Come in at ten.”
Webb looked to be mid-forties, compact, with a kind of calm that comes from years of dealing with messy information and not overreacting. His office was small and almost intentionally bland—just two chairs, a desk, a window revealing nothing special but a fire escape. No framed degrees. No certificates. Just a whiteboard covered in the faded ghosts of notes scrubbed away again and again.
He listened to Ethan all the way through without jumping in.
Ethan told him the gist—Luther Holdings, those shell companies, the size of the hole, the offshore trail—but skipped explaining how he knew all that. Webb stared at him for a few seconds.
“You’re nineteen,” Webb finally said.
“Yeah.”
“This is a big target. Gerald Luther has enough lawyers on retainer to kill investigations bigger than whatever you’re planning.”
“I know.”
“So why bother?”
Ethan paused and thought about it honestly. “His son shot me four days ago. The dad’s money is what lets him get away with it. I want to change that.”
Webb didn’t smile or frown, but something about him seemed to settle—like everything clicked into place. He picked up a pen and fiddled with it.
“If what you’re saying checks out, it’s a solid RICO case. The kind that doesn’t just sink a company, but drags down everyone running it.” He put the pen down. “Five grand a week. Covers expenses, too. I don’t talk to journalists or rivals. I keep digging until I find what you want or prove it isn’t there.”
“It’s there,” Ethan replied.
“Then I’ll find it.” Webb held out his hand. “But this isn’t quick. It’ll take months. You rush it, the whole thing falls apart before it ever gets anywhere.”
Ethan shook his hand. “I can wait.”
Leaving Webb’s office, Ethan stepped outside with his hands shoved into his pockets. Morning traffic moved around him, indifferent. Months didn’t bother him. Three years delivering pizza taught him all about waiting, and that patience was part of survival.
His phone buzzed. Shelly.
Office space — I found three options. Two in Midtown, one in the financial district. The FiDi one is smaller but the address carries weight. Sending you the listings now.
He scrolled through the listings. Nice spots, solid addresses—places that said everything about someone before they even spoke.
FiDi, he replied. Book a viewing for tomorrow.
He put his phone away and checked the system.
[Mission 2: E-Rank Dungeon — Time Remaining: 31:14:09]
Thirty-one hours left. He’d spent almost seventeen getting things in order—new apartment, Shelly, Webb, all the slow-moving pieces that would eventually tear Lawrence’s foundation out from underneath him. Still had a dungeon to clear, though. The system didn’t care how busy you were.
Ethan hailed a cab.
The dungeon portal would open the second he got home, just like last time. He knew the drill now. He also knew he’d be walking in at level one, facing E-Rank enemies—one step above what almost wiped him out before.
He leaned back and watched the city blur past.
Fine. People underestimated him his whole life.
He was just starting to realize that was the best edge he had.
