Chapter 3: The Desperate Rat
Chapter 3: The Desperate Rat
Two weeks passed. I was discharged from the hospital and moved into a beautiful, secure estate on the outskirts of the city—a property Simon owned that didn't appear on any public registry. It was a sanctuary of stone and oak, surrounded by high walls and ancient trees. For the first time in years, I could breathe without permission. I watched Owen grow stronger each day, his tiny smiles beginning to surface.
But the peace was shattered on a rainy Tuesday evening.
Simon was in the kitchen, brewing chamomile tea, when the perimeter alarms blared. It wasn't the loud, obnoxious siren of a standard home alarm, but a low, rhythmic hum that pulsed through the floorboards.
Simon didn't panic. He calmly set the teapot down, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out his hearing aids, adjusting the frequency. "Serena, take the boy to the basement cellar. Lock the door from the inside. Do not come out until you hear three distinct knocks."
"Simon, what's happening?" I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"A rat has found his way into the garden," Simon said quietly. "Go."
I grabbed Owen from his crib, wrapping him in a thick blanket, and hurried down the narrow wooden stairs to the cellar. The heavy steel door clicked shut behind me, sealing us in darkness except for a single faint utility light. I held my breath, listening to the muffled sounds from above.
Upstairs, the front door didn't shatter; it was unlocked from the inside.
Evan had used a corrupt locksmith or a stolen key code, but he hadn't come alone. He had brought three men with him—local thugs hired from the docks, desperate men willing to do anything for the cash Douglas had managed to smuggle out before his accounts were frozen.
Evan strode into the living room, his arm still in a thick plaster cast from Simon's grip two weeks ago. His face was gaunt, his eyes bloodshot, smelling heavily of cheap whiskey and desperation.
"Serena!" Evan shouted, his voice echoing through the empty halls. "Bring my son out here! You think you can ruin my life? You think you can take my money and my name? I built this city! My dad owns this town!"
He stopped when he saw Simon sitting calmly in an armchair by the fireplace, a cup of tea in his hand.
"You," Evan hissed, his face contorting with rage. "You old bastard. You ruined everything. My dad is paralyzed with fear because of some ancient ghost story, but I'm not him. I don't care who you used to be. Boys, break his other leg. Then find my wife."
The three thugs stepped forward, pulling heavy iron pipes and knives from their jackets. They looked at Simon—a 72-year-old man with a limp—and smiled, thinking this would be an easy paycheck.
Simon took a slow sip of his tea. He set the porcelain cup down on the saucer with a soft clink.
"You haven't taught him anything, Douglas," Simon said aloud to the empty room.
From the shadows behind the curtains, two men stepped out. They weren't old like Simon. They were in their thirties, built like brick walls, wearing tactical gear with no insignia. In their hands, they held silenced submachine guns.
The three thugs froze instantly, their pipes dropping to the carpet with heavy thuds. They raised their hands, their tough-guy personas evaporating in a second.
"We didn't know," one of the thugs stammered. "We were just told it was a domestic dispute. We're leaving. We're leaving right now."
"Leave the weapons," one of Simon's men ordered, his voice devoid of emotion. The thugs dropped their knives and scrambled out the front door, leaving Evan standing entirely alone in the center of the room.
Evan looked around, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The reality of his situation was finally crashing down on him. He had no lawyers. He had no money. He had no father to protect him. He was just a bully who had cornered a lion thinking it was a house cat.
Simon stood up from his chair. His limp seemed less pronounced now, buried under decades of muscle memory. He walked over to Evan, who was trembling so hard he could barely stand.
"You struck my granddaughter because she wanted to name her child Owen," Simon said, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it filled the room with terrifying gravity. "You thought power was something you inherited from your father's stolen money. Let me teach you what real power is, Evan."
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Simon reached out and tapped Evan’s plaster cast with a single finger. Evan whimpered, flinching away.
"Real power is the ability to destroy someone completely, and choosing to let them live because they simply aren't worth the effort," Simon said. "You are going to leave this house. You are going to sign the final divorce papers. And if you ever look in the direction of my family again, I won't send my men. I will come myself."
