Chapter Four: Cracks in the Basement
The school bell rang sharply, slicing through the lazy hum of the afternoon. Students scattered like birds released from a cage, pouring out of Visallas High, their voices rising in chaotic harmony. Among them walked Nero Visalla, his black coat flaring behind him, steps quick and irritated.
His driver stood at the gate in a sharp black suit, leaning against the door of a sleek black car, engine already humming low.
Nero tossed his bag into the backseat with careless force and slid into the passenger side. "Drive me to the cotton warehouse," he ordered.
The driver didn't question it. "Yes, sir."
As the car pulled away from the school, Nero leaned back, his fingers tapping anxiously on the window. With a scoff, he pulled open his school bag and fished out a cigarette, placing it between his lips with a frustrated grunt. Lighting it, he took a long drag, eyes narrowing as the smoke curled up toward the tinted roof.
"Micheal..." he muttered with venom. "That guy walks around like he owns this entire world. Acts like some messiah... always two steps ahead."
He took another drag.
"Just you wait," Nero hissed, staring out at the passing buildings. "When the board throws him out, I'll take his place. With Father's backing, I'll secure my position... and then his kingdom comes crashing down."
His thoughts were interrupted by the shrill tone of his phone.
Father.
Nero cleared his throat, straightened his jacket, and picked up.
"Yes, Father."
Adrian's voice came through, calm and commanding. "Head straight to the warehouse. We've got an issue with the inventory."
"I'm already on the way."
"Call me when you're done," Adrian said, and hung up without a goodbye.
The rest of the ride was quiet except for Nero's muttering. When they pulled up at the warehouse, it stood tall and old—a hollow, abandoned cotton facility to the outside world, but inside, a humming operation masked behind dust and locked doors.
Nero stepped out, flicked the cigarette to the ground, and crushed it under his shoe. The warehouse door creaked open and several workers in lab coats greeted him with bows and hurried nods.
"Sir," one said, opening the inner gate. "Welcome."
Nero didn't reply. He waved a hand and marched inside, his boots echoing on the concrete floor.
The deeper he walked, the more industrial the facility looked. Pipes ran overhead, the air smelled faintly chemical, and a heavy buzz of machinery hummed from the lower levels.
He descended a flight of metal stairs to the basement level, the real heart of the operation.
There she was—Ashley Visalla, standing confidently with arms crossed, dressed in casual but professional attire. She was speaking to the manager, a frail-looking man with thick glasses and trembling hands.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Nero snapped, his voice booming in the confined space.
Ashley turned calmly. "Saving your ass. Again."
Nero's fists clenched. "You shouldn't be meddling in my business."
Ashley rolled her eyes. "If I didn't, you'd be out five million dollars right now."
Nero's jaw tightened.
She stepped closer. "Maybe if you made smarter decisions, we'd actually be making a profit. Like we used to... when Michael handled this place."
Nero flared. "Michael, Michael, Michael! You think that name's some golden ticket? I'm sick of hearing it!"
Ashley narrowed her eyes. "Well maybe if you stopped acting like a discount villain, people would stop comparing you to him."
"This is my business now," Nero snarled. "And I'll run it however I damn well please. Now get out."
Ashley snorted. "Fine. Keep pretending you're in control. Let me know when it crashes and burns."
She gave him a venomous glare and brushed past him, her footsteps sharp as she climbed the stairs.
Nero stared after her, jaw clenched.
"Manager!" he barked.
The spectacled man flinched and stepped forward. "Yes, sir?"
"What's the damn issue?"
The manager stammered. "It's... it's been handled, sir. By Madam Ashley."
"I didn't ask who handled it," Nero growled. "What. Was. The. Issue?"
The manager adjusted his glasses nervously. "We... we discovered missing inventory. Approximately five million dollars' worth of high-purity stock is unaccounted for."
"WHAT?!" Nero's shout shook the rafters.
"We believe it's theft, sir. We're investigating all internal activity, but in the meantime, we raised the market price on the remaining stock to balance the loss."
"You're telling me someone just walked out with five million dollars of my product and you're treating it like a rounding error?!"
"I-I apologize, sir. We're tracing movement logs—"
"Shut up and FIND MY DRUGS!" Nero roared.
The manager nodded frantically and scurried off toward his office.
Nero grunted in frustration and kicked a nearby metal table, sending a tool tray clattering across the floor.
He stormed off into the processing area, passing rows of gleaming equipment and masked workers who pretended not to notice him.
In a secluded corner, he looked around to ensure no one was watching, then carefully opened a storage locker and slipped a packet of pure synth-drug into the inside pocket of his coat. He tapped the pocket twice and smiled smugly.
"Mine now," he muttered.
Moments later, he emerged from the shadows, straightened his collar, and walked out of the warehouse with confident strides.
The sun had begun to dip into the horizon, bathing the cracked concrete lot in a golden hue.
Nero climbed into his car, slammed the door shut, and leaned back with a sigh.
"Home?" the driver asked.
"Yes," Nero muttered.
As the car rolled away, neither noticed the figure perched on the roof of a nearby building.
A man in a grey hoodie adjusted his camera lens and clicked several shots—each one perfectly timed.
Nero walking into the warehouse.
Nero arguing with Ashley.
Nero exiting with the packet clearly visible inside his coat as the wind blew his jacket open.
Click. Click. Click.
The man lowered the camera. His face remained unreadable.
He packed up silently and disappeared into the growing shadows, the soft rustle of gravel the only sign he was ever there.
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