PAIGE
A week.
The anger has settled into something colder, harder. A sharp little stone I carry in my chest. It's better than the shattered, weeping mess I was that first night. Leon's couch saved me, but his apartment is a temporary shelter.
I can't wage a war from here.
So, I've started my own.
My bedroom floor is a war room now. Leon's old whiteboard, salvaged from a dumpster dive years ago, is propped against the wall. It's covered in my messy scrawl—arrows, names, dollar amounts.
This is my solo plan.
It's not about burning it all down anymore. That was his way. Reomen's way. A grand, explosive inferno.
My way is quieter. More surgical. I'm going to make them poor.
Not just financially poor. I'm going to strip them of their influence, their reputation, the very legacy they think is untouchable. I've mapped it all out.
