The workshop in Unit B-17 smelled of dust, stale motor oil, and the sharp tang of desperation. Ace paced back and forth on the cracked concrete floor, the cheap burner phone Ramos gave him sat heavily in his pocket, feeling like an accusation. The System's demand pulsed behind his eyes like a migraine: $2000. 7 Days. Paralysis. Evelyn leaned against a cluttered workbench, her fingers flying across her laptop keyboard, its screen casting an eerie blue glow on her focused face.
Ace stopped pacing and stated, "We need leverage that Borland will understand. It can't just be 'we have your file.' He's a cop, so he understands threats. But he also understands containment and damage control."
