In the heart-thundering lull waiting for the next ring, Mason unconsciously scrolled his phone screen. Trembling fingers made the pages jump erratically. Headlines flitted past—some returnee sparking sentiment storms overseas, heated debates about "systems" and "survival lines." He glanced, feeling only irritation. That was distant, noisy theater. He was sitting in the silent disaster zone of his own life.
His disaster was specific: a stranger who knew he had money was trying to call. That was the only truth in his world now.
*Brrring-brrring.*
This time, Mason answered quickly, speaking first. "Enough with the cryptic routine. Let's be direct." The voice on the other end clearly paused for a second, then replied with a touch of excitement. "Straight to it. I like that, Mason... We've noticed your recent involvement with that incident at the 'Time Gallery' watch store... the substantial settlement you received... I'd like to do an interview..."
*Money.* The word flashed in Mason's mind first. They knew about the payout. A stranger who knew you had a windfall, who knew you lived in a basement, whose social ties were practically transparent, making this kind of insinuating call—in Mason's limited, grey experience, this usually meant only one thing: they wanted a cut. Or all of it.
"Don't panic yet, Mason—mind if I call you that?" Wells's voice was soothing, as if addressing a nervous child. "Let's be frank. I've looked into you, professionally, of course. That 'Time Gallery' matter was resolved too... neatly. For someone with your background, it's unusual. The people at the store are tight-lipped. The payout was swift and quiet, no follow-up disputes. That's not their usual style."
Mason's heart clenched. They were digging.
"I got lucky," he said flatly.
"Lucky?" Wells laughed, the sound dripping with undisguised derision. "At the 'Time Gallery,' luck is the cheapest commodity. They have a whole playbook for dealing with... well, clients like you. Delay, dispute, offer a paltry discount, and only consider settlement if you become too troublesome, and even then, they make sure it costs you. But you, Mason, you skipped all of it. Like... you held a card they had to honor. I'm curious. What card was that?"
*He's fishing. Looking for leverage, or for the 'connection' he thinks I have.* Mason understood instantly. They thought he had a secret weapon, and that weapon itself might be valuable information.
"I didn't have a card. I just kept complaining."
"Kept complaining?" Wells repeated, leisurely. "A convenience store night clerk makes the 'Time Gallery' back down by 'complaining'? Do you believe that? Listen, Mason, I'm not your enemy. Quite the opposite. I think you have a story. And stories—especially ones about unequal fights, the little guy winning—have a market. Some people pay for those stories. Or pay to keep them untold. It depends on how 'cooperative' the protagonist is."
Naked extortion, dressed as a "story trade." Mason felt blood rush to his head, only to be forced back down by cold reality. They didn't just want money; they wanted to extract the "secret" behind his success—a secret Mason couldn't even explain (the system? dumb luck?) but which Wells clearly deemed valuable.
"I don't have a story to sell you," Mason said, trying to sound firm. "And I don't have much money."
"Oh, don't sell yourself short." Wells's voice lowered, turning conspiratorial. "I've seen the public records. That settlement is enough to get you out of this rat hole, find a decent apartment, even float you for a while without work. But it can also vanish quickly, especially if you attract new, more expensive troubles. And I... happen to know people who can make trouble. Or solve it. The key is how we define our relationship. Partners collaborating to uncover an inspiring tale? Or..." He paused deliberately. "...adversaries making trouble for each other? You can treat my next questions as an appraisal. Of your story's value. Answer well, maybe we find a profitable path for both of us. Answer poorly... what the 'Time Gallery' gave you, we can make you repay in another way."
Then, Wells began a series of sharp, specific questions that went far beyond a consumer dispute: What exact channels did he use to apply pressure? Did he contact anyone above the store manager? Did the other party show unusual wariness or urgency to settle? Did any third party offer legal or negotiation advice? The questions pinpointed every "irregular" aspect of the event, as if Wells had a standard procedure report and Mason's case was a glaring anomaly on it.
Mason could only be vague. Most answers were "I don't know," or "I just followed the complaint process." He could sense Wells's disappointment, but mixed with a keener interest—the excitement of a hound losing an obvious scent, thus becoming more convinced the prey was worth tracking.
After the draining call ended, Mason, feeling hollow and more confused, contacted Elena. He recounted the conversation verbatim, focusing on Wells's obsession with the "anomalous resolution" and the blatant, everything-has-a-price tone.
Elena listened, then was silent for a moment. When she spoke again, the slightly amused analysis was gone, replaced by a clear, cold precision.
"He's not just extorting you, Mason," she said. "He's conducting due diligence."
"What?"
"Appraising your 'anomaly,'" Elena stated bluntly. "A common thug only cares how much you have. He cares *why* you got it. He believes your success involved an irregular force—maybe you have leverage, maybe you inadvertently tapped into some influence, maybe someone behind the scenes guided you. That 'irregular force' itself, in certain markets, is worth far more than your settlement. Corporations use it to flag risks, competitors to find weaknesses, speculators to trade information... And he, Tom Wells, is like a keen-nosed second-hand intelligence peddler. He caught the scent of the 'irregular' in your case and wants to refine it into a commodity."
Mason felt absurd. "But I have nothing! It was just... luck!"
"That's what makes it most interesting," Elena said slowly. "If your success was pure luck, it means the 'Time Gallery's internal processes or situation at the time had a rare, exploitable vulnerable point. That vulnerable point itself is valuable intelligence. Or..." Her tone grew heavier. "...Wells, or whoever hired him, doesn't believe in luck. They believe all 'anomalies' have a cause. Their job is to find it, whether it exists or not. You, Mason, because of a bizarre victory, have been pulled into the sightline of a grey market that trades in 'anomalies' and 'leverage.' They're appraising you now, not based on your money, but on the potential value they assign to the secret they think you're hiding, or the systemic flaw your case might reveal."
"What do I do? Tell him I just got stupidly lucky?"
"No. You use his 'appraisal' mindset." Elena's strategy was swift. "Next time he contacts you, you'll show the anger and fear of someone cornered—that's natural. But in your tone, let slip a hint of... 'substance.' Not defiance, but a confused stubbornness. Say something like: 'Mr. Wells, why are you so sure there's something behind this? Maybe they just messed up that day. Maybe some manager was afraid of hassle. Why can't you accept that sometimes things just... inexplicably work out?'"
"What's the point?"
"To steer his thinking," Elena explained. "If you vehemently deny having a secret, he'll be more convinced you do. But if you attribute the cause to *their* 'mistake' or 'fear of hassle,' and seem naively convinced of that, it gives him another angle to investigate—to dig deeper into whether the 'Time Gallery' *did* have leverage or special pressure then. That shifts some focus away from you, at least temporarily. And that 'naivety' makes you seem less like someone sitting on a bombshell, reducing his impulse to force your hand aggressively in the short term. He'll want to keep watching, keep 'appraising.'"
She paused, her voice lower. "It also buys me time to find out who this Tom Wells is really working for. An intelligence scout this interested in 'anomalous consumer dispute resolutions' doesn't work solo. You might just be a new blip on their radar. We need to know who's operating that radar."
The call ended. Mason slid down the wall to sit on the floor. The cold seeped through his pants. He'd thought the worst was having his money taken. Now he understood: in some eyes, his entire life—his struggles, his peculiar victory, even his inexplicable 'luck'—could be dissected, analyzed, and placed on some invisible counter, tagged with a price.
The hunter didn't just want his kill. He wanted to taxidermize the hunt itself and sell it to the highest bidder.