The sterile glow of the Chicago Private Trust Bank's back alley spilled onto the damp pavement, Rosie's figure pressed against the brick wall, her hood pulled low, mask covering half her face. The burner phone in her hand vibrated once, a short text from Mr. Henderson: *$20 million fully credited to your untraceable account. No transfer records, but cash withdrawals will trigger internal alerts—proceed with extreme caution.* She stared at the screen, her jaw tight, the weight of the task ahead sinking in. She'd outmaneuvered her parents' freeze on her funds, persuaded Mr. Henderson to transfer the trust fund early, but the hardest part wasn't getting the money—it was getting it out, in cash, without leaving a single trace that Ethan could follow. A faint, unfamiliar rustle from the top of the adjacent wall made her stiffen, hand hovering over the small utility knife in her pocket—was it a stray cat, or something worse?
Half a mile away, Ethan sat in his rented sedan, parked across the street from the bank, a faint smile playing on his lips. His fingers tapped the steering wheel rhythmically, his own burner phone tucked in his shirt pocket—he'd just received a call from his contact at Chicago Private Trust Bank, the one who owed him a favor from years ago, when he'd covered for the man's embezzlement of small funds. "The $20 million hit her account ten minutes ago," the contact's voice crackled through the speaker, low and nervous, "she's outside the back alley, probably planning to withdraw cash. Do you want me to trigger an alert? Slow her down?"
Ethan chuckled coldly, his voice sharp and concise, no extra nonsense. "No. Track her withdrawals—how much, where—and report to me at once. She doesn't know you're helping me. When the time comes, I'll either hack her account or blackmail you with your secret to get the $20 million. Do as I say, and your secret stays safe; leak a word, and you know what happens." As he spoke, his gaze flickered to the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of a black SUV that had been parked behind him for fifteen minutes—no license plate, no movement, just a faint glow from the driver's seat. He frowned, then brushed it off; probably just a vagrant, or someone waiting for a ride. Nothing to worry about. For now.
The contact hesitated for a moment, then muttered, "Understood. But if I get caught—" "You won't," Ethan cut him off sharply, his tone threatening, "as long as you do exactly what I say. Keep feeding me information, and your little embezzlement secret stays buried. Got it?" After a quick "yes," the call ended, and Ethan slipped the phone back into his pocket, his gaze fixed on the bank's back alley. He could see Rosie's figure moving faintly in the shadows, and he smiled coldly. Let her try to withdraw cash—he knew the bank's rules, knew the hurdles she'd face, and he planned to sit back and watch her squirm, then strike when she was at her weakest. Back in the alley, Rosie slipped the burner phone into her pocket, taking a deep breath before stepping toward the bank's back door—a small, unmarked entrance used by staff, the one Mr. Henderson had told her about. She rapped twice, then three times, a prearranged signal, and the door creaked open a crack, revealing a nervous-looking teller, his eyes darting around. "Mr. Henderson sent me," Rosie said, her voice low and muffled by the mask. The teller nodded quickly, pulling her inside and closing the door behind her, the sound of a deadbolt sliding home echoing in the small hallway. "Someone's been hanging around the front of the bank," the teller whispered, his voice trembling, "a man in a black jacket, hood up. He didn't ask questions—just stared at the door. I don't know if he's with the one asking about your account." "You can't withdraw that much cash at once," the teller whispered, his hands shaking as he led her to a small office in the back, "the bank's internal rules—any withdrawal over $100,000 triggers an alert, and withdrawals over $500,000 require board approval. Mr. Henderson pulled some strings, but he can only get you $100,000 per withdrawal, and you have to use different ATMs, in different districts, no more than twice per day. If you try to withdraw more, or use the same ATM twice, the system will flag it, and the police will be called. And someone's already been asking about your account—quietly, but I heard the manager mention it. A man, asking about a large transfer to an untraceable account." Rosie's heart sank, a wave of shock crashing over her—it had to be Ethan. In that instant, a terrible thought struck her: he must have eavesdropped on her conversation with her lawyer that morning, the one where they'd talked about withdrawing her trust fund early. That's how he knew, that's why he was already moving, already using someone inside the bank to track her every move. But then—who was the man the teller had seen? Ethan was supposed to be miles away, waiting for updates. She forced herself to stay calm, her fingers brushing the silver locket at her throat for reassurance. "I need as much as possible, as fast as possible," she said, her voice steady, "$1.2 million to start—enough for the first round of supplies. I'll follow the rules: different ATMs, different districts, no patterns. But I need the cash now, and I need the locations of unmarked ATMs—no cameras, no records." The teller nodded, pulling a stack of cash from a locked safe under his desk and handing it to her, along with a crumpled piece of paper with a list of addresses scribbled on it. "These are all in the industrial or suburban districts," he whispered, "old ATMs, no camera coverage, no connection to the main bank's surveillance. But be careful—some are in rough areas, and the machines are unreliable. Sometimes they eat the card, sometimes they don't dispense cash. And if you're seen carrying that much cash, you'll be a target. Mr. Henderson said to tell you: hurry. The longer you stay, the more risk you're in." Rosie nodded, tucking the cash into a hidden pocket inside her jacket and the list of ATMs into her boot. She thanked the teller with a short nod, then slipped back out the back door, into the damp alley, her senses on high alert. The rustle from the wall was gone, but a faint smell of gasoline lingered in the air—fresh, not from the nearby cars. Someone had been here, recently.