The man gestured, extending his hand in a welcoming way.
"Come in," he invited, smiling warmly.
Ross felt a flicker of puzzlement as he stepped inside. He hadn't expected such an inviting, trustworthy presence just because he sent his photo beforehand as confirmation — his father's name made things easier; after all, many had benefited from his father's help.
Squeak.
Click!
The door closed behind them.
"I have to say, you do look better in person," the old man admired as he settled into a slanted chair.
"I took that picture a year ago—maybe that's why," Ross replied, eyes wandering between the old man and the room.
The space was vintage and medium-sized—enough for an old man to walk around and remember better days. The window faced the front, a sign the man liked to peek outside. To the right, near the entrance, a bookshelf stood tidy and well-arranged. The books weren't dusty; they looked cared for, proof the owner still read. Behind the shelf, an opening led to a tiny kitchen. To the left, a door led to the bedroom. A small flat-screen TV sat against the wall, murmuring a low-volume news program—the sort many grannies favored.
A slanted chair faced the screen—the kind that gave anyone who sat there the perfect posture for a nap. A small table nearby held a half-drunk cup of coffee. Not far from it, a visitor's chair looked puffier and more welcoming.
"Wow, that's a long time," the man said, stretching back into the chair in relief. This was his version of exercise; a slow, deliberate stretch that kept his back from folding in on itself.
"Yeah, I don't really like taking photos," he admitted, his eyes finishing their sweep of the room.
Ross refocused on the man. "Thank you for agreeing to speak with me," he said calmly, his tone sincere. Who could blame him—this man might hold the key to reclaiming his father's legacy.
"I couldn't turn you down," he started. "Your father did more than help me and my girl—he saved us. Maybe he didn't know the full extent of who he helped, but without him we'd have ended up on the street." His voice shifted; the grief in it dropped his head in sorrow. Ross had known his father helped people, but had never seen first-hand how it affected them.
A soft smile crept across Alexander's face. "Be proud of your dad. His donations helped people. He built something that others could benefit from."
"I was heartbroken to hear of his passing," Old man Alexander continued, tears brimming and then falling. "A good man gone too young, while an old useless hag like me keeps breathing." He broke into sudden, wet sobs—subtle but cutting. "Sometimes I wonder why God takes the good ones when we need them most."
Ross felt the old ache rise. It was sharper this time, a reminder that he'd never see his father again. He blinked hard; a tear slid down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly—he didn't want to be seen as weak, not in front of someone he needed.
The old man looked at him, eyes wet. "Trust me—God will not forget his good deeds," he said, forcing the words out like nails driven into a cross.
Ross nodded. He wasn't superstitious like his parents or sister, but the words offered comfort. "Thank you, sir," he said, then straightened his shoulders. He'd come on a mission, not a confession. " I know you're saddened by my father's passing, but what if I told you he still needs your help?"
The old man's head snapped up in surprise. "How can anyone help a dead man?" he pondered, the question heavy with genuine confusion.
Ross clenched his fist, determination hardening his knuckles. "Your formal boss is taking all of my dad's Companies including the donation programs, tell me every information we could use against Axis ." His voice brightened with a predator's focus—lion's eyes ready for the hunt.
The old man stammered. He'd never seen that kind of fierce resolve in a young man's face before. Then, slowly: "Alright. I'll tell you everything I know."
...
The mood shifted. Suspicion settled into the air like a taste on the tongue. Ross's gaze sharpened; he watched Alexander so intently he could have spotted a cockroach scuttle across the floor.
"I started at Axis ten years ago as a janitor," He began. "It was a good job—nice environment, decent pay—everything you'd want. Then, two years later, I got exposed to the dark side. It started with a meeting with the CEO."
"Do you know his name?" Ross asked.
"They just called Zabi," He replied.
"Zabi?"
"Yes. He had a foreign accent—like he came from Africa. He was terrifying.One day He sent me and some other janitors to Hiwoei—a phone company they'd just acquired—to clean up the company. On the way there I heard a lot from the others. How they had a bank in China faking transaction records."
"That explains the bank details." Ross muttered. The more the information he got, the more he was able have an idea of what he was dealing with.
"How they use the owners heart disease to destroy his reputation.They'd set everything up so clean—no way to find fault in their operations. It scared me. So I waited for the perfect time and after that job I ran away. Changed my name and my daughter's. Left everysingle furniture behind, we would have been dead if we hadn't left."
Ross swam in thought, piecing the fragments together. The man gave him good information, but it wasn't enough for a legal case.
"If only he'd stayed longer," Ross muttered, "…no, he'd have been killed." He paused.
"Oh—almost forgot. They always had someone on the inside helping them." He remembered.
Ross's heart spiked; his eyes widened. "That explains the signatures," he whispered. "There must be someone close to my father—someone in our house. A traitor. The question is who?" His mind raced, cataloging faces, alibis, small gestures—erasing and rebuilding suspects in a loop until he felt nauseous.
A sudden thought flashed like lightning, clearing the fog: if Axis was as methodical and lethal as Marie and The man said, why was he still alive? With his threatening knowledge, they could have silenced him. If He was able to find him, then it would've been simple for them to find him.
An instinct flooded his mind, as he looked at the man the more he got more suspicious of him.
"Thank you. That helps," Ross said, standing quickly. He painted his expression with forced cheerfulness—calculated, so it wouldn't raise suspicions. "This information is useful."
He moved toward the door without waiting for more, a habit of not lingering. The man watched him, eyes wide—surprised and perhaps a little stunned.
Thud. Thud. Ross's footsteps grew closer to the exit. He reached for the doorknob.
Click.
A sound came from behind him.
"Wow—you catch on fast," The man said, but his voice was different now—youthful, energized.
Ross's fingers trembled. His breath hitched. He'd heard that tone before—a cold bell tolling for trouble. He turned slowly.
There he was: The man holding a gun. A grim smirk cut across his face.