The Quebec situation presented itself not as a call to heroism, but as a logistical problem. A rotten component in the Howlett industrial machine was causing friction, reducing efficiency, and creating unnecessary suffering. James saw it as a simple equation: remove the component with minimal disruption. But the method mattered. Direct violence could create questions, investigations, unwanted attention. A more elegant solution was required—one that looked like an accident, or better yet, a choice.
He gathered his small circle in the library. The firelight danced across their faces—Victor's predatory stillness, Raven's nervous excitement, Irene's serene focus.
"The foreman, Armand Gagnon," James began, his voice as calm as if he were discussing the weather. "He is a weak man. He steals from those weaker than him because it makes him feel strong. He is a coward, and cowards are predictable."
He laid out the plan, but the core of it was different this time.
"Raven, you will be our key. Become the night watchman. Ensure we are not interrupted."
"Irene,find me the moment. The moment his fear is greatest, when his own guilt is eating him alive."
"Victor,you are the atmosphere. Your presence will be the pressure. But you will not touch him."
Victor grunted, understanding. He was good at being a storm cloud.
The plan unfolded with precision. Under the cover of a moonless night, they infiltrated the factory grounds. Raven, now a perfect replica of the grizzled night watchman, took up her post, ensuring their privacy. James and Victor entered Gagnon's office through a window as the man counted his ill-gotten money.
The scene was just as Irene had described. Armand Gagnon, a man with a weak chin and greedy eyes, jumped as they appeared, his face draining of color. Victor stood by the door, a silent, hulking monument of implied violence, his arms crossed, his yellow eyes fixed on Gagnon, making the man feel small and trapped.
James, however, did not threaten. He pulled up a chair and sat opposite Gagnon, his posture relaxed.
"Armand," James said, his voice not unkind, almost conversational. "You've had a difficult life, haven't you?"
Gagnon stared, confused and terrified. "W-what? Who are you?"
"Someone who understands," James replied, his gaze steady. "You work so hard. You take these risks, all for what? A little extra money? To feel a moment of control?" He gestured to the opulent office. "But it's a hollow feeling, isn't it? The fear of being caught. The contempt in your workers' eyes. You lie awake at night, don't you? Hearing every footstep, thinking it's the authorities coming for you."
James was not reading his mind; he was reading his soul. He spoke the universal language of a guilty conscience, amplifying the whispers that already haunted Gagnon in the dark.
"You're a thief, Armand," James continued, his tone still soft, almost pitying. "But not a very good one. My father will discover the discrepancies soon. The police will be involved. There will be a trial. Your name will be in all the papers. A common thief. They'll take everything. This office, your home, whatever respect you've managed to scrape together... gone."
He let the image sink in. He could see the panic rising in Gagnon's eyes, smell the sour tang of his despair.
"And then what?" James pressed, leaning forward slightly. "Prison? You're not a strong man, Armand. You wouldn't last long in there. Or perhaps you'd run, become a fugitive, looking over your shoulder for the rest of your miserable life. Is that the future you want?"
Gagnon was trembling now, tears of self-pity and terror welling in his eyes. James had expertly stripped away all his options, painting every possible future in the darkest shades of humiliation and pain.
"There is another way," James said, his voice dropping to a compassionate whisper. "A way to control the narrative. A way to spare yourself the shame."
He paused, letting the silence stretch. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement that was both casual and profoundly menacing, James raised his right hand. He didn't point at Gagnon. Instead, he brought his index finger to his own temple, the tip resting gently against the skin.
"It would be quick," James murmured, his eyes locked with Gagnon's. "Clean. The workers, they'd think you were overcome with stress. My father would write it off as a tragedy. There would be no trial, no headlines calling you a thief. Just... peace."
The gesture was simple, but in the context of their conversation, it was devastating. James wasn't threatening him with violence. He was offering a solution. A way out.
"Think of your family," James whispered, his finger still pressed to his own head. "This way, they might remember you with some sympathy. The other way... they'd only have shame."
He stood up, lowering his hand. "The choice is yours, Armand. A public, humiliating end to everything you are... or a quiet, private one."
With that, James turned and walked towards the door. Victor followed, casting one last, disdainful look at the sobbing man. They slipped out into the night, leaving Gagnon alone with his thoughts, and with the loaded pistol James had subtly nudged to the edge of the desk with his foot when he first sat down.
They regrouped with Raven and Irene at a safe distance. A few minutes later, a single, sharp crack echoed from the factory office, swallowed by the vast industrial silence.
It was done.
Irene's POV:
She had seen the paths diverge.One, a messy, public, drawn-out destruction. The other, a single, dark, but clean endpoint. She had felt the shift in the room when James made that simple gesture—the moment Gagnon's resistance broke completely. It wasn't a threat; it was a revelation. James hadn't killed the man; he had simply helped him see the only logical conclusion to the life he had built for himself. The gesture was the final, unspoken argument, more powerful than any shouted threat.
Raven's POV:
She didn't know the details,only that James had gone in and the problem had been solved. The single gunshot was a chilling sound, but it was also a sound of finality. The bad man was gone, and James had made it happen without a messy fight. Her admiration for him, for his cleverness and his power, grew even deeper. He could solve problems with just words and a look.
Weeks later, a report reached John Howlett. Foreman Armand Gagnon, overwhelmed by the pressures of his job, had taken his own life. A tragedy. Productivity at the factory improved under new, honest management.
John shook his head sadly at dinner. "Poor devil. The weight of responsibility... it can be too much for some men."
James nodded slowly, his expression appropriately somber. "Yes, Father. Some men simply aren't built for the consequences of their own actions."
He met Irene's gaze across the table. She gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. The path was clear.
That night, James stood at his window. There was no satisfaction in the death itself. It was a data point. A successful application of a new methodology. The finger-to-temple gesture—so simple, so clean—had proven incredibly effective. It was a symbol that bypassed reason and spoke directly to the despair he had cultivated.
The world is full of weak men making messy problems, he thought. I can offer them clarity. I can help them choose the cleanest solution. For them, and for me.
He had learned a valuable lesson. The most powerful force was not claw or bone, but the will to self-destruction that lurked in every guilty heart. And he was becoming a master at finding the key that unlocked it. That simple gesture, he knew, would become part of his arsenal—a silent, elegant punctuation to a perfectly delivered argument.
[those who have thinking about system point. Why Isn't mc using because he all ready op in this 1889 year for now.]