It had been close to two months since his rebirth, and everything had been moving smoothly. Too smoothly.
Sam knew better than to trust calm waters. This was only the early stage of the game—the phase where he could still live in the shadows, move quietly, and erase his footsteps before anyone noticed them. The moment attention came, survival would become harder.
There were people who operated openly—so openly that the entire area knew they were into fraud—yet nothing ever happened to them. They drove flashy cars, rented expensive apartments, and sprayed money like water. Everyone knew. Everyone whispered. And still, they walked free.
Why?
Because they had not crossed paths with the men in red raiders.
The day they did would be their last taste of freedom.
Just like what happened today.
Sam sat quietly in his apartment, a notebook resting on his lap as he reviewed his plans. His handwriting was neat, coded, meaningless to anyone else. Each page represented distance—distance from risk, distance from suspicion, distance from the life that had killed him once before.
The legitimate shop was running smoothly. Daily sales were stable. Workers showed loyalty, not because they knew him well, but because he paid on time and never caused trouble. Rex's share had already been sent through a clean channel. No delays. No questions.
Everything else moved silently in the background, layered beneath normal life.
Then came a knock at the door.
Not the casual knock of a delivery rider.
Not the careless tap of a neighbor.
This one was firm. Professional.
Sam's eyes narrowed.
He stood, composed himself, and opened the door.
The landlord stood there, clipboard tucked under his arm.
"Morning, Sam," the landlord said. "Time to settle your rent. The usual?"
Sam gave a polite nod. "Yes, sir. Just give me a moment."
Inside, his mind ran calculations. Timing. Faces. Patterns. Nothing felt wrong—but Sam trusted instinct more than comfort.
He opened his account and transferred the rent quietly. No delay. No excuse. The landlord checked his phone, nodded in approval, and left without another word.
Normal.
Too normal.
Then—
Shouts.
Sirens.
Chaos erupted outside like a storm.
Sam's chest tightened.
He stepped toward the window and pulled the curtain slightly aside.
EFCC officers flooded the compound, red raiders flashing under the harsh sun. Boots pounded the ground. A man was dragged out forcefully, struggling, shouting his innocence as neighbors gathered on balconies and stairways.
Phones came out. Whispers spread.
Not Sam.
Not him.
But close enough to remind him how thin the line was.
Sam recognized the man—a quiet tenant who kept to himself, lived expensively, and never asked questions. Someone who wore clean clothes, ordered food late at night, and paid rent without complaint.
Now he was handcuffed.
Sam wasn't surprised.
In this country, lifestyle was evidence. If you had no visible job but lived in luxury, people already knew your story. And they didn't care how you made the money—until the day you fell.
That had been Sam's life before his rebirth.
Watching the arrest felt like staring into a mirror of his past.
A warning.
Sam leaned back against the wall, forcing his breathing to slow. This wasn't his battle, but it sharpened his awareness. The city didn't forgive mistakes. It waited patiently for them.
One wrong step.
One exposed connection.
One careless transfer.
And the red raiders would knock on his door next.
He closed his eyes briefly and engraved the lesson into his mind.
Distance is everything.
Keep the shop clean.
Keep the money quiet.
Keep the network invisible.
The streets could swallow others. The city could hunt the careless. Sam would not become prey again.
Yet, deep down, he knew the shield he wore was temporary. The legitimate shop only bought him time. The real game still pulsed beneath the surface—middle-level street players, online operations, hidden alliances, and long-term plans slowly aligning.
That night, the complex buzzed with noise. People argued, speculated, and cursed their luck.
When you are known for fraud, people praise you and beg for money. The moment you are arrested, they swear they warned you to stop.
Tomorrow, the streets would forget the man entirely.
But Sam wouldn't.
He returned to his table and opened his notebook again—only to freeze.
A new number blinked on his phone screen.
Unknown.
Before he could dismiss it, a message came through.
"You live in Block C. Third floor. We need to talk."
Sam's fingers tightened around the phone.
Outside, sirens faded into the distance.
Inside, the real danger had just found his address.