Chapter 60: Settling Debts (2)The car’s engine hummed to a stop outside Noah’s apartment building.

    ’Home sweet home. Where the rent is cheap and the security deposits are just concepts in fantasy.’

    Noah clutched the briefcase with the reverence of someone handling liquid salvation. Twenty thousand dollars in cash—enough to rewrite his entire relationship with financial stress.

    "Thanks for the ride," he told the driver, a middle-aged man whose playlist had cycled through three different true crime podcasts during their journey.

    The driver nodded with the indifference of someone who’d seen everything the city had to offer.

    "Stay safe out there."

    Inside his apartment, Noah spread the bills across his table.

    Eight thousand dollars went into his bedroom safe—a small metal box he’d bought years ago and never had enough money to justify using. The remaining twelve thousand found its way into a smaller, more portable case.

    ’Twelve thousand for Rex and his merry band of leg-breakers. Should be enough to settle every penny, with interest, and hopefully buy me a lifetime of being left alone.’

    The thought of Rex’s face when presented with full payment in cash brought a smile to Noah’s lips. The kind of smile that probably would have worried his enemies if they could see it.

    His phone buzzed with another Uber notification. Time for the second leg of his debt-settlement tour.

    Noah provided the address with the confidence of someone who definitely wasn’t carrying enough cash to buy a decent car.

    As they approached their destination, the urban landscape shifted from "questionable" to "actively concerning." Buildings seemed to lean inward like broken teeth, their windows dark or boarded up entirely. Groups of young men clustered on street corners, their conversations dying as the Uber passed.

    ’This looks like the kind of place where people come to make bad decisions or have bad decisions made for them.’

    The driver’s eyes found Noah’s in the rearview mirror, concern creeping into his voice. "You sure about this address, son?"

    Noah glanced out the window at a particularly intimidating group of hooligans who’d stopped their smoking session to stare directly at their vehicle. One of them—a mountain of a man with tattoos covering his neck—took a step toward the street.

    ’They look like they’re deciding whether we’re worth the effort of robbing.’

    "I’m sure," Noah replied, injecting more confidence into his voice than he actually felt. "Just a quick business meeting."

    The driver’s skepticism was palpable, but he pulled to a stop outside a building that looked like it had given up on renovation sometime in the previous century.

    "Want me to wait?" the driver asked, his tone suggesting he really, really hoped the answer was no.

    Noah considered it. Having an escape route ready seemed prudent. But keeping an innocent civilian in this neighborhood longer than necessary felt like tempting fate with a sledgehammer.

    "I’ll be fine," he said, stepping out with the briefcase. "Thanks for the ride."

    The old man nodded, his expression mixing respect and concern in equal measure. "You take care of yourself out there. And kid?" He paused as Noah closed the door.

    "Whatever business you got here, make it quick."

    The Uber pulled away with unseemly haste, leaving Noah alone on a street that felt like the opening scene of a very unfortunate movie.

    ’Well. Here goes nothing.’

    The briefcase felt heavier now, its weight less about money and more about the very real possibility that he was about to make either the smartest or stupidest decision of his life.

    The hooligans continued their surveillance, smoke drifting around them like incense at an altar of bad intentions.

    ’Time to find out if twelve thousand dollars can buy me peace of mind.’

    Noah straightened his shoulders and walked toward the building, each step carrying him deeper into a conversation that would either end his debt problems forever or create entirely new ones.

    The briefcase swung at his side, containing enough money to change everything.

    Or get him killed.

    ’Only one way to find out which.’

    Noah had taken exactly seven steps toward the building when a voice sounded from nearby.

    "Yo, hold up."

    Here we go. I was really hopping they mind their damn business, but I guess that was wishful thinking.

    One of the hooligans detached himself from his smoking circle, approaching with the confidence of someone who owned these particular blocks of broken concrete.

    He was younger than Noah had expected, maybe early twenties.

    The kid looks like he’s been through the grinder. Probably makes him more dangerous, not less.

    "You lost or something?"

    The hooligan’s tone wasn’t hostile, merely curious. Like a zookeeper asking why a zebra had wandered into the lion exhibit.

    Noah adjusted his grip on the briefcase, keeping his voice steady. "I’m here to see Rex."

    The young man’s posture shifted from casual intimidation to something resembling respect. His eyes flicked to the briefcase with new understanding.

    Rex’s name carries weight here. That’s... either very good or very bad for me.

    "Rex, huh?"

    The hooligan nodded slowly, stepping aside with a gesture that was part invitation, part warning. "Third floor. Door’s got his name on it. Can’t miss it."

    Can’t miss it. Right. Because loan sharks are known for their subtle signage.

    "Thanks," Noah replied, walking past the informal checkpoint.

    Behind him, he heard the young man return to his group, their conversation resuming in hushed tones.

    Great. Now I’m the entertainment. Sёar?h the novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

    The building’s interior matched its exterior’s commitment to urban decay. Fluorescent lights flickered with epileptic enthusiasm. The stairwell smelled like a combination of cigarettes, desperation, and decisions people regretted making.

    Third floor. Here we go.

    Each step upward felt like climbing toward either salvation or catastrophe. The briefcase’s weight remained constant, but its significance seemed to grow with every floor.

    Twelve thousand dollars. More money than Rex probably sees in legitimate transactions most months.

    The third-floor hallway stretched before him like a gauntlet of peeling wallpaper and questionable life choices. And there, at the far end, stood a door that needed no introduction.

    REX - FINANCIAL CONSULTING

    Financial consulting. That’s one way to describe breaking kneecaps for late payments.