CHAPTER 48: CHAPTER 48

The sixteen refurbished tablets sat on the workbench like a platoon of scarred soldiers, ready for duty. Their cracked screens gleamed under the single bulb, each fracture a testament to a second chance. The intoxicating high of their success, but that feeling was quickly tempered by the cold, calculating eye of logistics that Evelyn brought to everything.

"We can’t just sell these on the street corner like black market watches," Evelyn stated. Her fingers were already flying across her keyboard, pulling up spreadsheets full of potential fees. She explained that online marketplaces would take a fifteen percent commission immediately. Then there would be additional costs for shipping supplies, postage, and transaction fees. She also warned about the inevitable insurance scams from people who would falsely claim the tablets arrived broken. All of these expenses would completely erase their already small profit.

Ace ran his hand over the cool, cracked glass of one tablet. He knew she was right. This was the unglamorous side of a legitimate business—a world of fees, taxes, paperwork, and scams. It felt a million miles away from the simple, final exchange of cash in a dark alley.

"We need to find a local buyer," Ace decided as the idea came to him. "We need one bulk sale with no middlemen, no fees, and no shipping." He turned to Silva, who was nervously polishing a camera lens. "You’re the one who knows everyone in this city. Is there anyone you can think of who might need twenty tablets? Maybe a small business, a church group, or an after-school program?"

Silva’s face suddenly lit up, and he put his polishing cloth down. "Actually, I might know someone," he said. "Her name is Mrs. Davison. She runs the Oakwood Community Center on 5th Street, which has an after-school program with a computer lab full of ancient equipment. The last time I was there, all the kids were crowded around two old laptops that were so loud they sounded like jet engines. Mrs. Davison is always struggling to get funding for new gear. She would probably be overwhelmed with gratitude if she saw these tablets."

A community center was the perfect buyer. Ace saw the irony of it immediately. This was a wholesome and legitimate client, the complete opposite of the criminals they were used to dealing with.

"Set up a meeting with her," Ace said, feeling a spark of genuine excitement. "But be casual about it. Don’t oversell what we have. Just tell her that a friend’s new tech startup has some quality refurbished units available for a local organization at a very steep discount."

After an hour and a few quiet phone calls, Silva had arranged a meeting for that very afternoon. The plan was now in motion.

________

Mrs. Davison was a woman in her late sixties with a kind, weathered face and eyes that had seen decades of neighborhood struggles and small victories. Her steel-grey hair was pulled into a practical bun, and her handshake was firm and honest. She looked around the newly secured workshop with a curious, but non-judgmental eye, taking in the new steel door, the blinking cameras, and the industrial shelves before her gaze settled on the neat row of tablets.

"So, you’re the young minds behind Aegis Solutions that Marco has been telling me about," she said, her voice warm but laced with the pragmatic skepticism of someone who had heard too many empty promises. "He said you might have a solution for our... technological dinosaur exhibit."

"We hope we can help," Ace said, gesturing to the tablets. "These are all fully refurbished and rigorously tested. We’re a new operation, so we’re essentially offering them at our cost. Eighty dollars each. They’ve got some... character," he admitted, tapping the cracked screen of the one in front of him. "But under the hood, they’re solid. Perfect for web browsing, educational apps, video calls—anything your kids need."

Evelyn handed her the unit. Mrs. Davison turned it over in her hands, her eyebrows raising slightly at the intricate web of cracks. "My goodness. They look like they’ve seen some things," she remarked, but her tone was more intrigued than dismissive. She pressed the power button. The screen immediately lit up, the familiar logo glowing defiantly through the fractured glass. It booted to the home screen smoothly and without a single stutter.

"It’s... working," she said, her face softening with genuine surprise. She opened a drawing app, and her finger glided easily across the responsive touchscreen to draw a quick smiley face. "The touchscreen is very sensitive. It’s better than the ones we currently have," she noted.

Evelyn stepped forward with her laptop to explain their process. "We focus more on internal functionality than external appearance. The real beauty is on the inside," she said. She then showed Mrs. Davison the full diagnostic reports for each unit, which included complex graphs and pass/fail logs from processor stress tests, battery health checks, and memory evaluations.

Mrs. Davison spent the next fifteen minutes asking sharp, practical questions that revealed a keen mind. She asked about operating system support, storage capacity for educational software, and durability. Evelyn answered each one with flawless, confident precision, her presentation was professional and reassuring. Ace stood by quietly, feeling impressed. This was where Evelyn shined—she used logic and facts to erase any doubt.

Finally, Mrs. Davison let out a happy sigh. She was admitting defeat in the best way.

"This is simply wonderful," she said. "Our entire annual technology budget is a thousand dollars. It usually goes to keeping those two old laptops on life support. To get sixteen working devices for just over that..." She did the math in her head, and a slow, radiant smile spread across her face, making her look years younger. "I’ll take them all. Every single one. I’ll need to write you a check from the center’s account. I hope that’s okay."

A check. From the Oakwood Community Center. To Ace, this was the most honest and wholesome form of payment he could imagine. It was the complete opposite of taking a bag of cash from a man like Marcus.

"Of course," Ace said, a strange, warm feeling settling in his chest. It was pride, but it was clean. Unburdened by threat or guilt.

The transaction was executed with a quiet efficiency. Evelyn produced a professionally simple invoice from a template she’d designed. Mrs. Davison wrote the check with a steady hand, the pen scratching firmly on the paper: One Thousand, Two Hundred Eighty Dollars. She handed it to Ace and shook both their hands firmly, her grip was strong and heartfelt.

"Thank you," she said, her eyes shining with a sincerity that was almost painful to see. "You have no idea what this means. This isn’t just equipment. This is access to the world. It’s opportunity for the children. This is a real blessing."

Silva helped her load the boxes into her old but impeccably clean station wagon. As the car drove away and turned the corner, the three of them stood in the doorway of their workshop, watching it go. The check felt incredibly important in Ace’s hand. This single piece of paper felt heavier than all the cash he had ever gotten from Ramos.

"We did it," Silva whispered, a goofy, stunned grin spreading across his face. "We’re legitimate tech moguls! I think I need a better title than ’Head of Security and Morale.’ Maybe ’Vice President of Operations’?"

"Let’s start with ’not tripping over power cords,’" Evelyn said dryly, but she was unable to suppress her own smile. She took the check from Ace and held it up to the light. "After parts cost, our net profit is approximately one thousand and seventy dollars. It’s not a fortune. But it’s a thousand clean dollars."

That was the word that hung in the air. Clean. This money wasn’t a bribe from a corrupt official or a payoff from a crime lord. It was money they had earned by providing a real product that did genuine good for the community. Ace looked at the check, at the elegant cursive of Oakwood Community Center. It felt like a token from a different world, one he was desperately trying to claw his way into.

The feeling was so potent, so affirming, that the harsh, electronic buzz of Ramos’s burner phone on the workbench felt like a physical violation. The stark, cheap ringtone sliced through the moment, a brutal reminder of the world that still had its hooks deep in them.

The grin was instantly wiped from Silva’s face. Evelyn’s smile tightened into a thin, hard line. The warm afternoon air in the workshop seemed to turn cold in an instant.

Ace walked over slowly and picked up the cheap plastic phone. The screen glowed with a single, short message from Marcus.

Come to Warehouse 7B at 9 PM. Don’t be late.

There was no please and no details. it was just an order. It felt like a summons back into the dirt and danger he was trying to escape.

The high he felt from his successful sale instantly vanished, replaced by the familiar cold dread that lived in the pit of his stomach. He looked from the phone in one hand to the empty space in his other, where the check had been. The two objects represented opposing forces that pulled him in opposite directions and threatened to tear him in half.

He had just earned the cleanest money of his life. And now, his criminal benefactor was summoning him back into the shadows.

"We have to go," Evelyn said. Her voice was quiet and resigned, and she did not phrase it as a question.

"I know," Ace replied flatly, all the earlier warmth gone from his voice. He carefully took the check back from Evelyn and placed it squarely in the center of the cleanest part of the workbench. It stood there like a beacon, a promise of the better future they were working toward.

Then he picked up his jacket—the one with the nanites humming beneath the fabric, the one he wore for jobs in dark places.

"Hold down the workshop, Silva," he said as he headed for the newly secured door. "We’ll be back."

As he and Evelyn stepped out into the fading evening light, the solid thunk of the steel door locking behind them felt less like security and more like a cage. The check remained on the bench inside—a single, clean dollar in a world of bloody thousands, and the only reason he had to survive whatever awaited at Warehouse 7B.