Chapter 2 - The Void in the Suit
The dim glow of a single battery-powered camping lantern cast long, dancing shadows across the concrete walls of the makeshift shelter.
The man—still nameless, still shivering despite the thick wool blankets wrapped around his broad shoulders—sat staring at his own hands as if they belonged to a stranger. He touched the shallow gash above his eyebrow, wincing as his fingers brushed the dried blood.
“Try to eat something,” Emma said, pushing the half-unwrapped granola bar a little closer to him on a flat piece of cardboard. “Your blood sugar is probably crashing. That’s why your head hurts so bad.”
The man looked at the bar, then up at the seven-year-old girl who was commanding him with the calm authority of an experienced nurse. A faint, self-deprecating smirk touched the corners of his pale lips.
“You’re seven, right?” he asked, his voice still rough from the cold air in his lungs.
“Seven and a half,” Emma corrected him, holding up seven fingers and then adding half of another. “And you’re at least thirty. Maybe forty if you dye your hair, but I can't tell under the mud.”
He let out a dry, humorless chuckle that quickly turned into a cough. He took the granola bar, breaking off a small piece and chewing slowly. As the sugar hit his bloodstream, some of the color slowly returned to his cheeks.
“I don't remember anything,” he said quietly, his voice dropping into a register of genuine fear. “I remember... falling. Or being pushed? No, just cold. Water. Mud. And then waking up here looking at you like an angel sent from a very strange heaven.”
“This isn't heaven,” Emma said, standing up and brushing off her damp jeans. “Heaven probably has working plumbing and doors that lock. This is Sector Four. My dad calls it the forgotten block.”
“Where is your father?” the man asked, his sharp eyes scanning the small enclosure, noticing the absence of any adult presence.
Emma’s shoulders stiffened slightly. She walked over to her shopping cart, pretending to sort through a pile of plastic bottles. “He’s out. He goes out sometimes for days. When he comes back, we eat. When he doesn't, I find bottles.”
The man fell silent. He looked around the cold, concrete space again, then down at his ruined designer suit—hand-tailored Italian wool, silk lining, custom monogram stitched inside the inner pocket (A.V.). He reached inside the soggy interior pocket and pulled out a leather wallet.
He flipped it open.
There was no driver's license. No credit cards. No identification of any kind. Just a thick wad of wet hundred-dollar bills—thousands of dollars—stuffed carelessly into the leather fold, alongside a gold-plated business card holder that felt heavy and expensive.
He pried open the metal card holder. Inside were pristine, heavy-stock paper business cards embossed in metallic silver.
He held one up to the dim light of the camping lantern, squinting to read the embossed lettering.
Alexander Vance Managing Director & Chief Executive Officer Vance Global Capital, New York / Detroit
The man stared at the name for a long time. Alexander Vance. It sounded like a name belonging to someone powerful, someone untouchable, someone who lived in a glass skyscraper high above the grime of the city. But sitting here on a pile of discarded packing blankets in a freezing Detroit loading dock, the name felt like a fairy tale told about a completely different person.
“Alexander,” Emma said, reading the name upside down over his shoulder. She sounded it out carefully. “Alex-an-der Vance. That’s a big name for a guy sleeping in the trash.”
Alexander looked up at her, a strange mixture of awe and bewilderment in his eyes. “According to this card... I’m supposed to be a very important person, Emma.”
“Important people don't usually end up in alleyways behind auto parts stores unless somebody threw them out like garbage,” Emma retorted sharply, her tone lacking any malice, just brutal childhood realism. “So if you’re so important, Mr. Vance, why were you in the mud?”
May you like
Alexander winced. He tried to search his memory again—flashes of a high-rise office, angry voices, a glass of scotch, a bitter argument over corporate acquisitions, a rainy night on the street, a sudden shove in the dark—but the images shattered like glass before he could grasp them.
“I don't know,” Alexander whispered, gripping his head. “Someone... someone wanted me gone.”
