Chapter 80: The Price of Secrets (Patreon)

Ethan rinsed the last beaker under the tap, rotating it until the thin glycerol film washed clean. He set it on the towel beside the sink and stacked the glass tubing next to it with surgical neatness. Every piece was carefully dried, aligned, and boxed away.

A kitchen shouldn’t have to doubled as a laboratory, but Ethan knew the value of invisibility. A hotel room was temporary, his parents were watchful, and so every trace had to vanish the moment he was finished.

He wiped the counter once more, not because it was dirty, but because a habit he had developed demanded it. Then he moved to the stove. Garlic sizzled in olive oil, the sharp aroma cutting through the faint chemical tang that lingered in the air. He threw in pasta, sauce, and herbs—nothing complicated. Enough to say, I’m just their son, a normal boy cooking dinner for his parents.

By the time the food was done, the sky outside the window had gone violet. Ethan plated a serving, ate his portion quickly, and set the rest in a pot covered for his parents. On a sticky note, he scribbled:

“Heading to bed early. Test tomorrow. Pasta’s on the stove—heat it when you get back.”

The handwriting was casual, teenage. Believable.

He left the note on the counter, wiped his hands, and returned to his room.

The voice modulator sat inside a plain pencil case, disguised among school supplies. Ethan flicked it on, adjusted the dial, and felt his throat vibrate as the French-accented rasp of Luc Moreau filled the quiet room.

He opened his laptop, the glow spilling across his desk. He dialed the number he already knew by heart—the shadier of the real estate firms he had earmarked weeks ago. The line clicked alive, and a man’s voice answered, already greasy with calculation.

“This is Hughes Real Estate. You’re looking for a warehouse property?”

“Yes,” Ethan said, voice masked into Luc’s gravely timbre. “Large, dock access, sea-facing. Must allow smaller boats to unload cargo.”

The agent hummed like he was chewing on a cigar. “We’ve got one that might suit you. Old shipping warehouse, plenty of space, good dock frontage. Price is five hundred and ten thousand.”

Ethan’s lips twitched. He already had the listing open in another tab: $320,000. The man was gouging him by nearly two hundred grand.

He feigned irritation. “Five hundred is steep. What makes this one worth so much?”

“Market rate. Prime location.” The agent was smug, thinking he smelled easy money. “If you don’t like it, I can find something in your price range.”

While the man prattled, Ethan’s fingers flew across his keyboard. A few injections later, the firm’s internal database unfolded before him. There was the property: $320,000. Just as he thought.

He dug deeper, pulling up the agent’s personal file. Name: Robert Hughes. Married twelve years. Daughter, eight. Mortgage on a family home. Then, an odd detail: a secondary property, signed under a different female name. A subscription record to the Newark Post tied to the same address. Mistress. Perfect.

Luc’s voice cut smoothly through the phone line. “Tell me, Robert. How is your wife, Claire? And little Madison—what is she, eight now?”

Silence. Then the sound of a chair creaking.

Luc continued, calm as ice. “And your other property, the one under the name ‘Diana Leclerc’… is she doing well too?”

The agent choked on his own breath. Ethan imagined his face draining pale, fingers clutching the receiver tighter.

“I—don’t know what you—”

“Child support. Alimony. Two homes destroyed.” Ethan’s voice never rose, never hardened. It simply pressed down, weighty and inexorable. “Expensive, yes?”

The silence on the line thickened. Ethan leaned back in his chair, savoring it.

At last, Robert stammered, “What… what do you want?”

“I have already told you.” Luc’s accent made every word deliberate. “The warehouse. But not for five-ten. Not even three-twenty. Two-eighty. That is my number.”

“That’s… that’s impossible! I can’t cut—”

“Not five-ten to two-eighty.” Ethan corrected him sharply. “Three-twenty to two-eighty. Do not forget the real price. I know you’re getting on in the years, Robert, but you can’t make a mistake like that. It can be so damaging.”

The agent swallowed audibly. Ethan could almost hear him realizing he’d been caught in his own lie.

“If you cannot make it happen,” Luc continued softly, “then perhaps I can arrange for your wife ‘Claire’ and your mistress ‘Diana’ to meet. Imagine the conversation. Imagine the papers. Imagine the courts. Imagine the… payments.”

Robert broke. “I’ll… I’ll talk to the seller. I’ll get it approved.” His voice was no longer greasy—it was desperate, stripped of bravado.

“Good.” Ethan fed him Luc’s shell-company information. “You will contact me only through this channel. If you deviate, we will have another conversation about your messy personal life. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Robert whispered.

“Good, Robert. My best to Claire, Madison, and Diana,” Ethan said before hanging up without a goodbye.

The room fell silent except for the soft hum of his laptop. Ethan sat back, staring at the glow of the monitor.

People like Robert thought they understood leverage. They didn’t. Criminals threatened with guns. Ethan threatened with ruin. Quiet, inescapable ruin.

Easy, he thought. Too easy.

But he didn’t linger on the small victory. His mind was already three steps ahead. The warehouse wasn’t going to be another lab—it would be Luc Moreau’s first hold in the criminal world. A smuggling hub. A place where crates of worthless things like assault rifles and black-market explosives could mask the discreet delivery of the rare items Ethan truly needed. Arms in, arms out, all noise—while the signal slipped through unnoticed.

He planned for the real lab to be beneath the Newark Print Shop. That basement would be his first of many sanctuaries in the making. The contractors were already running additional wiring, installing separate fuses so the basement could operate independently from the shop above. Safety by redundancy. One floor could burn and the other would keep humming.

Ethan leaned over his notebook and started a shorter, sharper list—what the underground lab actually required at the start. A -80°C freezer for storage. A compact centrifuge. A PCR thermocycler. Micropipettes. A clean bench and sterilization setup. Basic reagents. Enough to analyze, test, and store the blood he had secured.

The heavy-duty sequencers, advanced rigs, and other things could come later. First, he needed the foundation. Quiet, invisible, efficient.

By the time his pen slowed, the room had gone still. He closed the notebook, set it neatly by his laptop, and turned off the lamp.

He lay back, setting alarms, arranging his textbooks in the way a dutiful student would. A mask to wear in daylight.