Chapter 2 - The Piece-Work Ledger
By eleven o'clock that night, the eighth floor of Saint Mark’s Hospital was quiet, save for the low, rhythmic hum of oxygen monitors and the soft squeak of nurses' shoes on polished linoleum.
Nathan sat in a leather armchair in the corner of Room 812.
In the hospital bed lay Sarah Lin. She looked far older than thirty-four. Her skin was waxy, stretched tight over high cheekbones, and her dark hair was thin and dry. An oxygen mask covered her mouth and nose, rising and falling with shallow, fragile breaths.
The attending physician, Dr. Aris, had come in twenty minutes earlier with the initial blood work.
"Severe, untreated pneumonia complicated by advanced pulmonary fibrosis," Dr. Aris had told Nathan in the hallway. "If she had stayed in that apartment another forty-eight hours, her lungs would have completely collapsed. She’s severely malnourished, Mr. Cole. Her body has been burning its own muscular tissue just to keep her heart beating."
"Will she survive?" Nathan had asked.
"With high-flow oxygen, IV antibiotics, and intensive care? Yes," Dr. Aris replied. "But she’s months away from anything resembling recovery. She needs absolute rest, proper nutrition, and specialized care. She certainly can't return to... whatever conditions she was living in."
Now, Nathan watched her face through the dim light of the heart monitor.
The door to the room opened silently. Marcus stepped inside, carrying a black leather folder under his arm. He nodded respectfully to Nathan and walked over to the corner of the room, speaking in a low whisper.
"The transport went smoothly, sir," Marcus said. "The girl—Lily—was terrified at first when the medics arrived, but we had a female pediatric nurse accompany the team. She’s currently in the private residence suite downstairs on the seventh floor with a child care specialist. She refused to leave the room until we let her bring her sewing box with her."
Nathan felt a sharp, bitter knot form in his throat. "She brought the sewing box?"
"She wouldn't let go of it," Marcus confirmed. "She thought we were going to confiscate the finished shirts. She kept saying her mother would be fined if the delivery wasn't ready by six in the morning."
Nathan looked down at his desk folder resting on his lap. "What did you find out about the workshop?"
Marcus opened his black leather file and laid three photocopied pages onto Nathan’s lap.
"Vanguard Garment Assembly," Marcus explained. "It’s run by a man named Victor Vance. Nominally, it’s a legal textile repair shop. In reality, Vance operates an illegal out-work network across three housing projects. He drops off pre-cut fabric panels to homebound workers, sick people, and undocumented families who can't get standard jobs. He pays them two dollars per completed unit. Then he turns around and sells those completed garments to mid-tier retail distributors for twenty-eight dollars a piece."
Nathan looked at the names on the invoice sheets. "Two dollars?"
"Two dollars," Marcus repeated. "And if a garment has a loose thread, a blood stain, or a crooked seam, Vance fines the worker ten dollars per unit. That’s how he keeps them in perpetual debt. Sarah Lin wasn't just working to pay your rent, Mr. Cole. She was working to pay off a three-thousand-dollar 'material penalty debt' that Vance claimed she owed him for a ruined batch of silk dresses six months ago."
Nathan slowly raised his eyes to meet Marcus’s gaze. The anger that had been simmering inside him since he stepped into Apartment 4B flared into something quiet, focused, and utterly merciless.
"Vance is using children to meet his quotas?" Nathan asked.
"Vance doesn't care who pushes the pedal, sir," Marcus said flatly. "As long as the bags are on the curb at six in the morning."
Nathan stood up. He walked over to the window, looking out over the rain-drenched city skyline.
For thirty years, Nathan Cole had played the game of corporate real estate according to the strict, cold rules of contracts, foreclosures, and interest rates. He had believed that business was simply business—that efficiency was a neutral force, and that those who fell behind were simply victims of their own bad luck or poor choices.
But looking at Sarah Lin’s fragile form in the hospital bed, and thinking of seven-year-old Lily holding a sewing box as if her life depended on it, the illusion shattered completely.
This wasn't efficiency. It was predation. And it was happening inside a building that bore his own company’s name on the deed.
"Where is Victor Vance right now?" Nathan asked quietly.
"He operates out of the back office at the Eastern Avenue warehouse," Marcus replied. "His night shift runs until two in the morning. He usually stays until the final delivery trucks are loaded."
Nathan checked his watch. It was 11:45 PM.
"Get the car," Nathan said, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt.
May you like
Marcus blinked. "Sir? Do you want me to send a legal team or notify the labor board?"
"No," Nathan said, his voice as smooth and cold as polished marble. "The labor board will issue a fine in six months and write a report that nobody reads. I'm going to shut him down tonight."
