Chapter 2: The Audit of Hate

Chapter 2: The Audit of Hate

The nights bled into one another. Liam’s world shrank to the dimensions of his office, a sterile glass box suspended twenty-seven floors above a city that had gone to sleep without him. The only light came from the cool blue glow of his dual monitors, reflecting off his face and casting long, distorted shadows on the wall behind him. The only sound was the poison being piped directly into his ears through his headphones.

He was three days into the audit, and the sheer volume of Scott Henderson’s vitriol was staggering. Hundreds of hours of audio sludge. Liam worked with a chilling, machine-like efficiency. On one screen, the audio file’s waveform pulsed like a diseased heart monitor. On the other, a spreadsheet where he logged every call: date, time, duration, and a column for notes that was rapidly filling with a lexicon of human ugliness.

Initially, he’d maintained his professional detachment. It was just data, ugly data, but data nonetheless. He listened to the early calls, Henderson’s grating, whiny voice complaining about lead quality, about the weather, about the government—a litany of grievances from a man who believed the world was a conspiracy designed to inconvenience him personally. It was pathetic, but manageable.

Then he reached the calls from the last six months, the period when Priya Patel had been his account manager.

The change was immediate.

“Yeah, hello? Put me through to… what’s her name… Pree-ya?” Henderson’s voice, dripping with condescension. “Tell her Scott Henderson is on the line. She’ll know.”

Liam’s fingers paused over the keyboard. He could hear Priya’s calm, professional tone on the other end, trying to steer the conversation toward business. But Henderson wasn’t interested in business. He was interested in a punching bag.

“Listen, sweetie, I don’t know how you people do things over in… wherever… but here, we expect results for our money.”

The calls grew progressively worse. The microaggressions became overt insults. He mocked her accent, which was a faint, melodic lilt she’d had since moving from London. He called her “dot-head,” “curry-muncher,” and other slurs that made Liam’s stomach clench. Through it all, Priya remained impossibly professional, her voice never wavering, though Liam could hear the strained patience behind each carefully articulated word. He felt a surge of cold fury on her behalf. David’s directive to "bury him" no longer felt like a corporate power play; it felt like a moral imperative.

He saved a dozen of the most egregious clips to a separate, password-protected folder. This alone was enough to terminate the account for breach of conduct. But David wanted more. He wanted a case so ironclad that Henderson couldn’t even squirm. Liam kept digging.

Late on the fourth night, fueled by lukewarm coffee and a growing sense of righteous anger, he found it. A call from a woman named Sarah. Her voice was tight with anxiety.

“Mr. Henderson? My husband, Sergeant Miller, is deployed. We have a leak in the roof over our baby’s room, and the news is calling for a big storm this weekend. Your company did our initial inspection… he said you’d be the one to call.”

“Yeah, well, I’m busy,” Henderson grumbled. “Got bigger fish to fry than some little patch job.”

“Please,” the woman begged, her voice cracking. “I can pay whatever you ask. I just… I can’t get anyone else out on such short notice, and I’m alone with the baby.”

“Not my problem. Your husband should’ve thought of that before running off to play hero in the sand.” A click, then the dial tone.

Liam ripped the headphones from his ears, the sudden silence of the office deafening. He stared at the screen, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of his desk. It wasn't just racism. The man’s soul was rotten to the core. He took a deep, steadying breath, his face an emotionless mask that concealed the furnace blazing within. He tagged the file—Flagrant Negligence, Client Abuse—and pressed on.

The final nail in Henderson’s coffin came near dawn on the fifth day. It was a lead Liam’s system had flagged as “High Potential.” A property management company looking for a long-term contractor for a 50-unit apartment complex. Painting, flooring, kitchen and bath refits. It was a massive job, easily six figures. The kind of contract that could keep a small business like Henderson & Son afloat for a year.

Henderson was practically salivating on the call, his obsequious "business" voice a nauseating change of pace. He promised quality, speed, the best prices. Then, the property manager mentioned the address.

There was a pause. Liam could almost hear the gears grinding in Henderson’s small, hate-filled mind.

“Uh… where did you say that was again?” Henderson asked, his tone suddenly cautious.

The manager repeated the address. It was in a predominantly Black, up-and-coming neighborhood on the other side of town.

“Oh,” Henderson said. The single word was heavy with disdain. “You know what, my schedule just filled up. We’re booked solid for the next eighteen months. Can’t help you. Sorry.”

“Eighteen months?” the manager asked, incredulous. “You just said you were available next week.”

“Yeah, well, things change. Good luck.”

The call ended. But Henderson didn’t hang up his phone properly. The recording continued for another fifteen seconds. Long enough for Liam to hear him mutter to someone in his workshop, clear as day: “No way I’m sending my guys into that jungle. Let ‘em find one of their own to do it.”

Liam stopped the recording.

That was it. The smoking gun. The kill shot.

Scott Henderson wasn’t the victim of a faulty system. Scott Henderson was the faulty system. His racism, his laziness, his sheer spite—they were the reasons his business was failing. He was demanding a refund for leads he had actively sabotaged himself. It was the most perfect, damning piece of evidence Liam could have ever hoped for.

His professional detachment had long since boiled away, leaving behind a hard, crystalline rage. This was no longer just about defending Apex or avenging Priya. This was about a fundamental principle. Men like Scott Henderson shouldn't be allowed to succeed. They were a cancer, and he, Liam Carter, was the surgeon who would cut them out.

He leaned back in his chair, the exhaustion of the past week vanishing, replaced by an electric, predatory focus. He had the ammunition. He had listened to the rants, the slurs, the petty cruelties. He had borne witness to the man’s character.

Now, it was time to go on the offensive. He cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing in the silent office, and opened a new document. He began to type, the words flowing with cold, precise fury. He wasn’t just writing a report. He was crafting a weapon.