Chapter 4: The First Salvo

Chapter 4: The First Salvo

The first day of the month arrived with a profound, unnerving silence. For the first time in years, there was no clatter of Chloe searching for a clean coffee mug, no low rumble of Ben’s academic podcasts from his room. There was only the quiet drip of water from the wounded ceiling into a plastic bucket on the living room floor, a sound like a cheap, morbid clock counting down the seconds.

Leo stood in the kitchen, his phone open to his banking app. The automated rent payment he had set up years ago flashed on the screen, asking for his confirmation. His thumb hovered over the ‘Approve’ button. Paying was instinct. Paying meant stability, a roof over his head, the avoidance of conflict.

He thought of Chloe’s ruined portfolio, of the defeated slump in Ben’s shoulders as he’d walked away. He smelled the faint, sweet rot of mildew that now clung to his clothes, his books, his very skin.

His thumb moved. He didn't press 'Approve.' He pressed 'Cancel.' Then he went into the settings and deleted the recurring payment entirely.

The shot had been fired. A silent, digital salvo into the heart of the Apex Properties empire. Now, all he had to do was wait for the beast to notice it had been wounded.

The days that followed were a masterclass in controlled patience. Leo turned the dilapidated townhouse into his war room. The kitchen table, once the site of lively dinners, was now command central, buried under a meticulously organized mountain of paper. His old binders lay open, their highlighted pages and frantic marginalia forming the strategic bedrock of his campaign.

He printed every email, every automated response. He circled the ticket numbers—#734 for the dead refrigerator, #812 for the burst pipe—in red ink. He created a timeline, a long, damning scroll of paper that stretched across the floor, mapping every fee, every unanswered request, every new sign of decay. He cross-referenced photos of the mold blooming on the walls with the dates of the “Landscaping Beautification Fund” notice. He juxtaposed the bill for the emergency cooler ice with the line item for the “Property Administration Fee.” He was no longer just a victim; he was the chief prosecutor in the case of Vance v. Apex Properties. The house itself was his star witness, groaning its testimony with every creak and drip.

The first response from Apex was predictably impersonal. An automated email on the fifth of the month. Subject: Your Rent is Overdue. Leo archived it without reply.

On the tenth, a formal letter arrived in the now-familiar cream-colored envelope. It was a notice of intent to collect, complete with a newly invented ‘Late Payment Processing Fee.’ He slipped it into a clear plastic sleeve labeled ‘Exhibit C: Punitive and Unlawful Fees.’

On the fifteenth, his phone rang. The caller ID was blocked.

“Am I speaking with Leo Vance?” The voice was young, bored, and dripping with condescension.

“You are,” Leo said, his own voice perfectly calm.

“This is the Apex Properties collections department. Your account is significantly past due. We need to arrange immediate payment to avoid further action.”

“I’m withholding rent pursuant to a breach of the landlord’s obligations to repair and maintain the property as outlined in the provincial Tenancy Act, Section 27,” Leo stated, the words flowing as easily as breath. “I have multiple outstanding maintenance requests, the oldest of which is ticket number 734, filed over two months ago.”

There was a pause on the other end. The sound of surprised typing. “Sir, you can’t just… not pay your rent. That’s not how it works.”

“It is when the property is in a state of disrepair that breaches the covenant of quiet enjoyment,” Leo countered smoothly. “The burst pipe in ticket 812 has rendered a significant portion of the premises unusable and has resulted in pervasive mold growth. All payments prior to this month were made ‘Under Protest,’ as noted on each transfer.”

The silence on the other end was longer this time. It was the sound of a script-reader who had run out of script. “Sir… you need to pay your rent.”

“I’ll be happy to discuss the matter at the tribunal,” Leo said, a hint of steel entering his voice. “Please have your legal counsel send me the appropriate notice of hearing.” He hung up before the flustered collections agent could respond.

He knew what would happen next. The agent would report the call to his manager. They would see his notes, his use of legal terminology, and they would panic. A tenant who just complains is an annoyance. A tenant who quotes the Act is a threat.

Two weeks later, it came.

It wasn't dropped through the mail slot. A man in a cheap suit, a professional process server, knocked on the door. He asked Leo to confirm his name and then handed him a thick, nine-by-twelve envelope made of heavy, linen-textured cardstock. It felt weighty, expensive, and intimidating.

Leo closed the door and leaned against it, his heart hammering not with fear, but with a hunter's thrill. This was it. The invitation. He tore it open.

The paper inside was even more luxurious than the envelope. At the top, in elegant, engraved lettering, was a name that made his breath catch. It wasn’t ‘Apex Properties.’

It was ‘Thorne, Harrington & Finch.’

One of the city’s most notorious and expensive corporate law firms. The kind of firm that charged more per hour than Leo used to make in a week. They were attack dogs for the city’s wealthiest corporations, known for burying opponents in paperwork and procedural motions until they begged for mercy. Apex hadn’t just escalated; they had brought a cannon to a knife fight.

Leo’s eyes scanned the legal jargon until they found the name at the bottom of the page, signed with an arrogant, slashing signature. Marcus Thorne, Senior Partner.

He now had a name for his faceless tormentor.

A slow, cold smile spread across Leo’s face. This was perfect. This was better than he could have ever hoped. Apex, in their infinite arrogance, had seen his calm defiance not as a sign of a well-prepared tenant, but as an insult to their authority so profound that they needed to hire the most expensive bullies in town to crush him. They were terrified of looking weak. They had spent thousands on lawyers for a simple eviction case they were destined to lose.

He held the summons in his hand, the heavy paper a tangible symbol of their fear. This wasn't a threat. It wasn't a legal notice.

It was a gilded invitation to the arena where he was king. And Marcus Thorne had just personally invited him in.