Chapter 5: The Ambush

Chapter 5: The Ambush

The Rental Housing Tribunal wasn’t a courtroom. There was no polished wood, no intimidating judge’s bench. It was a series of bland, soulless rooms in a government building, smelling faintly of old coffee and quiet desperation. The floors were scuffed linoleum, the chairs were unforgiving plastic, and the fluorescent lights hummed a monotonous tune. To most, it was a place of anxiety and last resorts. To Leo Vance, it was the Colosseum. It was home.

He arrived thirty minutes early, taking a seat in the designated waiting area. He didn't fidget or nervously check his phone. He sat perfectly still, observing. He recognized the bailiff, a heavyset man named Dave whose son played high school hockey. He saw the adjudicator for his hearing, a stern-faced woman named Ms. Albright, walk past with a stack of files. He knew her reputation: impatient with incompetence, but scrupulously fair if you presented a clear, logical case.

Ten minutes before the scheduled hearing, they arrived. First came the lawyer, a man in his late thirties with a razor-sharp suit and a face so smug it looked like it had been custom-made for condescension. His polished shoes clicked on the linoleum with an irritating confidence. Behind him, like a shark trailing its pilot fish, was a man Leo instantly knew had to be Marcus Thorne.

Thorne was exactly as Leo had pictured him from his arrogant signature. Early forties, wearing an expensive suit that strained slightly at the buttons over his gut, he scanned the waiting room with an air of profound boredom, as if the very existence of this place was an insult to his time. His eyes flickered over Leo, dismissing him in a nanosecond as just another piece of insignificant human lint clogging up the system. He saw a tired-looking young man in a simple, neat button-down shirt. He saw a nobody.

The lawyer, who introduced himself to the clerk as Mr. Finch, approached Leo. "Mr. Vance? I'm Alistair Finch, counsel for Apex Properties. My client is prepared to offer you a settlement. Vacate the property within 48 hours, and we will waive the outstanding rent and associated late fees. It's a generous offer. I suggest you take it." He spoke without making eye contact, instead inspecting a piece of lint on his perfect lapel.

Leo didn't stand. He simply looked up at the slick lawyer, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "No, thank you, Mr. Finch," he said calmly. "I believe we're supposed to exchange disclosure before the hearing."

Finch smirked. "Disclosure? Mr. Vance, this is a simple non-payment of rent application. The disclosure is the lease and the ledger showing you haven't paid. It will take five minutes."

"Nevertheless," Leo said, reaching down beside his chair. He lifted a three-inch-thick, black binder and placed it on the small table between them with a solid, definitive thump. The sound cut through the waiting room's low hum.

The binder was a work of art. It was immaculately organized, with dozens of color-coded tabs sticking out from its edge.

"My disclosure," Leo said, his voice still quiet. He slid it across the table.

Finch’s smirk faltered. He looked from the binder to Leo, a sliver of annoyance creeping into his expression. With a sigh of theatrical impatience, he opened the cover.

The first page was a table of contents. Section 1: Correspondence. Section 2: Photographic Evidence of Disrepair. Section 3: Timeline of Neglect. Section 4: Financial Records and Unlawful Fees. Section 5: Precedents and Relevant Case Law.

Finch’s eyes widened slightly. He flipped to the first tab. It contained every email, every automated portal response, all printed and dated. He flipped again. He was met with high-resolution, time-stamped photographs: the lukewarm interior of the dead refrigerator; the souring milk; the spreading, yellow stain on the living room ceiling; the grotesque bloom of black mold in the bathroom.

He kept flipping, faster now, the slick confidence evaporating from him like morning mist. He saw the detailed timeline Leo had constructed, mapping every single service request against every single new fee. He saw the bank statements, each transfer clearly marked Paid Under Protest. He saw copies of the bills for the cooler ice and bottled water. The final section contained photocopies of past tribunal decisions, passages highlighted in yellow, each one supporting a tenant's right to rent abatement in the face of a landlord’s failure to maintain a property.

Finch’s face had gone from smug to confused to pale. He looked up at Leo, truly seeing him for the first time. He didn’t see a piece of lint. He saw a predator.

Behind him, Marcus Thorne, noticing the shift in his lawyer's demeanor, leaned in. "What is it, Alistair? What is that?"

Finch didn't answer. He was speechless, his mind frantically trying to process the sheer, overwhelming volume of meticulously documented evidence that had just been dropped into his lap. His simple, five-minute eviction case had just exploded into a multi-front war he was completely unprepared to fight. He had brought a summons to a gunfight, and his opponent had just revealed a tank.

"All parties for Apex Properties versus Leo Vance, Hearing Room 3," the clerk called out, her voice flat.

Inside the hearing room, Ms. Albright looked over her glasses at them. "Mr. Finch, you may begin."

Finch stood, his movements stiff. He cleared his throat. "Adjudicator, we are here today because the tenant, Mr. Vance, has failed to pay his rent for the current month..." His voice, once so commanding, was now thin and reedy.

Ms. Albright glanced at the binder on his table, which he had placed there as if it were a venomous snake. "And I see the tenant has provided disclosure. Have you had a chance to review it?"

"I... we have only just received it," Finch stammered. "I would ask for an adjournment to—"

"An adjournment?" Ms. Albright cut him off, her voice sharp with the impatience Leo knew she was famous for. "The rules state disclosure should be exchanged in a timely manner. Did you serve your disclosure on Mr. Vance?"

"Well, no, it's a simple non-payment—"

"Mr. Finch," she said, her tone dropping to a dangerous calm. "Your client is claiming the tenant has not fulfilled his obligations, yet this binder seems to suggest your client has failed to meet a single one of theirs for several months. Is there an active maintenance request for a burst pipe?"

Finch paled further. "I... I believe so."

"And for a broken refrigerator?"

"...Yes."

Ms. Albright leaned back, her expression one of utter contempt. "And yet you come here, asking me to evict this man, while your client charges him 'Landscaping Beautification Fees' for a property that, according to these photos, is actively molding? You are wasting the tribunal's time."

Marcus Thorne, unable to contain himself, stood up abruptly. "Now see here! This is ridiculous! He owes us money! He needs to pay or get out!"

"Sir, sit down and be quiet or I will have you removed," Ms. Albright snapped without even looking at him. Thorne froze, his face turning a blotchy, furious red, and slowly sank back into his chair.

Ms. Albright looked at Leo, who had not said a single word. Then she looked back at the stunned lawyer.

"Application dismissed," she declared, banging a small, symbolic gavel. "With prejudice. Do not bring this matter before me again until you have fulfilled every last one of your obligations as a landlord. Good day."

It was over. In less than three minutes.

Alistair Finch stood frozen, utterly humiliated. Marcus Thorne was trembling with a silent, volcanic rage, his eyes locked on Leo. The condescending boredom was gone, replaced by a look of pure, murderous fury. He had been made to look like a fool. His expensive lawyer had been swatted down like a fly. He had lost time, he had lost money on legal fees, and worst of all, he had lost face.

Leo calmly reached across the table, took his binder back from the paralyzed Mr. Finch, and slipped it into his bag. He gave a slight, formal nod to the adjudicator. Then he turned and walked out of the room, not once looking at the two men he had just strategically, surgically, and silently destroyed. He didn't need to. He could feel Marcus Thorne's hateful glare burning into his back. The first salvo had landed perfectly. And the war had just gotten personal.