Chapter 6: Whispers and a Friend Request

Chapter 6: Whispers and a Friend Request

The forty thousand dollars didn’t feel real until it was a number on a screen. A crisp, authoritative figure in Liam’s banking app, a stark black-and-white confirmation that his life had irrevocably changed. Uncle Mike had handled the logistics with the glee of a master strategist, leveraging his network of collectors and appraisers to liquidate the most valuable items with stunning efficiency. The Black Lotus alone covered nearly half of Liam’s student loan balance. The Spider-Man comic erased the rest.

Within a month, Liam was gone. He left his hometown not with a wistful glance in the rearview mirror, but with the quiet, determined purpose of a man escaping a long prison sentence. He moved into a clean, modern apartment in the city, one with large windows that overlooked a bustling street instead of manicured suburban lawns. The furniture wasn’t second-hand or from a flat-pack box; he bought a solid oak desk and a comfortable sofa, tangible proof of his new reality. He was building a life, not just starting one.

But even amidst the bright promise of his new beginning, a shadow lingered. It wasn't the memory of a forty-dollar debt; that had been settled a thousand times over. It was the small, black notebook. It sat on the corner of his new oak desk, a dark monolith amongst his work-related papers. He had packed it along with everything else, unable to bring himself to throw it away. It was evidence, though of what, he wasn't sure.

The notebook had tainted the purity of his victory. His revenge had felt like a simple, elegant balancing of cosmic scales. But the ledger revealed a truth far uglier than a mere high-school bully. Derek wasn't just arrogant and cruel; he was meticulous. Pathological. The Meme Apocalypse hadn't been a joke that got out of hand. It had been a calculated strike, and Liam’s forty dollars had been the chosen ordinance. The knowledge was unsettling, like finding a complex and malevolent design in what you thought was random chaos.

He needed to talk to someone who would understand.

Two weeks after his move, he found himself sitting across a small table at a noisy coffee shop, the scent of roasted beans in the air. Opposite him, Sarah Jenkins took a sip of her latte, her eyes sparkling with amusement. She had moved to the city a year before him for a job in marketing, and they had fallen back into their old, easy friendship as if no time had passed at all.

“So,” she began, leaning forward conspiratorially, “are you going to tell me why you invited me out for a ‘top-secret, life-altering debriefing’? Did you join a cult? Are you secretly a spy?”

Liam laughed, the sound genuine and relaxed for the first time in days. “Better. Do you remember Derek Vance?”

Sarah’s smile tightened into a grimace. “The human equivalent of a popped collar? Unfortunately. Why, did you run into him?”

“You could say that.” Liam took a breath and then, in a low voice, he told her everything. The garage sale. The clueless mother. The tower of boxes. The four-hundred-dollar transaction. As he spoke, Sarah’s expression shifted from polite interest to wide-eyed disbelief, and finally, to pure, unadulterated glee. When he got to the part about the forty-thousand-dollar appraisal, she threw her head back and let out a peal of laughter so loud that the barista shot them an annoyed look.

“No!” she gasped, wiping a tear from her eye. “Liam Carter, you absolute legend! That is the single greatest story of karmic justice I have ever heard in my entire life.”

“I know, right?” he grinned, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. Her reaction was the validation he didn't know he needed. “My dad always said it was a battle not worth fighting. Turns out it just had a ten-year waiting period.”

“Your dad was wrong. It was worth every second of that wait,” she said firmly. Then her expression sobered slightly. “So, that’s the life-altering part? You’re secretly rich now?”

“That’s part of it,” Liam said. He pulled out his phone, and swiped to a picture he had taken before leaving his uncle’s house—a clear shot of the first page of Derek's notebook. He slid the phone across the table. “This is the other part.”

Sarah picked it up, her brow furrowed. She read the page, her smile slowly dissolving. Her gaze flickered up to meet Liam’s.

“Payback: The Meme Apocalypse. Cost: $40 of Liam’s credit,” she read aloud, her voice barely a whisper. “Oh my God. So you weren’t just… in the way. He used you to get to Kevin.”

“He had a list, Sarah. For everyone. A ledger of every little thing he thought someone did to him, and what he did to get them back.”

The laughter was gone from her eyes, replaced by a cold understanding. “Wow,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “So he wasn't just a bully. He was a little psychopath in training. Keeping records. That’s… chilling.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the cheerful noise of the coffee shop fading into the background. The black notebook was no longer just a weird artifact; it was a confirmation of the darkness they had only sensed as kids.

“Well,” Sarah said finally, pushing the phone back to him. “Good. I’m glad you took him for every penny. He didn’t deserve any of it.”

Her words settled the last of his doubts. He had done the right thing. The notebook was just a creepy postscript to a story that was, finally, over.

The weeks that followed were the best of Liam’s life. He started his new job as a junior analyst, losing himself in spreadsheets and data sets. The money in his account was a silent, reassuring presence, a safety net that allowed him to take risks and breathe easy. The memory of Derek Vance and the house on Maple Street began to fade, becoming less of a defining chapter and more of a killer anecdote to share with Sarah over drinks. He was free.

The feeling lasted for six weeks.

It was a Tuesday night. Liam was on his couch, scrolling idly through social media on his phone, half-watching a show on TV. A notification popped up on his screen.

[Facebook]: Derek Vance has sent you a friend request.

Liam froze, his thumb hovering over the screen. The name was a ghost materializing in the sterile, safe space of his new life. His heart began to pound a slow, heavy rhythm. How had he found him? His profile was private, his last name common. But Derek had always been good at finding people who didn't want to be found. The friend request was a probe. A warning shot.

He stared at Derek’s profile picture. It was a slightly blurry selfie taken in a dimly lit bar, the old arrogant smirk firmly in place, though it looked strained now, almost desperate. Liam’s finger jabbed the ‘Delete Request’ button. A small, satisfying act of defiance. He blocked the profile for good measure. He would not let this ghost into his house.

He put his phone down, but the sense of peace was shattered. The air in his apartment suddenly felt cold. He knew it wasn't over.

The confirmation came less than ten minutes later. His phone buzzed, not with a notification, but with a message preview on his lock screen. A message request from an unknown user on Instagram, an account with no posts and a generic, blank profile picture.

The preview was all he needed to see. It was a wall of furious, capitalized text.

Derek Vance: I KNOW IT WAS YOU CARTER YOU FUCKING THIEF

Liam’s blood ran cold, then hot. He unlocked his phone and opened the message. The full text was a torrent of pure, undiluted rage.

My mom described you. The beard the glasses. Very clever. You think I’m stupid? You stole MY COLLECTION. MY FUCKING LIFE’S WORK. That was worth a fortune and you stole it from me you fucking snake. I will find you. You have NO idea who you’re messing with. You think this is over? This is NOT over. You will give it back. Every last piece. Or I swear to God I will ruin your life. YOU OWE ME.

Liam read the message once. Then he read it again. The frantic, desperate rage poured off the screen. There was no mention of the forty dollars from long ago, no acknowledgment of the original sin. In Derek’s mind, he was the victim. His precious things had been violated.

A slow smile spread across Liam’s face. It wasn't a happy smile. It was cold, sharp, and utterly devoid of fear. The thirteen-year-old boy who had been crushed by a few careless words was gone. In his place was a man looking at a desperate, rambling message on a screen, sitting in an apartment paid for by the very collection Derek was screaming about.

He looked around his new living room, at the solid oak desk, at the life he had built. Derek’s threats were the impotent howls of a dethroned king.

You owe me.

Liam let out a short, sharp laugh.

Let him come. The battle he’d been waiting for was finally here. And for the first time in his life, he had all the power. This was a him problem now.