Chapter 5: The Star of the Show

Chapter 5: The Star of the Show

The days leading up to Marcus Thorne’s retirement party were a masterclass in duplicity. Ethan Hayes operated on two parallel tracks, his life a meticulously managed split-screen. On one screen was the public performance: Ethan the earnest, grateful mentee, flawlessly executing the planning of a dignified corporate send-off. On the other, hidden in the shadows and after-hours glow of monitors, was the secret reality: Ethan the avenger, collaborating with his sole co-conspirator to forge the instrument of his justice.

His desire was singular: to create a weapon so perfectly crafted that it would not only humiliate Marcus but would also be undeniably authentic, a truth so absurd it was beyond defense.

The work began in Chloe Evans’s darkened corner of the office, long after the last of the cleaning crew had passed through. The office, so sterile and orderly by day, became their secret workshop at night.

“Okay, Project Finch is a go,” Chloe murmured, her face illuminated by the glow of her primary monitor. The grainy, black-and-white image of the young, preening Marcus Thorne stared out at them, a ghost from a more ridiculous time.

The first obstacle was technical. The source image was a low-resolution scan of a forty-year-old photograph attached to a scanned index card. It was blurry, riddled with digital artifacts, and unfit for their grand purpose.

“If we just blow this up, it’ll look like a mess of pixels,” Chloe explained, her fingers flying across the keyboard. “He could claim it’s fake, a deepfake, whatever the current corporate buzzword for ‘I’m lying’ is. It needs to be perfect.”

This was where Chloe’s artistry began. For the next several nights, Ethan watched, fascinated, as she performed a kind of digital necromancy. She used sophisticated AI upscaling algorithms to sharpen the image, painstakingly removing the digital noise while preserving the film grain of the original photograph. She synthesized textures to restore the detail in Marcus’s face, making his arrogant smirk pop with unnerving clarity.

Ethan’s role was that of director. He provided the crucial, personal details that would transform the image from a simple embarrassment into a surgical character assassination.

“His skin tone,” Ethan said, leaning closer to the screen. “Make it just a little… off. A bit too orange. He’s always been obsessed with looking tan, even back then. He used to talk about the tanning lamps in the athletic club.”

Chloe grinned, a flash of white in the darkness. “Petty. I love it.” She expertly adjusted the color balance, giving the black-and-white photo a subtle, sickly sepia tint that made the imagined tan look even more artificial.

“And the briefs,” Ethan continued, a cold knot of satisfaction tightening in his stomach. “Can you sharpen the details there? Make them look even tighter?”

“Oh, I can make it look like they were sewn on,” she replied, zooming in with frightening precision.

While this secret work progressed, Ethan’s days were filled with the charade. He chaired the planning committee meetings with a quiet efficiency that everyone mistook for solemn respect. He presented mood boards for the décor (“Elegant, but understated,” he’d explained). He vetted caterers, selected a string quartet to play classical music during cocktails, and personally oversaw the production of a tribute video.

The tribute video was his public masterpiece of misdirection. He spent hours compiling footage of Marcus shaking hands, accepting awards, and giving self-important speeches. He even interviewed several senior employees, carefully editing their bland, polite praise into a moving crescendo of corporate adulation. Mr. Sterling, reviewing the plan, had given Ethan a rare, approving nod. “Tasteful, Hayes. Very professional. Marcus will be pleased.”

Marcus, for his part, was a constant, looming presence. He would summon Ethan to his office to "review progress," an excuse to sit back in his high-backed leather chair and pontificate.

"Remember, Ethan," Marcus said during one such meeting, steepling his fingers. "This event is not merely a party. It is a capstone. A testament to a career built on integrity and foresight. The tone must reflect that."

"Of course, Marcus," Ethan replied, his face a perfect mask of deference. He thought of the file on Chloe’s hidden server, the image of Marcus in his tiny briefs, and the contrast was so profound, so dizzying, it was all he could do to keep his expression neutral.

The supreme irony of the situation was a constant source of fuel. Marcus was directing his own execution. He had handed Ethan the gun, and now he was meticulously polishing it for him, ensuring it would glint perfectly under the stage lights. Each piece of advice, each condescending remark, was another nail Marcus hammered into his own coffin.

The turning point in their secret project came on the third night. Chloe had finished her restoration. The image was now a high-resolution work of art. A young Marcus Thorne, rendered in glorious, embarrassing clarity, posed for eternity.

"It's done," Chloe said, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. "We can leak it from an anonymous account. It'll be all over the company in an hour."

"No," Ethan said immediately. His voice was quiet but firm. After five years, he wasn’t going to let this be an anonymous prank. This was a performance, and he was the lead actor. "It has to be presented. On stage. As a gift."

Chloe’s eyes widened, and then a slow, wicked grin spread across her face. "You magnificent bastard. A life-sized poster?"

"Life-sized," Ethan confirmed.

"We need to frame it. Or mount it on foam board, at least. Give it some gravitas," she added, catching the vision. "And it needs a title. Like a piece in a museum."

They brainstormed, throwing out sarcastic ideas. "The Thinker." "Portrait of a Young Titan."

Then Ethan, recalling his conversation with the retired professor, had the masterstroke. He pulled up his notes. "Here," he said, pointing to the screen. "The official name of Professor Finch's study. We'll put it on a little brass plaque at the bottom."

Chloe leaned in to read the words, and then she let out a bark of pure, unadulterated laughter that echoed in the empty office. "That is the most beautifully evil thing I have ever heard."

She designed the final layout. The massive, high-resolution photo of Marcus in his briefs, and beneath it, centered on a digitally rendered brass plaque, the perfectly academic, utterly humiliating inscription:

Somatic & Postural Analysis - Subject #1138 Ivy League Anthropological Study, Class of 1978

It was a perfect blend of truth and mockery. It was real, verifiable, and rooted in the very academic prestige Marcus held so dear. It wasn’t just a picture of him in a speedo; it was an artifact of his own vaunted history, reframed as a public joke.

Chloe used an anonymous online printing service with a rush order, paying with a ghost credit card. Two days before the party, a long, anonymous cardboard tube was delivered to a private mail drop Ethan had secured.

That night, Ethan stood alone in his minimalist apartment. The party was tomorrow. He had just finished a final walkthrough of the venue with Janice from HR, who had praised his "impeccable attention to detail." His suit for the event hung pressed and ready on his closet door.

Leaning against the wall in his living room was the cardboard tube. The star of the show, waiting for its cue.

He didn't need to unroll it. He had the image burned into his memory. He thought of the man in that photograph—young, arrogant, utterly unaware of the patient, cold-eyed ghost he would create decades in the future.

Five years of waiting. Five years of biting his tongue, of swallowing his rage, of meticulously planning. It had all distilled down to this single moment, this one performance. He wasn't the nervous, politically naive presenter from the Project Chimera disaster anymore. He was a different man entirely, forged in the fires of a quiet, calculated hatred.

The stage was set. The script was memorized. And tomorrow night, Ethan Hayes would finally deliver his closing remarks.