Chapter 2: System Activation: Justice is Served

Chapter 2: System Activation: Justice is Served

The corporate training session was as sterile as the bleach used to clean the MegaMart’s floors. Henderson clicked through a PowerPoint presentation with all the enthusiasm of a man reading a eulogy. On the screen, bullet points in a soulless font detailed the protocols and potential pitfalls of the "Parking Lot Integrity Initiative."

“Remember, team, de-escalation is key,” Henderson droned, his voice a flat line. “If a customer becomes confrontational, do not engage. Simply walk away and alert management.”

The other employees grumbled. Sarah, slouched in her chair beside Leo, muttered under her breath, “Great. So we get to be the bad guys, and you get to hide in the office. Fantastic.”

Leo barely heard them. He was cradling the handheld device, the cool plastic feeling like an extension of his own hand. In his mind, he was already rewriting the corporate jargon, translating it into the language of his own personal quest. This wasn't a training session; it was a system tutorial.

Scan License Plate became Identify Target. Select Violation Code became Choose Judgment. Print & Affix Ticket became Execute Sentence.

The mundane device was transformed. It was no longer a tool of corporate drudgery. It was the Karma Collector, and he was its sole user. He felt a faint vibration from it, as if it were humming with latent power, waiting for him.

“Any questions?” Henderson asked, eager to end the meeting.

Leo remained silent, his gaze distant.

“Right. Vance, Jenkins, you’re on checkout and cart collection for the afternoon shift,” Henderson said, already gathering his notes. “Don’t mess this up.”

As they filed out of the breakroom, Sarah nudged him. “You look like you’re about to start a holy war, not ticket a minivan for being over the line. You okay?”

The observation was so sharp it almost startled him. He looked at her, at her intelligent, curious eyes, and offered a vague shrug. “Just another day in paradise, right?”

She smirked, not entirely convinced. “Uh-huh. Well, try not to get shanked with a stale baguette out there. Some of these people are crazy about their parking spots.”

The afternoon dragged on with agonizing slowness. Every beep of his scanner, every polite “Have a nice day,” was a performance. His real focus was on the panoramic windows at the front of the store, his eyes sweeping the vast asphalt sea of the parking lot. He was a predator waiting for his prey. He felt a coiled tension in his gut, a mix of crippling fear and intoxicating anticipation.

He was restocking the impulse-buy candy bars when he saw it.

The sun glinted off a familiar, arrogant shade of deep blue. A monstrous Mercedes work truck, so large it dwarfed the sedans on either side, was prowling the lane closest to the entrance. Leo’s breath caught in his throat. His knuckles went white as he gripped a box of chocolate bars.

It was him. Marcus Thorne.

Seven years of festering rage, of shame and self-loathing, came to a boil. Leo watched as the truck bypassed a dozen empty, perfectly good parking spots. He knew what was coming. It was a sick, inevitable ritual.

With a final, insolent roar of its engine, the blue truck swung sharply and settled into a space right beside the entrance. A disabled bay. The bold blue and white symbol on the asphalt was almost completely obscured by its oversized tire.

The memory of Eleanor, her frail form struggling across that very same stretch of pavement, flashed behind his eyes. He saw her pained expression, her unshakeable dignity in the face of Thorne’s cruel sneer. The ghost of that moment wasn't just a memory; it was a call to action.

His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of terror and resolve. The nineteen-year-old coward inside him was screaming to stay put, to hide behind the candy display, to let it go. He’s a mountain, the voice whispered. He’ll crush you.

But another voice, one he hadn't heard in years, answered back. Not anymore.

“Sarah, I’m going on a cart run,” he said, his voice tight.

She glanced up from her register. “We’ve got plenty.”

“Need some fresh air,” he replied, already moving, not waiting for her response. He snatched the Karma Collector from its charging cradle behind the customer service desk. Its weight in his hand was grounding, a talisman against his fear.

He pushed through the automatic doors, and the wave of summer heat felt like stepping back in time. The parking lot was a battlefield, and he was finally walking onto it. He kept his head down, grabbing the handle of an abandoned cart as a prop, his movements carefully casual. Every step toward the blue truck was a war against himself. His palms were sweating, his mouth was dry. He could feel Thorne’s phantom gaze on him, even though the man was already inside the store.

He reached the truck. It was even more obnoxious up close, a monument to one man’s ego. He pulled the Karma Collector from his pocket. His hands trembled, but his purpose was a rod of steel in his spine.

Identify Target. He aimed the device’s camera at the license plate. The system beeped, locking on. THORNE-1. How fitting.

Choose Judgment. He scrolled through the list of violations, his thumb hovering over the correct one. Code 1: Unauthorized Use of Disabled Parking Bay. He pressed the screen. The selection glowed.

Execute Sentence. A final confirmation screen appeared. He took a deep, shaky breath, the image of Eleanor’s kind, tired eyes giving him strength. He hit ‘CONFIRM’.

A low whirring sound came from the device as a slip of paper slowly emerged from a slot at the top. It was real. Tangible. A physical manifestation of a seven-year-old debt being called in.

He tore the ticket from the machine, his movements swift and practiced. He glanced around—no one was watching. With a final surge of adrenaline, he stepped forward, lifted the massive windshield wiper, and tucked the bright yellow fine securely underneath it. It sat there, a vibrant slash of defiance against the dark, tinted glass.

He retreated, his heart still pounding, melting back into the flow of shoppers. He didn't look back. As he ducked behind a row of carts, he glanced down at the screen of the Karma Collector, expecting to see a simple ‘Ticket Issued’ confirmation.

Instead, two words glowed in a crisp, satisfying font:

Karma Delivered.

A shock went through him, a jolt of pure, unadulterated power. It wasn't just a machine. It understood. The System was real. A slow, cold smile spread across his face, a foreign expression he barely recognized. The fear was gone, replaced by a dark, thrilling satisfaction that settled deep in his bones.

He had been a ghost for seven years. But ghosts can learn to haunt. And Marcus Thorne had no idea he was about to become a very, very frightened man.