Chapter 4: The First Strike

Chapter 4: The First Strike

Dawn was a dirty smudge of grey against the window of Alex’s apartment. He hadn’t slept. His body was a thrumming wire of caffeine and adrenaline, his eyes gritty from staring at screens for eight straight hours. Before him, arrayed in a neat grid of folders on his primary monitor, was the product of his nocturnal obsession: a digital arsenal aimed at the heart of Victor Vance’s operation.

Each folder was a perfectly crafted missile. Each contained the target coordinates (the listing), the legal justification (the FDA classification), and the weapon itself (a screenshot of the platform’s own rules). He had built this weapon from the enemy's own materials, turning their system of governance into a tool of destruction. He’d found twenty-two listings for Class III devices. The most egregious violations. The most expensive items.

For a final moment, he hesitated. This was the point of no return. This wasn't just about Vipertek’s vile comments anymore, nor the sneering face of Victor Vance, the arrogant CEO. It was about the gouged-out serial numbers on machinery designed to keep people alive. It was about a man profiting from a darkness that ran deeper than petty online insults. This man was a genuine predator, and Alex had him in his sights.

He remembered the message that started it all. “Go ask your mommy for an allowance.” The condescension, the assumption of weakness. Victor Vance had no idea who he was dealing with. He thought he was swatting at a gnat. He was about to learn he had kicked a hornet’s nest.

The hesitation vanished, replaced by a cold, surgical certainty.

He opened the first folder, labeled “Zoll_Defibrillator_M-Series.” He navigated to the VanceMed-Surplus listing page—still active, still a monument to Victor’s hubris—and clicked the ‘Report Item’ button.

The reporting interface was a simple web form designed for grandmothers complaining about fake handbags. Most people filled it with emotional, rambling text that was easily dismissed by overworked, underpaid content moderators. Alex’s approach was different.

Category of violation: Prohibited and Restricted Items. Sub-category: Medical Devices. Reason for report:

He didn't write a paragraph. He didn't use a single emotional word. He pasted in a clean, concise block of text:

VIOLATION: Sale of FDA Class III Medical Device. ITEM: Zoll M Series Defibrillator/Monitor (Item #28451987XXXX). EVIDENCE A: See attached screenshot ‘FDA_Class_III_Zoll_M.png’. This device is classified as life-sustaining and requires a prescription for sale. EVIDENCE B: See attached screenshot ‘Platform_Policy_Sec4B.png’. Your platform’s policy explicitly prohibits the sale of Class III devices. ACTION REQUIRED: Immediate removal of listing and review of seller’s account for repeated, flagrant violations.

He attached the two files. The entire report was irrefutable, a closed loop of logic that left no room for interpretation. It was designed to be processed and approved by a moderator in under thirty seconds. He clicked ‘Submit Report.’

One down. Twenty-one to go.

He moved to the next folder. "Valleylab_Force_FX_ESU." He repeated the process with the same chilling efficiency. Click, report. Copy, paste. Attach, attach. Submit.

Next. "Ohmeda_Anesthesia_Vaporizer." Click, report. Copy, paste. Submit.

It was a methodical, rhythmic act of destruction. With each click, he was firing a precision-guided missile into the foundation of Victor’s illicit business. He wasn't a vigilante; he was a system administrator, revoking the privileges of a user who had violated the terms of service on a cosmic scale.

When he submitted the twenty-second and final report, he leaned back in his chair, the tension finally draining from his shoulders. The sun was now a sliver of pale gold on the horizon. His work was done. All he could do now was wait for the system to do its job.

He refreshed the VanceMed-Surplus storefront page. Nothing had changed. He refreshed it again a minute later. Still nothing. The algorithms and human moderators needed time. He stood up, stretched until his back popped, and made a cup of strong, black coffee.

He sat back down, sipping the bitter brew, his eyes fixed on the screen. He felt a strange sense of calm. He had set the gears in motion. The machine would turn.

Fifteen minutes after he’d sent the last report, the first email notification arrived.

Subject: An update on your recent report (Case #98122-A)

Hello, Thank you for bringing this to our attention. We have reviewed the listing for the Zoll M Series Defibrillator/Monitor and have taken appropriate action. The listing has been removed.

Alex allowed himself a thin, sharp smile. The first missile had found its mark. He refreshed the VanceMed-Surplus page. The $3,500 defibrillator was gone. A blank space where it used to be.

A second email pinged. The Valleylab Force FX Electrosurgical Unit. Removed. Price: $2,800.

He refreshed the page again. Another empty space.

Then the deluge began. PING. PING. PING. His inbox filled with a steady stream of notifications. Each one was a death certificate for another of Victor Vance’s high-ticket items. Anesthesia Vaporizer ($1,950). Surgical Laser ($4,500). Infant Warmer ($3,100). Portable Ultrasound ($5,200).

With each notification, a piece of Victor's professional facade was being systematically ripped away. Alex watched the storefront page, refreshing every few seconds, a general watching enemy fortifications crumble under an artillery barrage. The six most expensive listings, totaling over eighteen thousand dollars, were the first to fall. Then the mid-tier items vanished in a cascade of takedowns.

Within half an hour, the VanceMed-Surplus page was a wasteland. Over $40,000 worth of illegal medical equipment had been vaporized from the marketplace. It was a devastating financial blow, but more importantly, it was a crippling blow to Victor’s arrogance. Someone had not only dared to challenge him, but had used his own chosen battlefield to humiliate him. The victory was absolute. It was clean. It was silent.

A profound sense of satisfaction washed over Alex. He had cleaned a small, filthy corner of the internet. He had brought a consequence to a man who believed he was above them. He closed the browser tabs, the dossier folders, the FDA database. The war was over. He had won.

He stood up, ready for a few hours of well-deserved sleep, when a new sound cut through the silence of his apartment. It wasn't the familiar ping of a system notification. It was the softer, more distinct chime of a direct email.

He glanced at the screen. The sender was an unreadable string of characters from a hyper-encrypted, anonymous email service. The kind used by journalists, spies, and criminals.

The subject line was blank.

A knot of ice formed in his stomach. The satisfaction of his victory evaporated, replaced by a primal sense of dread. His hand trembled slightly as he moved the mouse and clicked open the message.

It contained only five words. Five words that turned his blood to slush and the quiet of his apartment into a suffocating tomb.

I know what you did.