Chapter 5 – The Proxy
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The 5th-floor windows of Ladin Apartments had already swallowed the last orange light when Smith stepped out into the evening. The air carried the familiar smell of roasted maize and diesel fumes. He pulled his jacket tighter, eyes scanning every shadow and moving person. The unknown texter's latest message still occupied his mind: "Meet me at the Old Colonial Quarter at 7:00 p.m. if you want to avoid the consequences."
He chose to walk the first stretch, telling himself it was to clear his head. He had no idea what awaited him, only that he had to know the unknown texter. Every scenario ran through his head: a trap, an ambush, or a genuine opportunity to confront the person who had been orchestrating the day's events.
By the time he reached the Old Colonial Quarter, the sun had already set; its last rays were no longer visible. The district still carried the ghosts of its British past: wide verandas on faded stone buildings, wrought-iron balconies, and narrow lanes lined with antique shops and quiet cafés. Street lamps cast warm pools of light, but the spaces between them stayed dark. Tourists and locals mixed in the evening crowd, yet Smith felt completely isolated.
He found the agreed spot—a wooden bench beneath an old jacaranda tree near the corner of Heritage Avenue and a quiet side street. Seven o'clock came and went. He sat, then stood, then sat again, phone clutched in his damp palm. No new message. Only the low horns of honking cars and the occasional hoot of an owl from the park across the road.
At 7:12 p.m., a young man in a faded grey hoodie and jeans approached. He looked ordinary—mid-twenties, clean-shaven, carrying a small backpack and a half-eaten packet of crisps. Nothing about him screamed danger. He stopped a few metres away, eyes flicking over Smith as if confirming a description.
"Smith Wesson?" The voice was calm, almost friendly.
Smith's hand slid into his pocket, fingers brushing the small folding knife he had brought. "Who are you?"
The young man shrugged, popping another crisp into his mouth. "Doesn't matter. I'm just here to deliver the message. He said you'd understand." He pulled a cheap burner phone from his hoodie pocket and held it out. "He wants to talk to you directly. Says it's safer this way."
Smith stared at the device. The screen was already lit, showing an active call. No name, just "Private." He took the phone, keeping his distance from the stranger.
A low, digitally distorted voice came through the speaker, calm and composed.
"Good evening, Smith. Thank you for coming. I know this feels risky, but risk is the price of real freedom, isn't it?"
Smith's grip tightened. "Who are you? Why hide behind a kid?"
A soft, distorted chuckle crackled through the line. "The boy is just a courier. He doesn't know my name or face, and he won't remember your face tomorrow." Smith glanced at the young man, who had wandered a few steps away and was now pretending to check his own phone. The crowd flowed around them, oblivious.
Smith's grip around the burner phone tightened. "What do you want from me?"
The distorted voice paused, letting Smith's question linger in the air. "I don't want to take anything from you, Smith," it finally said. "I want you to see. To understand. Your family wields power over everyone in this city, commanding people around them. Even you, Smith. No choice has ever been yours until today. You felt it when you signed the document. That was a taste of control, of choice. Now imagine that multiplied."
Smith swallowed, the weight of the words sinking in. "And what? You think I'll just hand over everything? My family… my life… isn't yours to toy with."
"Not everything," the voice corrected smoothly. "I want you to collaborate with me, Smith. You provide me a document your family has; bring it to me unaltered, and I will show you the truth. The wickedness of your family. You will have knowledge. Power. And perhaps the freedom you so desire."
Smith glanced at the young courier. He was still leaning casually against the lamppost, pretending to scroll on his phone. The street had now become quiet except for a few rustling leaves, passing motorbikes, and hooting owls.
"And if I refuse?" Smith asked, voice dangerously low.
"There will be consequences," the voice said flatly. "Not enough to destroy you… yet. Only enough to make you feel restricted, make your family monitor you 24/7. Small leaks, subtle nudges. Your sister will notice. Questions will be asked. And the moment they spot weakness, the freedom you enjoyed for a moment will become a fantasy dream."
Silence stretched. The young courier had finished his crisps and was now leaning against a lamppost, watching the street with casual interest.
"Think about it," the caller continued. "You wanted control. I'm offering you the chance to take real control, for once, on the right side. Keep the burner phone. Call me when you are ready for your task." The line went dead.
Smith lowered the phone. The young man stepped forward, hand outstretched.
"I will be keeping it," Smith said, pushing the device into his pocket. "Tell him I need time." The courier shrugged again, pocketed his hands and melted into the darkness without another word.
Smith remained on the bench, the jacaranda leaves rustling above him. He had come seeking answers, but all he had received were new questions, and the sickening feeling that every choice he made wasn't totally his.
His own phone vibrated in his pocket. A new message from the same unknown number. Unknown: "Smart. Time is the only thing I can't control. Use it wisely. Tomorrow evening the first domino falls unless you make the right choice. Also leave the burner phone under the bench, I changed my mind."
Smith stared at the screen until the letters blurred. The freedom he had celebrated this morning now felt like a noose tightening slowly around his neck. He took the burner phone out of his pocket, tossed it under the bench. He stood up, legs heavy, and began the long walk back toward the brighter lights of the main avenue. Behind him, in the shadows between two colonial pillars, a young girl emerged. She walked to the bench he was sitting on, bent over and picked the phone before going back between the pillars.