2_ARNOLD

A Penthouse in the wealthiest part of town...

Arnold never saw it coming. He was feeling so restless and he just couldn't place why.

Perched high above the busy city in his penthouse, he looked in satisfaction at the glittering skyline. For him, success had always come easily. By the age of twenty-five, he had transformed his startup from a single investment into a vast conglomerate of tech, real estate, and international businesses. His face appeared frequently in financial magazines, his wealth made headlines, and his name was murmured in awe by those who aspired to be like him.

In recent weeks, however, something had changed. The air felt different. His instincts—those sharp, reliable senses that had led him to the top—were now warning him of an unseen danger lurking in the shadows.

It started with small things. His assistant, Andrea, discovered odd discrepancies in the company's offshore accounts—funds moving in and out without any explanation. At first, Arnold brushed it off as a clerical error, but when his personal security team informed him that two of his cars had been tampered with, his concern grew. Then there was the cryptic email he received just days ago:

"You don't know what you're involved in, but you will pay the price."

Arnold was no stranger to threats. Wealth and power came with enemies, but this was different. The email wasn't from a disgruntled business rival or a jealous former associate. It felt personal. And it was the beginning of something far darker than he had ever anticipated.

Tonight, as he sat in his dimly lit office, swirling a glass of whiskey, Arnold's mind raced back to how it all began.

Two months ago, a man named Victor Duke had approached him with an investment opportunity. Victor had the connections, the charm, and the reputation of someone who could make impossible deals happen. He pitched a partnership with a "charity" company operating out of Eastern Europe, promising unprecedented returns. Arnold had heard rumors about Victor's reputation in the underworld, but the proposal was clean, airtight on paper, and perfectly legal—at least, so it seemed.

The deal was signed without hesitation. Arnold's people did a full due diligence check, but Victor was as good as his word. The money started flowing in almost immediately. Too much money. The profits were astronomical, suspiciously so. And then, the questions started to come. From the feds. From private investigators.

"Arnold, you're mixed up in something bigger than you realize," his lawyer, Peter Duvall, warned him during their last meeting. "This isn't just about money laundering or shady business practices. This is cartel-level crime."

Arnold had laughed it off at first. "I've always been clean, Peter. You know that. If there's anything wrong, I'll find out and fix it."

But it wasn't that simple. The deeper Arnold dug into Victor's operation, the more layers of deceit he uncovered. The "charity" company was a front for arms smuggling, drug trafficking, and money laundering on a global scale. And now, whether he liked it or not, his name was tied to it.

That realization sent a cold chill down his spine.

The knock on the door brought Arnold out of his thoughts. He glanced at his watch. It was almost midnight. No one should have been able to reach him this late without security clearance.

"Who is it?" he called, his voice tense.

There was no answer.

Arnold stood, setting his glass down. His heart pounded in his chest as he moved toward the door, every step heavy with a sense of foreboding. He glanced at the security monitor beside the door—empty. No one was in the hallway.

His phone buzzed on the desk behind him, and when he turned to check, he saw another email flash on the screen:

"You're running out of time, Arnold."

His breath caught. The words were followed by a single image—a photo of him, taken through the window of his penthouse just minutes ago. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he realized he was being watched.

Before he could react, the lights in the penthouse flickered, and then everything plunged into darkness.

Adrenaline surged through Arnold's body as he reached for the drawer where he kept a gun—something he'd never thought he'd actually need. His fingers brushed the cold metal just as a sound echoed through the darkness: the unmistakable click of a door being opened.

"Arnold Rossman..." a voice called out softly, almost teasingly.

He froze. Whoever was here, they had come to finish the job.

Arnold moved slowly, quietly, keeping to the shadows. His heart raced, his mind calculating. He had never been in a situation like this—where his wealth, his connections, his power—none of it mattered. It was just him now, alone, against something he couldn't control.

As the footsteps grew closer, Arnold felt a strange calm settle over him. He had built his empire by trusting his instincts, by outthinking his competition. Now, he had to rely on those same instincts to survive.

He crouched low, gun ready, and waited for the moment to strike. The footsteps stopped just a few feet from where he hid. He could hear the intruder breathing, feel the tension in the air.

"Arnold," the voice whispered again. "You should have stayed away from Victor."

Without hesitation, Arnold stepped out of the shadows, gun raised.

But the intruder was faster.

A flash of movement, a glint of steel—and before Arnold could react, the world tilted sideways as a searing pain erupted in his side. He staggered back, clutching his wound as blood seeped through his fingers.

The figure loomed over him, a masked silhouette in the darkness. "This is just the beginning," the intruder hissed. "You've made enemies you can't buy your way out of."

As the figure slipped back into the shadows, leaving Arnold gasping on the floor, he realized the truth: this wasn't just about dirty money or a bad deal. This was about survival. And for the first time in his life, Arnold Rossman knew what it felt like to lose control.

And the worst part? He had no idea who was coming for him next.

*****

His side hurt like hell, his nurse just left the house now after stitching him up and bandaging the stab wound.

His phone was clutched in his hand, he didn't know what to do, he had never been confused in his entire twenty five years of life.

He couldn't call his father, the old man would never give him the time of the day, he only cared about how much cash filters into his account every hour.

His mind worked a mile a minute hatching out a plan when an idea surfaced, he began dialing a number....

He placed the phone on his ear and waited.

As soon as the call connected, without preambles he said;

"I'm fucked, I need your help"