The Shadow Tycoon
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 60: The Drive He Dreaded
Director Johnson lingered outside the restaurant for a while after the meeting ended, smoking two cigarettes before finally gritting his teeth and driving to Michael’s house.
Mrs. Michael had already been discharged from the hospital. The bruises and physical injuries had healed completely. All that remained was psychological treatment, which, depending on how things went, could last anywhere from three to six months, perhaps even longer.
A long course of therapy meant a long list of bills.
Michael’s suspension from work had cut off the family’s income overnight. Even though he still had around twenty thousand dollars in a bank account, it would not be enough to cover everything that lay ahead.
To ordinary people, especially those living in the Lower District, therapy was the sort of thing they called a rich person’s illness. Girls who grew up on those chaotic streets had spent their entire lives dealing with harassment.
Sometimes it was verbal. Sometimes wandering hands. Sometimes outright violence.
By all rights, many of them should have been broken, twisted, or destroyed.
Some were.
Others somehow kept going.
People liked to say suffering built character, that living in darkness made one yearn for the light. That was all nonsense.
Life was simply survival.
And survival demanded resilience.
When Director Johnson pulled up outside Michael’s house, he spotted a police cruiser parked along the curb and two officers enjoying afternoon coffee and chocolate-glazed doughnuts.
They glanced at him once, then lost interest and returned their attention to the food in their hands.
Michael had been released from the police station, but he was still under supervision. Unless necessary, he was not permitted to leave his residence or meet privately with outsiders.
Out of respect for his former status as someone who had once carried a badge, the police had relaxed the restrictions slightly. He was allowed to speak with visitors without an officer standing in the room.
Director Johnson had visited Michael’s home many times before.
Every visit had left the same impression: a fortunate man with a happy family, a successful career, and a house filled with the warmth of a life moving steadily upward.
This time was different.
The moment he opened the door, a stale odor rolled out from inside, damp and lifeless, like air trapped in a tomb.
The smell alone was enough to drag a person’s mood straight into the gutter.
No lights were on.
Several windows had been covered by drawn curtains.
Perhaps because of Mrs. Michael’s condition, darkness had settled over the house and refused to leave.
As the front door swung open, daylight spilled inside, brightening the room just enough to reveal more details.
Michael sat on the couch looking gaunt.
In barely half a month, he had lost so much weight that his frame seemed distorted. Untrimmed gray stubble covered his face. His hair had gone untouched for days, and strands of gray had begun to appear among it.
Time seemed to have skipped ahead for him, dragging him prematurely toward old age.
Michael glanced at Director Johnson.
Just once.
Then his gaze drifted back to the blank television screen.
Perhaps he was thinking. Perhaps he was simply staring.
A flash of irritation rose inside Director Johnson.
Among the people in the IRS, he was known as one of the easiest men to get along with. He had always believed he could get along with anyone.
Then there was Michael.
A man like this could make anyone angry.
Forget hierarchy and status. At the very least, some gratitude would have been appropriate. The man was in trouble, and a Director had personally come to see him.
Instead, Michael treated him as if he weren’t even there.
The irritation faded as quickly as it came.
If he truly let people like this get under his skin, he would have died of anger years ago.
“What are you doing here?” Michael asked, his voice thick with mockery. “Come to deliver the final verdict?”
Director Johnson froze for a moment.
His attention shifted to the newspapers scattered across the coffee table.
Now he understood the problem.
For the last two days, the papers had been full of speculation.
Had there been a personal feud between Michael and William?
Had Michael abused his authority to settle a private grudge?
The moment the story became about personal revenge rather than excessive law enforcement powers, everything changed.
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