The Trouble With Brent Woods
Copyright© 2026 by Art Samms
Chapter 5
The buildings of Chinatown shimmered in the midday sun—red lanterns swaying gently over narrow streets, steam curling from open doorways, the air rich with ginger and roast duck. Brent climbed out of the taxi on Canal Street and spotted Lily immediately, already seated at a small outdoor table, camera resting beside her iced tea like an extension of her hand.
He slid into the chair across from her.
“You look marginally less haunted than last week,” she observed.
“High praise,” Brent said dryly. “I’ll put it on my résumé.”
They ordered quickly—dumplings for Lily, hand-pulled noodles for Brent. For a moment, they simply sat, letting the city’s rhythm fill the space between them.
Then Lily smiled knowingly. “So. How’s Queens?”
Brent groaned. “You knew that was coming?”
“You’re incapable of subtle distress,” she said lightly. “You telegraph.”
He hesitated, then exhaled. “There’s ... this woman.”
Lily’s eyebrows lifted a fraction.
“She hates me,” he continued, telling the same old tired story once again. “Like, actively. Publicly. She’s decided I’m the embodiment of everything wrong with Manhattan. Calls me ‘arrogant party boy.’”
Lily tilted her head. “Maggie?”
Brent blinked. “You know her?”
“Of course I know her,” Lily said. “She works in your building.”
His fork froze halfway to his mouth.
“She—what?”
“Clerical office on fourteen,” Lily said. “Magdalena Vallejo. Purplish hair. I’ll bet you’ve passed her a hundred times.”
Brent stared at her. “No. I would’ve remembered.”
“That,” Lily said gently, “is part of the problem.”
He leaned back, still stunned by the revelation that Maggie’s workplace was in the same building where he’d plied his trade, until the recent interruption. He never imagined her having a life outside Jackson Heights.
“I barely notice anyone in that lobby,” he said. “I’m always thinking about pitches, deadlines, meetings. I just ... move.”
“Exactly,” Lily said. “You move through the world like it’s already arranged around you.”
“That’s not fair.”
She met his gaze, unflinching. “It’s not cruel either. It’s just true.”
Brent opened his mouth, then closed it. He thought of Maggie in the café—arms crossed, eyes sharp, unimpressed by his very existence.
“She thinks I’m some entitled mess,” he said. “That I waltz through life with a bottle in my hand.”
“And she’s not completely wrong,” Lily replied softly.
He stiffened. “I’m not that guy anymore.”
“I know,” Lily said. “But you still project him. You dress like success. You move like nothing can touch you. You spent years building a nightlife persona that worked for you—until it didn’t. Maggie doesn’t see the man unraveling. She sees the image you haven’t quite shed.”
Brent looked down at his hands.
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” he said quietly.
“No,” Lily agreed. “But you did ask to be seen.”
He looked up.
She smiled, kind and knowing. “Not everyone sharp around the edges wants to cut you. Some people are sharp because they had to be.”
The dumplings arrived, steam rising between them.
Brent stared at the plate, then laughed softly. “So, you’re saying I walked into her world wearing armor and expected a handshake.”
“More like a velvet blazer,” Lily said.
He shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth.
“I still don’t think she needs to announce me like a villain in a movie,” he said.
“No,” Lily agreed. “But maybe you don’t need to flinch every time she does either.”
He considered that.
Across the table, Lily watched him with quiet satisfaction. Something had shifted—not dramatically, not yet. But the rigid shape of his certainty had softened.
And sometimes, that was how change began.
Brent sat nervously in Annette Cameron’s office, hands clasped. Her space was all clean lines and quiet authority—glass walls softened by linen curtains, shelves lined with legal volumes that looked more like architectural features than books. He tried not to read too much into the neat stack of papers in front of her.
She flipped a page, then another.
“Okay,” she said at last. “Here’s where things start to bend in your favor.”
Brent straightened. “That’s ... encouraging phrasing.”
Annette’s mouth twitched, just barely. “I don’t deal in miracles. I deal in leverage.”
She slid a still image across the desk. It was from the viral clip, frozen mid-chaos—blurred lights, raised arms, a tangle of bodies. Brent recognized himself immediately, half-turned, one hand gripping a stranger’s jacket.
“This is the frame everyone’s been circulating,” Annette said. “The one that makes you look like you’re lunging.”
“That’s when I grabbed him,” Brent said. “He was about to swing at someone on the floor.”
“I know,” she replied. “Now look at this.”
She placed a second image beside it. Same moment. Different angle. In this one, Brent’s posture was unmistakably defensive—body angled away from the fray, free hand raised as if to shield.
“This camera belongs to the club,” Annette said. “Not the influencer who posted the viral clip. It didn’t trend because it’s ugly. Too dark. Too boring. But it tells a very different story.”
Brent swallowed.
“I’ve cross-referenced the witness statements,” she continued. “The bouncer says you were shouting for security. One of the undercover officers remembers ‘a guy in a blue shirt trying to pull someone back.’ Two patrons independently described you as ‘not part of the fight.’”
She met his eyes. “Patterns matter. And this one says you were intervening.”
A breath Brent hadn’t realized he was holding slipped free.
“So ... people are starting to see that?” he asked.
“Some are,” Annette said. “Enough that we can push back. We’ll challenge the narrative. Formally. Quietly. We don’t grandstand. We let facts erode the fiction.”
He nodded. “What do you need from me?”
“Everything,” she said. “In other words, nothing changes. I still need your full cooperation. No nightlife. No confrontations. No public commentary. You live like a monk with a phone.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “I’ve had worse weeks.”
“This isn’t a week,” Annette said evenly. “It’s a process. It will take time. But you’re not standing on quicksand anymore. You’re on uneven ground.”
Brent let that settle.
“For the first time since this started,” he said, “it feels like there’s a future on the other side of it.”
Annette gathered the papers. “There is. We just have to earn it.”
As he stood to leave, she added, “You did the right thing that night. The world just hasn’t caught up yet.”
Brent walked out of her office lighter than he’d entered—not free, not absolved, but no longer alone in the fight.
The sidewalk outside Mr. Pollard’s was crowded with the early-evening rush—parents herding children, couples drifting past in conversation, the smell of fried dough and coffee spilling into the street. Brent had just stepped outside with a paper cup in hand when raised voices cut through the din.
“Watch where you’re going,” Maggie snapped—but not at Brent this time.
A man in a windbreaker had shoulder-checked her as he passed. He turned back, irritated. “Maybe don’t block the sidewalk like you own it.”
“I was standing still,” she said. “You ran into me.”
“Yeah? Try being less in the way.”
Something in Maggie’s posture sharpened, a familiar spark of readiness. Brent saw it before she spoke—the reflex to push back, to meet force with force.
He moved without thinking.
“Hey,” he said, calm but unmistakably firm. “You’re the one who bumped into her.”
The man glanced at him, clearly recalibrating. Brent didn’t crowd him. Didn’t raise his voice. He just stood there, steady, eyes level.
“No one’s asking for a fight,” Brent continued. “Just some basic respect.”
For a second, the man seemed tempted. Then he scoffed. “Whatever,” he muttered, turning away and disappearing into the flow of the street.
The tension drained from the air. Maggie stared at Brent. Not at the version she’d cataloged—the party boy, the polished mess, the headline waiting to happen—but at a man who had stepped in quietly, without show, without swagger.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said.
“I know,” he replied. “But he was wrong.”
She searched his face, as if expecting some smug afterglow. There was none. Just sincerity. A trace of concern.
For the first time since she’d met him, she didn’t have a ready retort.
“Thanks,” she said finally.
The word seemed to surprise them both.
Brent nodded once. “Anytime.”
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