Story code: ST-000110
Part 2: The Inside Job
Mateo planted his sneakers against the threshold, throwing his entire body weight against the heavy wood of the front door. It was a futile effort. Vance did not even bother to shove back; he simply stepped forward, his massive frame acting as a wedge that forced the door-and Mateo-backward into the narrow entryway.
“Get out of my house,” Mateo said, his voice trembling despite his desperate effort to keep it steady.
Vance ignored the command entirely. He wiped his mud-caked boots deliberately on the small indoor welcome mat, ruining the fabric, and strolled past Mateo into the living room. He scanned the modest furnishings before his eyes locked onto the open doorway of the home office.
“Nice setup,” Vance grunted, ambling toward the room.
Mateo hurried after him, his heart hammering against his ribs. Vance stepped into the small office, his broad shoulders seeming to consume all the available oxygen. He stopped in front of Mateo’s desk, staring down at the dual monitors. The screens still displayed the glaring crimson banner of the Trust and Safety violation and the flatlined analytics graph.
“Looks like your little TV station is off the air,” Vance said. He leaned over and tapped a thick, calloused finger against the main monitor, leaving a greasy smudge on the pristine glass.
“How do you know about this?” Mateo demanded, stepping into the doorway to block the exit, a hollow threat given the immense size difference between them. “This happened less than fifteen minutes ago. I haven’t told a single soul.”
Vance chuckled, a wet, rattling sound deep in his chest. He turned around, leaning his hips against the edge of Mateo’s desk, and crossed his arms over his stained canvas jacket. “You always thought you were the smartest guy on the crew, Matty. Thought you could just walk off my site, leave me shorthanded on that commercial roofing gig, and play around on a computer for a living. You cost me a forty-thousand-dollar penalty when we missed that deadline.”
“You refused to provide safety harnesses!” Mateo shot back, the old indignation briefly overriding his current panic. “I wasn’t going to die on a slick roof for your profit margin.”
“And now you’re dying in here,” Vance countered smoothly, gesturing to the dead screens. “Funny how the world works. You see, I got to talking with some folks who understand this internet garbage a whole lot better than I do. Turns out, if you pay the right people enough money, they can make a whole lot of ‘concerned users’ file reports on a channel all at once. Thousands of ’em. Saying you’re promoting dangerous electrical practices. Building bombs, maybe. Whatever gets the algorithm to panic and pull the plug.”
Mateo stared at him, the blood draining completely from his face. Vance, a man who still used a rugged flip phone until two years ago, had hired a coordinated harassment service?
“You don’t have the money or the technical know-how to pull off a cyberattack, Vance,” Mateo said, though the absolute certainty in his former foreman’s voice sent a severe chill down his spine.
Vance’s grin widened, revealing yellowed teeth. “Maybe I didn’t act alone. Maybe you pissed off somebody else in your little digital neighborhood, and we found a mutually beneficial arrangement. The ‘who’ doesn’t matter, buddy. What matters is the ‘what now’.”
Mateo’s phone vibrated violently in his pocket. He did not want to look away from Vance, but the relentless buzzing forced his hand. He pulled the device out and glanced at the lock screen. It was an automated email from his creator network.
*URGENT: Appeal Denied. Due to the severe volume and nature of the community guidelines strikes, your account suspension is permanent. All pending creator funds have been seized to refund advertisers.*
Mateo felt his knees go weak. The money was not just frozen; it was gone. The rent, the equipment loan, his upcoming grocery bill-evaporated in an instant.
Vance watched Mateo’s face crumble and let out a satisfied grunt. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a folded, crumpled piece of paper, and tossed it onto the keyboard of Mateo’s computer.
“I just secured a massive contract for a new industrial complex on the east side,” Vance said, his tone turning strictly to business. “It is a rush job. Lots of wiring, lots of corners that need cutting to make the deadline. I need a lead electrician who knows how to keep his mouth shut and sign off on the paperwork.”
“I am not working for you ever again,” Mateo said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You are,” Vance corrected him, pushing off the desk and closing the distance between them. He loomed over Mateo, the suffocating smell of stale smoke and diesel returning in full force. “Because you are broke. And because if you don’t sign that contract by tomorrow morning, my new friends are going to take those mass reports and point them at your bank accounts, your personal email, and your identity. They will swat your house. They will wipe you off the grid entirely.”
Mateo looked past Vance to the crumpled paper sitting on the keyboard.
“Tomorrow morning, six sharp, at the yard,” Vance ordered. “Bring your tools.”
Vance pushed past Mateo, his heavy shoulder clipping Mateo’s chest hard enough to knock him back against the doorframe. Mateo listened to the steel-toed boots stomp down the hallway, heard the front door slam shut, and then flinched at the deafening roar of the diesel engine coming back to life outside.
Slowly, Mateo walked over to his desk. His hands shook uncontrollably as he picked up the crumpled paper. It was a standard, predatory employment contract, offering minimum wage with a clause demanding mandatory unpaid overtime. But that was not what made Mateo’s breath catch in his throat.
Clipped to the back of the contract was a printed piece of paper. It was a screenshot of an internal admin view of Mateo’s own channel analytics, showing the exact millisecond the ban was triggered. The screenshot had a distinct, pale watermark stamped in the bottom right corner-the unmistakable geometric logo of TechSpark Media, the exclusive management agency that represented Mateo’s closest collaborator and best friend in the engineering community.
Vance had not just found some random hackers on the dark web. The digital execution had been coordinated by someone inside Mateo’s own circle.