Story code: ST-001512
Part 2: The Demolition Schedule
“Maya?” Professor Elias Vance’s voice was sharp, stripped of the warm, theatrical cadence he used to enchant crowds downstairs. He stepped fully into the study, pulling the heavy oak door shut behind him. The click of the brass latch sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.
Maya’s breath caught in her throat. She dropped to her knees, frantically gathering the stark white linen napkins scattered across the floorboards. “I’m sorry, Professor,” she stammered, keeping her eyes fixed on the baseboards. “We ran out of napkins for the hors d’oeuvres. You mentioned you kept extras up here.”
Vance walked past her, his leather loafers completely silent on the Persian rug. He didn’t look at the linens in her hands. His focus was locked on the partner’s desk and the open leather portfolio sitting under the green glare of the banker’s lamp. Maya stood up, clutching the fabric to her chest, her heart slamming violently against her ribs. Had he seen her reading the letterhead?
“This room is off-limits during social functions, Maya,” Vance said. He reached the desk and casually flipped the heavy leather cover of the portfolio closed. The interlocking triangles of Apex Holdings LLC vanished beneath brown leather. “I keep highly sensitive materials here.”
“I just needed the napkins,” she repeated, her voice betraying a slight tremor. She took a step backward toward the door. “I’ll get back to the kitchen.”
“Wait.” Vance leaned against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms over his bespoke tweed jacket. He studied her for a long moment. Downstairs, a burst of laughter drifted up through the floorboards, followed by the faint, rhythmic pulse of the jazz upright bass. “Since you’re already up here, we should discuss your summer fellowship.”
Maya stopped abruptly. The eviction notice in her pocket seemed to burn against her thigh. The fellowship was the only reason she had agreed to spend her Saturday scrubbing his baseboards and serving crostini. It came with a five-thousand-dollar stipend-barely enough to cover a security deposit and a few months of rent at a new place, but enough to keep her out of her rusted Honda Civic.
“I spoke with the review committee yesterday,” Vance said, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. He let out a heavy sigh, entirely performative. “Unfortunately, the department is facing severe budget constraints. They declined your application.”
The air rushed out of Maya’s lungs. The dim edges of the study seemed to warp and tilt. “Declined?” she whispered. “But my thesis-you said my research on urban displacement was exactly what the committee was looking for.”
“It is,” Vance agreed smoothly. “But academia is a machine, Maya. It runs on capital, and right now, the university doesn’t have it to spare.” He uncrossed his arms and picked up the leather portfolio. “However, I have secured private funding for an independent project. A consultancy role.”
Maya stared at him, desperately trying to process the whiplash. She was losing her funding, but he was offering a lifeline.
“A colleague of mine runs a real estate management firm,” Vance continued, tapping his fingers against the portfolio. “They are acquiring several distressed properties in Brooklyn. They need a sociology researcher to map demographic turnover, assess community impact, and handle tenant relations. It’s an opportunity to study gentrification from the inside. To make sure it’s done ethically.”
Maya’s mind raced, slamming into the jagged pieces of the puzzle she had just uncovered. Apex Holdings. The eviction notice. The interlocking triangles. Vance wasn’t just researching gentrification; he was orchestrating it. He was monetizing the very displacement he railed against in his lectures.
“It pays ten thousand dollars for the summer,” Vance said quietly, watching her face. “Cash. Plus a glowing recommendation for your PhD applications in the fall. But it requires absolute discretion. Non-disclosure agreements. No discussing the properties involved until the acquisitions are fully public.”
Ten thousand dollars. It was double the fellowship. It was survival.
“What…” Maya forced the words past the dry lump in her throat. “What exactly would I be doing?”
“Streamlining the transition,” Vance said. He turned and pressed a button on a sleek, matte-black scanner sitting on a side table. It hummed to life. He opened the portfolio, pulled out a thick stack of stapled spreadsheets, and held them out to her. “I need you to scan these documents and email them to David downstairs. Then, bring the physical copies to him. He’s the man I was speaking with by the fireplace earlier.”
Maya approached the desk on numb legs. She took the stack of papers from his outstretched hand. The top sheet was a list of addresses under the header *Targeted Vacancies: Phase 1*.
“Just put them on the glass,” Vance instructed, turning back to his laptop to type out an email.
Maya lifted the lid of the scanner and placed the first page face down. As the machine whirred and a bright bar of white light swept beneath the glass, it illuminated the thin paper from behind, making the black ink visible through the back of the page.
Maya’s eyes tracked the glowing text. Row 14. Her building’s address.
She squinted at the column next to it, her vision blurring as the scanner light passed over it. Next to her unit number was her own name: *Maya Lin*. In the margins, typed in tiny, sterile font, was a note: *Student. Lacks financial resources for legal pushback. Fast-track for thirty-day removal.*
The machine beeped, signaling the scan was complete. Maya stood perfectly still, her hand resting on the plastic lid. Vance had personally reviewed this list. He knew exactly where she lived. He had likely approved the eviction notice in her pocket, and now he was offering to pay her to execute it.
“David is waiting for those,” Vance said, not looking up from his screen. “If you want the position, Maya, this is your first task. Bring the portfolio to him and tell him the 8th Street properties are fully cleared for demolition.”
Maya looked at the closed study door, then down at the papers in her hand. Her own apartment, her entire life, reduced to a single line item on a demolition schedule. She tightened her grip on the papers, the stark reality of her choices closing in around her.