The warehouse door crashes inward like thunder splitting the night. I step through the twisted metal frame, my footsteps echoing across concrete stained with decades of corruption.
Wallace Finch stands in the center of his operation, surrounded by six disciples arranged in a defensive semicircle. Crates of counterfeit medicine tower around us like monuments to greed. The chemical stench burns my nostrils.
"So you're the ghost haunting my business," Wallace says, his voice steady despite the sweat beading on his forehead. "I was wondering when you'd show yourself."
His disciples shift nervously. Hands drift toward concealed weapons. Their breathing quickens as they sense the predator in their midst.
"Your fake medicine killed seventeen people last month," I state flatly. "Including a six-year-old girl."
Wallace shrugs with practiced indifference. "Business has risks. Customers should research their purchases more carefully."
