CHAPTER NINE

Evan Rhodes was a crumpled figure against the backdrop of his dismal apartment. The glow from the computer screen cast long shadows over the stubble on his face, the dark circles beneath his eyes stark in the flickering light. He sat there, an unshaven mess clad in a plaid shirt that had seen better days and jeans with frayed cuffs, remnants of his former style.

The room itself was a testament to decline, walls naked except for the occasional patch where paint chipped away like old scabs. Furniture that once boasted clean lines and designer tags now sagged, a hodgepodge collection of second-hand despair. Whiskey bottles, their contents ebbing as steadily as his fortune had, kept vigil on the coffee table amid the detritus of his current existence.

His gaze was fixed on an article frozen on the monitor, the cursor blinking idly beside the headline that branded him a has-been. "Tech Visionary Evan Rhodes Set to Revolutionize Data Encryption" – the words might as well have been from another lifetime. Back when the world buzzed with his potential, they'd said he had the Midas touch. His startup was the darling of Silicon Valley, investors lining up to throw money at anything Evan touched.

But fate, fickle mistress, had other plans. A gamble here, a risk too far there, and his empire toppled like a house of cards in a hurricane. Lawsuits followed, each one a nail in the coffin of his career. His vision for the future, once so clear, is now smudged by the grime of regret. His reputation, which had soared in boardrooms and tech conferences, lay shattered in pieces no amount of whiskey could drown out.

The man who once commanded stages and captured imaginations with mere words was reduced to this—a ghost haunting the wreckage of his own life. Evan's shoulders slumped even further, if that were possible, the weight of 'what if' heavy on his frame. With a sarcasm that cut more deeply than any external commentary, he mused silently about how far the mighty had fallen. There were no cheers here, no applause, just the echo of a life that used to be now filled with the static of what never would be again.

Evan exhaled a ragged breath, scrubbing hands over his face as if he could wipe away the stink of failure that seemed to cling to him. The bristles of day-old stubble rasped under his palms, a stark reminder of how far he'd let himself go. His brain, once a precision instrument, now felt like a blunt tool, the edges dulled by one too many nights nursing the bottle.

He surveyed the chaos of his apartment with a detached sort of apathy. Clothes lay scattered, forming a patchwork of fabric on the floor—a mosaic of negligence. Takeout boxes perched precariously on the kitchen counter, their contents long forgotten and festering. And the garbage, god, the garbage. It spilled from the bin like a grotesque cornucopia, reeking of decay and days past due.

"Jesus, Rhodes," he muttered to himself, acknowledging the mess was a reflection of his own internal disarray. "Get it together."

With effort that seemed herculean, Evan hauled himself to his feet. His joints protested, stiff from inertia, creaking louder than the floorboards beneath his tread. He snatched the overstuffed trash bag, tying it shut while trying not to gag at the potent cocktail of odors that assaulted his senses. The simple action was a small victory, but even this felt hollow—another futile attempt at regaining control in a life that had spiraled into disarray.

He shuffled towards the door, each step an echo of his faltering ambitions. The trash bag swung heavily at his side, a pendulum marking the end of another wasted day. In the bleak corridor of his mind, where success used to sit on a gilded throne, there was only emptiness now, punctuated by the dull ache of what-could-have-been.

Pushing open the door, he stepped out of the claustrophobic embrace of his apartment. The hallway was dim, the flickering lights casting shadows that danced mockingly around him. He trudged down the stairs, the bag bumping against his leg with every step, a metronome to his reluctant retreat.

Evan stepped out into the evening's embrace, the cool air slapping him with a sobering kiss. His eyes, half-lidded with resignation, barely registered the cracked pavement of the parking lot. It was a stretch of gray spotted with the carcasses of rusted cars—relics that, like him, had seen better days. The streetlamp flickered above, a beacon of mediocrity struggling to keep the shadows at bay.

He walked, or rather shuffled, his steps a slow dance to the rhythm of his own downfall. Memories came unbidden, a cruel slideshow of his rise and precipitous fall. Once upon a time, Evan Rhodes meant something—the man with the Midas touch in the tech world. Now? He was just another shadow under a sputtering light, a nobody haunted by the ghosts of a life misspent.

The dumpster loomed ahead, a monolith to wasted potential. With a grunt, he hoisted the trash bag—his recent companion in solitude—and lobbed it toward oblivion. It landed with a thud, the sound echoing off the empty walls of the complex, mocking him with its finality.

For a moment, Evan's hand rested on the cold metal rim of the dumpster. This hunk of steel held more than just refuse; it cradled his past, the remnants of a life he once thought he controlled. Letting go should've felt significant, cathartic even, but there was no relief in the act, only the hollow echo of an empty bin.

"Should've played your cards better, Rhodes," he murmured to himself, the words lost to the stillness of the night. Redemption? Recovery? Those were words for someone who hadn't squandered their chance, not for a man who'd gambled away his future.

He turned, facing the bleak expanse of the lot. No one would bet on Evan Rhodes now, not even Evan himself. A gust of wind whipped through, chilling him to the bone, as if nature itself was urging him to accept the truth—he was ruined, and it was nobody's fault but his own.

Evan spun on his heel, a tinge of unease prickling the back of his neck as he caught sight of the figure emerging from the shadows. The shape was nothing more than a blur at first, a smudge against the night. He squinted, the alcohol in his system making the world swim before his eyes. It took him a moment to register that the smudge was a man, just another lost soul perhaps, but there was something about the way he moved—steady, unfaltering—that set off alarm bells in Evan's head.

The stranger sauntered into the weak halo of the streetlamp, his features etched out of the darkness. His clothes were nondescript, the kind you'd never remember in a lineup. Something about the calmness in his walk, the measured steps, made Evan's heart skitter like a trapped bird against his ribs.

"Hey," Evan called out, his voice rough around the edges, hoping to god he sounded tougher than he felt. "Can I help you?"

No response came. Just the steady beat of shoes against asphalt as the man drew nearer. Evan's gaze darted around the parking lot, seeking an audience to this silent approach, maybe even a savior. But it was just him and the approaching figure, alone under the indifferent gaze of the flickering streetlamp.

"Look, buddy, if it's money you're after—" Evan's voice broke off as his eyes caught a flash of metal.

A knife.

A cruel smile spread across the stranger’s face.