Chapter 2

The fury didn't fade. It simmered, a low burn under my skin. Later that night, my phone buzzed with a notification from the community's private Facebook group.

A post from Barney Oliver.

"A WARNING to all residents. The new tenant in 3B, Jocelyn Hughes, refuses to pay standard mailroom holding fees that we all abide by. She seems to think she is above the rules. Be cautious."

Comments flooded in. Most were from people I didn't know, defending Barney, calling me entitled. Then, a new comment appeared, this one from a Matthew Oliver. Barney's son.

"Heard she's one of those broken head-case vets. Probably gets off on making trouble. A pretty little thing like that needs to learn some respect. Maybe I should go over and teach her personally."

The threat was blatant, dripping with a greasy, misogynistic confidence. It wasn't just an insult, it was a promise.

My training kicked in. Not the medic training, the other kind. The kind they teach you for information warfare. I didn't get angry. I got precise.

I replied directly to Matthew's comment.

"Matthew, is this the same Matthew Oliver with the 2018 arrest for petty larceny and the 2020 public intoxication charge? Surprised you have time to post here between your job interviews. Oh, wait."

The public records were easy to find. His humiliation was immediate. A flurry of "OMG" and "LOL" reactions appeared under my comment.

Then I turned to Barney.

"Barney, the U.S. Postal Service regulations are clear: charging unauthorized fees for mail handling is a federal offense. I've screenshotted your demand. Shall we forward it to the Postal Inspection Service, or are you going to waive your little 'fee'?"

Silence. The comments stopped.

My mom came into the living room, wringing her hands. "Jocelyn, please. Don't poke them. Just let it go. We'll pay the sixty dollars."

"It's not about the money, Mom. It's about the principle."

"The principle won't protect you if they decide to do something!" she whispered, her eyes wide with fear.

A private message popped up on my screen. It was from a Maria Johns, a name I recognized from the condo directory. An older woman who lived on my floor.

"Be careful," the message read. "The Olivers are bad news. They've been bullying people here for years. They drove a young couple out last year. The HOA is terrified of them. Barney's brother is on the board. They won't do anything to help you. Please, for your own sake, just let it go."

I read her message, then looked back at the Facebook thread. My own comments stared back at me, cold and efficient. Letting it go wasn't in my nature. You don't let an enemy establish a foothold. You push back, harder.

I opened my camera, went to my workbench, and took a picture. It was a close-up of my X-Acto knife, the blade gleaming under the light. It was razor-sharp, perfect for trimming the tiny imperfections, the "flashing," off new plastic miniatures.

I posted the picture to the group with a simple caption.

"Time to trim some flashing off the plastic sprues. Some pieces are just ugly."

I let it sit there for exactly sixty seconds. Long enough for them to see it. Then, I deleted it.

The message was sent.