Number 06 │ A Leverage Fanfiction

The Morning After Job | Part 1

Vector's Office

Vector leaned back in his leather chair, the city skyline reflecting in the tinted glass behind him. A golden trophy from his playing days sat on the desk, a relic of past victories. Across from him, Weibe sat stiffly, gripping a folder like it was the only thing keeping him together.

"So, you wanted to talk about your account," Vector said, his voice calm, almost casual.

Weibe swallowed hard. His throat felt dry, but he forced the words out. "Yes. I—I don't know how else to say this, Mr. Vector, but... I'm wiped out."

Vector clicked his tongue, shaking his head slightly. "Market's been in a slump lately. Used to happen to me during my playing days. Just gotta ride it out."

Weibe shook his head, his fingers tightening around the folder. "But it's—it's not the market." He flipped open the files, scanning the damning numbers again. "It's the trades. I never authorized these—not one of them."

For a moment, the room was silent.

Vector exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. "Unauthorized trades?" His voice carried a weight that made Weibe's stomach turn. "You know, I got a call from the SEC about that the other day. That come from you?"

Weibe hesitated, but then he spoke, his voice raw. "You know, you were my favorite player. God's honest." His voice cracked slightly, but he pressed on. "When I read that story in Forbes, how you taught yourself stock trading and made a fortune... I knew I had to invest in your fund. This money was my retirement money, Mr. Vector." His knuckles turned white as he clutched the papers. "And it's gone."

A heavy silence settled over the office.

Vector leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. The smirk he had worn since the beginning of the conversation faded, his expression darkening.

"Let me tell you something, Mr. Weibe." His voice dropped a register, gravelly and dangerous. "You remember me from my playing days, you know one thing."

Weibe barely had time to react before the first punch slammed into his gut.

"Nobody," Vector growled.

Weibe gasped, doubling over in his chair. Pain shot through his stomach like fire. Before he could catch his breath, another blow came—this time to the side of his face. The office swam around him as he toppled onto the floor, the folder slipping from his hands, papers scattering like fallen leaves.

"Nobody sucker-punches me," Vector finished, shaking out his fist like this was just another game he planned on winning.

The last thing Weibe saw before darkness took him was Vector standing over him, looking down with the same cold confidence that had once made him a legend.

<>

McRory's Pub

The dim glow of the pub cast long shadows across the wooden tables, the scent of whiskey and old leather thick in the air. Weibe sat hunched over his drink, the bruises on his face still fresh, the bandage over his eye stark against his pale skin.

"I got a broken orbital bone and seventeen stitches over my eye," he muttered, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "From my hero."

Across from him, Nate Ford studied him carefully. "What did the police say?"

Weibe let out a bitter laugh. "No witness, no crime. Oh, and my favorite—'he's rich, so sue him.'" He shook his head, gripping the edge of the table. "Of course, you need money for that."