Chapter 1

I came back from a business trip and saw right away that my parking spot was empty.

My neighbor, Misty Norris, sat nearby, cracking nuts. She glanced at me like nothing was wrong.

"Elbert, that old motorcycle of yours was way too loud. It roared every night, and my grandson couldn't sleep," she said casually. "So I made the call and had the junk man take it."

She paused, then pulled a wad of wrinkled bills from her pocket and shoved it into my hand. "It sold for 1,000 dollars. That barely covers the stress my grandson went through. Don't bring something like that back again, got it?"

A few older neighbors drifted over and quickly joined in.

"That's right, Elbert. A good neighbor is better than a distant relative. Don't let a little money ruin the peace."

"Misty did it for the kid. You should be more understanding."

I looked at the money in my hand. I said nothing and took it.

She had no idea that the "old motorcycle" was a Ducati V4S, a limited edition. I had spent about 60 thousand dollars on parts alone.

She wanted to settle this quietly. It was too late.

I wanted her to know what it felt like to sit in a jail cell.

*****

I had been gone for two weeks. I got back around four in the afternoon.

Sunlight slanted into the underground garage, and dust floated in the air.

My parking spot was empty.

I had ordered that Ducati V4S from overseas. I waited six months for it to arrive. Then, I spent another three months working on it myself. Now it was gone.

The smell of the cheap nuts Misty loved still hung in the air, mixed with the damp, stale smell of the garage. It made my stomach turn.

I stood there, my mind blank.

Then, a cold, slow wave of anger came over me. It rose from my feet and climbed all the way up.

I took out my phone. My finger hovered over the call button.

But I didn't press it. I didn't call the police. This wasn't something I was going to let end so easily.

I slipped my phone back into my pocket and walked upstairs.

The elevator doors opened, and right away I saw Misty Norris in the hallway. She was chatting with a few neighbors, spitting nut shells onto the floor like always.

The moment she saw me, her eyes lit up. She looked like a hunter spotting prey.

She cleared her throat and spoke to me as if she were doing me a favor. "Elbert, you're back. I was just about to tell you about your parking spot."

I stared at her, expressionless.

She said, "Your motorcycle was loud every night, like thunder. It scared my grandson so badly that he couldn't sleep. He cried every day."

She sounded completely sure of herself, like she was in the right. "You're young. You don't always think things through. So I made the decision for you and had the junk man take it."

An old man, Hugh Chavez, nodded along. "That's right. That bike was unbearable. We couldn't take it anymore."

Another woman, Carly Carline, chimed in. "Misty did it for everyone. Be a man and be a little more generous."

With people backing her up, Misty straightened even more, clearly pleased with herself.

She dug into her faded pants pocket, pulled out a stack of greasy, crumpled bills, and shoved them into my hand without even counting.

She said, "Here. It sold for 1,000 dollars. My grandson was traumatized, so this covers that. Don't make a fuss. It was just scrap metal. How much could it be worth?"

She emphasized the words "covers that" as if she were doing me a big favor.

I looked down at the money. It wasn't even one-thirtieth of what the bike was worth.

The bills were smeared with greasy fingerprints and nut crumbs, and they smelled sour.

I didn't get angry.

I just took the money and slowly smoothed each bill flat. I stacked them neatly, folded them, and put them in my pocket.

Every movement was calm and unhurried.

The noise around me slowly died down.

Misty looked surprised. She had expected me to explode, to argue, or to make a scene. Instead, I stayed quiet.

To her, that meant I had accepted it.

A satisfied smile spread across her face. She patted my shoulder. Her tone softened. "That's more like it, Elbert. You're young, don't be so picky.

"We're neighbors. Don't let money ruin things. Come over tonight. I'll have my husband cook something nice."

I looked up at her and said, "Okay."

Misty beamed. She turned back to the others, her voice louder now, almost bragging. "See? I told you. He's reasonable. Young people just need us to teach them a lesson..."

I stopped listening. I turned, unlocked my door, and went inside.

The moment the door shut, every trace of expression disappeared from my face.

I walked to the balcony, pulled the curtains aside, and looked down at the courtyard where they usually gathered.

Misty was still there, talking loudly about her "brave act," and the others nodded along.

I took out my phone and made a call. "Arnold? It's Elbert. I need a favor. Send me everything related to my V4S. Sales contract, customs paperwork, parts receipts, payment records, and installation videos. All of it. Every single file."

I hung up and opened the photo of me and my bike.

In the picture, the red body gleamed under the sun. It looked powerful and perfect.

I brushed my thumb lightly across the screen.

Did Misty and all those "good neighbors" really think that was the end?

No, that was just the beginning.

They told me that a good neighbor was better than a distant relative.

Now it was my turn to show them what theft would look like with a sum this high.