When an entitled jerk blocks Rook’s garage, throws a tantrum, and flicks a business card, things escalate fast. But instead of losing it, Rook stays quiet and clever. Revenge doesn’t always shout… sometimes it slips in through job applications and gentle, perfect chaos.
One petty move lights the fuse for a masterclass in soft payback. Our garage opens onto a narrow alley behind a little liquor store. If that sounds like trouble waiting to happen, it is.
You’d be amazed how many people treat the garage door like a polite suggestion, parking square in front of it, hazards blinking, as if that makes everything okay. We’ve lived here five years. My fiancée, Lunet, and I usually manage to stay calm.
But on this particular night? Calm had quietly walked out the door. It started simply.
Doesn’t it always? Lunet and I had just picked up my mother-in-law, Orlin, from the train station. She was staying with us for the week; her first visit to our place.
I was already a little nervous. Normally we’d book her a hotel, but Lunet wanted real time with her mom. I’d cleaned the apartment top to bottom.
Lunet had set fresh flowers in every room. We were trying our very best. We turned into the alley, and there it was: a car parked dead center in front of our garage, owning the space like it belonged there.
No driver in sight. I knew the car instantly. I parked and let out a slow breath.
All I wanted was to get inside, eat the pasta Lunet had made before we left, and relax. I was tired. “Of course it’s Cort,” I said quietly.
I’d met him at a holiday party my mom’s company threw. He’d cornered me by the coat rack, whiskey in hand, going on about “elevated spatial narratives.”
Velvet blazer, dramatic pauses, the works. Cort talked about building a creative empire from his downtown studio (really just an overpriced desk in a shared loft with a logo and cold brew on tap).
He was the kind of guy who called himself a visionary because he knew how to add a soft shadow in rendering software. Big energy, small soul. “Who’s Cort?” Orlin asked from the back seat.
“A friend?”
“No,” I murmured. “Just… someone I know.”
Right then Cort strolled out of the liquor store like the alley was his personal runway, cracking open a can of hard seltzer. He took a slow sip, leaned against his hood, and flashed a lazy, smug smile.
“Heeey, Rook!” he called. “Small world!”
I stepped out, keeping my voice low. Orlin was watching.
Lunet looked tense. “Hey, Cort,” I said, polite but firm. “You’re blocking our garage.
Could you move, please?”
He lifted the can in a mock toast. “Easy, Rook,” he said, stretching the word. “Give me a minute.
Just finishing my drink.”
“It takes five seconds to pull forward. You can finish after.”
“Relax,” he drawled. “You don’t own the alley, man.
I own my time.”
That landed wrong. I’d dealt with entitled people before, but Cort had a special talent for making your skin crawl without ever raising his voice. He was theatrical.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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