Chapter 12 Faugh #2
"Do you have an appointment?" she asks, her voice wavering slightly as she clutches her desk phone like a lifeline.
The question comes out thin and reedy, barely above a whisper, and her knuckles have gone white from the force of her grip.
She is clearly hoping that formality, the institutional shield of scheduling protocols and procedural requirements, might somehow protect her from the reality of my presence looming over her desk. It will not.
"No," I say simply. "But he will want to speak with me. Inform him that Faugh Goir is here regarding significant legal violations in his recent eviction notices, and that I am prepared to file a class-action lawsuit on behalf of all affected tenants if he does not address the matter immediately."
Her chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid breaths.
Then, with visible effort, she reaches for the phone on her desk with trembling fingers, her knuckles quivering as she grips the receiver.
The plastic looks impossibly fragile in her grasp, a toy rather than a functional object.
She swallows hard, her throat working visibly, and I can hear the faint rattle of her breath as she lifts the handset to her ear, the kind of sound small prey animals make when cornered.
Twenty minutes later, I am seated across from Marcus Bellamy, the development director, a human man in his late forties with slicked-back hair and a suit that probably costs more than Chantel's monthly art supply budget.
He is flanked by two corporate attorneys, both of whom are doing an admirable job of maintaining neutral expressions despite the fact that I have just systematically dismantled every legal justification for their eviction timeline.
"You're bluffing," Bellamy says, leaning back in his leather chair with the kind of casual arrogance that makes my jaw tighten. "No tenants' rights attorney is going to take on a case this small. It's not worth their time."
"You are correct," I say evenly. "Which is why I will be representing the tenants myself.
I have spent the last four years studying human contract law in preparation for situations precisely like this one.
I am intimately familiar with rent stabilization statutes, procedural eviction requirements, and the penalties associated with corporate malfeasance in low-income housing displacement. "
One of the attorneys shifts uncomfortably in his ergonomic chair, the leather creaking softly beneath his weight as he exchanges a loaded glance with his colleague, the kind of look that speaks volumes without a single word being uttered.
It is the expression of men who suddenly realize they have gravely miscalculated the situation they are facing, men who had walked into this conference room confident in their corporate authority only to find themselves confronted with something far more primal and immovable than any legal argument.
Bellamy's carefully constructed smile falters, the practiced confidence draining from his features like water from a cracked vessel. The color has already begun to leach from his face, as the reality of his predicament settles upon him with an Orc who has just claimed what is his.
"You're threatening litigation over a thirty-day eviction window?" he asks, his tone sharpening with irritation. "That's absurd. We're offering full deposit returns and relocation assistance. Your girlfriend should be grateful we're being this generous."
The word "girlfriend" lands wrong, scraping against every possessive instinct I have been carefully restraining since I walked into this polished corporate hellscape. I lean forward slowly, deliberately, letting my full seven-foot-one frame cast a shadow across his desk.
"She is not my girlfriend. She is my mate. And you will address her with respect, or this conversation will take a considerably different turn."
Bellamy pales with a visceral, stomach-dropping swiftness that speaks volumes.
The color drains from his face in stages, starting at his temples and spreading downward like a tide of realization.
One of the attorneys, the younger one, the nervous one who has been scribbling notes with trembling hands throughout this entire ordeal—actually stands abruptly, his chair scraping backward with an ugly screech.
His hand moves toward his phone in a gesture that is unmistakably defensive, clearly contemplating calling security as though armed guards might somehow neutralize the existential threat now sitting across from them.
I do not move. I remain perfectly, absolutely still, my massive frame taking up more than its fair share of the room's oxygen.
My shoulders do not tense. My hands do not curl into fists.
I simply hold Bellamy's gaze with the kind of unflinching steadiness that comes from knowing, with complete and absolute certainty, that I am the apex predator in this space.
I let him see it clearly in my expression, the cold, primal certainty of what will happen if he continues to disrespect what is mine, if he continues to treat Chantel as though she is disposable, as though her home and her dignity are negotiable assets on a spreadsheet.
The message is wordless but unmistakable: there are consequences for trifling with what an Orc has claimed, and he has just stumbled directly across a line he cannot uncross.
"We can extend the eviction timeline to sixty days," one of the attorneys says quickly, his voice tight with poorly concealed nervousness. "And increase the relocation assistance payment. That's the best we can offer."
"No," I say flatly. "You will honor the existing lease terms for all rent-stabilized units, or I will file suit and ensure that every procedural violation is prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
Your development permits will be delayed for a minimum of eighteen months while the case works through the courts, and your investors will lose considerably more money than it would cost to simply comply with existing tenant protections. "
Bellamy's jaw works silently, his carefully maintained composure fracturing at the edges as the full weight of my words settles over him like a descending blade.
His fingers curl slightly against the polished surface of the conference table, and I can see the precise moment when the reality of his situation crystallizes behind his eyes, the moment when he understands, truly understands, that he has gravely miscalculated the price of his greed.
"You can't do this," he says, his voice emerging thin and reedy, stripped of the bluster and authority he wielded just minutes ago.
There is no conviction underlying the words anymore, no genuine belief in his own position.
What remains is only the dawning, sickening realization that he has severely underestimated not just the situation, but the Orc sitting across from him, a being whose patience he has exhausted and whose resources he cannot match.
I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking beneath my weight, and regard him with the calm certainty of someone who has already won.
"I can, and I will."
The meeting ends badly. The attorneys gather their materials with fumbling fingers and averted eyes.
Bellamy says nothing more, his face a mottled landscape of rage and impotence.
I watch them file toward the door, knowing with complete certainty that this particular conversation is finished—that the real battles will now be fought in courtrooms and legal briefs, where my leverage will prove far more decisive than his desperation.
Bellamy refuses to concede, insisting that his legal team will fight any lawsuit I attempt to file. I inform him that I will see him in court, and I leave the building with my legal folder tucked under one arm and a cold, simmering fury burning in me.
Outside, the city air is thick with exhaust and humidity, the late afternoon sun beating down on the pavement in waves that shimmer off the concrete.
The streets are crowded with the usual chaos of early evening, commuters rushing toward the subway, food vendors hawking their wares from corner carts, the constant low hum of traffic that never quite stops in this part of the city.
I move through it all with purpose, my considerable frame drawing the usual mixture of wary glances and hastily averted eyes.
People part instinctively as I walk, creating a buffer zone around me that requires no conscious effort on my part.
I make it half a block from the development company building, my mind still occupied with the particulars of the case and the undeniable satisfaction of having backed Bellamy into a corner he cannot escape.
The legal documents are secure in the folder I carry, the foundation of what will become his financial undoing laid out in meticulous detail.
That is when I hear it, a voice calling out from behind me, casual and deliberately provocative.
"Hey, Orc."
I stop walking, my shoulders tensing slightly as I recognize the tone.
There is nothing accidental about that greeting.
I do not turn around immediately. Instead, I take a measured breath and slowly pivot to face whoever has decided this particular evening is the right time to test their luck against a 7-foot-tall former bouncer.
I turn slowly, my body already shifting into a defensive stance before my conscious mind fully processes the threat.
Two human males are standing in the narrow alley beside the development company building, both wearing the kind of cheap suits and poorly concealed earpieces that mark them as low-tier corporate security.
"Mr. Bellamy wanted us to deliver a message," the taller one says, cracking his knuckles in what I assume is meant to be an intimidating gesture.
"You need to drop this legal bullshit and convince your little artist girlfriend to move out quietly.
Otherwise, things are going to get unpleasant for both of you. "
I stare at him for a long moment, my mind briefly cataloguing the sheer, breathtaking stupidity of the situation, these two insignificant men, in a deserted alley, threatening not just any adversary, but a seven-foot-tall Orc who has spent the last decade professionally removing people from establishments far larger and better-equipped than this narrow concrete corridor.
The cognitive dissonance is almost fascinating in its audacity.
"No," I say simply. I do not elaborate. I do not need to. The single word, delivered with the absolute certainty of someone who has never in his life doubted his position, is sufficient.
The shorter one moves first, lunging forward with a clumsy right hook that telegraphs his intent from three feet away. I sidestep easily, catching his wrist mid-swing and twisting just hard enough to send him stumbling into the alley wall with a pained yelp.
The taller one is smarter; he goes for a weapon, pulling a retractable baton from his jacket. He swings it toward my ribs in a move that might have been effective against a human opponent.
I catch the baton mid-swing with my free hand, absorbing the impact without flinching, and yank it out of his grip with all the force to send him sprawling backward onto the pavement.
"You have made a significant tactical error," I inform them both, my voice perfectly calm despite the adrenaline surging through my veins.
"Return to your employer and inform him that intimidation tactics will not be effective.
If he attempts to threaten my mate again, I will respond with considerably less restraint. "
I drop the baton onto the pavement with a metallic clatter and walk away, leaving both of them groaning and nursing bruised egos in the alley.
My knuckles are starting to ache, and I can feel the warm trickle of blood running down my chin from where the taller one managed to land a glancing blow during the scuffle. I press the back of my hand to my split lip, grimacing at the sharp sting.
Chantel is going to panic when she sees this.
By the time I return to the apartment, the sun has set and the building is bathed in the warm glow of streetlights filtering through the hallway windows.
I pause outside our door, taking a moment to smooth down my hair and wipe the worst of the blood from my face with my sleeve before I unlock the deadbolt.
The apartment is dim, lit only by the small lamp in Chantel's studio corner and the flickering glow of her laptop screen.
Cardboard boxes are stacked haphazardly around the living room, half-filled with books and kitchen supplies and carefully wrapped paintings.
She is sitting on the floor in the center of the chaos, her legs crossed and her shoulders slumped in defeat, and her like this, small and defeated and preparing to abandon our home, ignites a fresh wave of fury in me.
"Faugh," she breathes, scrambling to her feet. "What the hell happened?"
I close the door behind me, lock the deadbolt with a decisive click, and cross the room in three long strides. I drop the thick legal folder onto the coffee table, the heavy thud echoing in the small space.
"We are not leaving," I say, my voice rough and edged with barely restrained violence. "And anyone who attempts to force us out will regret it."