Six Weeks Before Everything Began to Unravel
Truth arrived cloaked, then unfolded like origami.
Dr. Marcus Kane drove through the town he hadn’t visited in two years. The once‑affluent community had collapsed into a ghost town. Abandoned houses and a burned‑out police cruiser rusted on his old street.
Billy Jones had once announced to the entire fifth-grade class that Marcus lived in the community shed. The irony was that some sheds in the community were larger than their home. But it had never been about size. It was his grandmother, Mama, who made it home.
He had considered selling the house after burying her, but its only real value was the memories it held.
“Vrrr… vrrr…”
His phone rang. Dean Grey was checking in. Only a week had passed since the campus interview, when Dr. Kane pitched his idea one final time for a new cultural anthropology course.
He had asked the hiring committee why the sudden change. Their answer was simple: The time is right.
Today, Dr. Kane was scheduled to meet a generous university donor who wanted to assess his fit. It was the final step before his employment could be confirmed. They reassured him that it was just a formality.
He straightened his tie and glanced at the folder on the front seat. Dr. Kane always carried a one-page résumé like armor. People often told him he looked too young for the profession, so he made sure the focus stayed on his work.
He had started university at seventeen and pursued his dream relentlessly. Thirty-one wasn’t young, but his face made people treat him like it.
* * *
Dr. Kane arrived at Lakeside University, Minnesota, fifteen minutes early. The irony wasn’t lost on him; he was about to meet the dean who had once been his principal.
“Trying to educate someone with your innate deficiencies is a waste of time,” he used to say.
Those words had cut deep.
Mama would have called this moment serendipitous, though not the word she would use. “What is for you can’t be un-for you.” Her patois rolled through his mind as if she were beside him.
He felt ready for whatever waited behind those university doors. He didn’t realize that the man inside would reshape everything he thought he understood.
* * *
Dean Grey greeted him with a warmth he had never once received in all his high‑school years. The friendliness felt suspicious, too chirpy, unlike the man he remembered.
“The donor is the university’s largest benefactor,” the dean whispered, his eyes wide with excitement. “He’s been anonymous for over twenty years… until now.”
Then, leaning closer, he added reassuringly, “I’ll also be there for the meeting, so don’t be intimidated.”
“Thanks, I guess…” Dr. Kane kept a straight face.
The idea that Dean Grey thought his presence comforting was ironic enough to be comedic. Proof that for the cruel, the moment passes; for the hurt, it becomes a parasitic memory.
The dean briskly escorted him down the hall.
* * *
When they reached the office, the change in the dean’s demeanor intensified.
“Mr. Chen,” the dean chirped in a strange high-pitched voice, “I trust you find the office comfortable and to your liking?”
He hunched into a half-bow, smiling wide and unnaturally.
Mr. Chen nodded slightly, his eyes fixed on Dr. Kane.
“May I offer you another cup of tea?” the dean asked, gesturing toward a full cup Mr. Chen hadn’t touched.
As the dean fumbled through pleasantries, Dr. Kane felt a wave of secondhand embarrassment as the man he had once feared shrank into a groveling shell. Whatever authority Grey had once wielded existed only as long as someone else allowed it.
Dean Grey began lowering himself into a seat when Mr. Chen abruptly cut him off.
“That will be all, Dean Grey. You may go.”
The dean deflated instantly and left the room.
* * *
Dr. Kane studied Mr. Chen fully now. It took surprising focus, as though his mind struggled to hold the man’s presence. His slight frame disguised a quiet authority, shaped by being the most powerful person in every room. Dr. Kane didn’t recognize him, but he sensed instantly that this man wielded real influence, and his interest meant something significant.
“Welcome, Dr. Kane. I am Mr. Chen,” he said warmly.
The contrast to his treatment of the dean was jarring.
“I asked you here because we’re familiar with your work, and we believe you might be the perfect fit for this opportunity. I wanted to make that assessment in person.”
“Thank you for having me, Mr. Chen.”
Dr. Kane straightened his folder, slipping effortlessly into his practiced pitch.
“I was raised here, the only mixed-race child in my school. Cultural Anthropology gave me a sense of self, and I want to pass that on. One spark can create real change. I believe I can ignite—”
Mr. Chen interrupted gently. “Thank you, Dr. Kane, but I’m afraid there’s been some miscommunication.”
His voice was calm and measured. “Your work is impressive. Your research into race, power, and identity is exactly the expertise my organization needs. What we’re building is not a class. It’s a project that will influence communities at scale. It requires discretion and vision.”
One question clawed at Dr. Kane. But he couldn’t summon the guts to ask it, lest it become real: was Mr. Chen saying he wouldn’t get the job as a lecturer?
He saw his dream slipping through his fingers. A disappointment Mama would have compared to “a cow giving a pail of milk then kicking it over before it’s collected.”
“No, Mr. Chen, I think you misunderstood,” Dr. Kane said, his voice cracking. “I packed my entire life and moved halfway across the country. I would never—”
That familiar tide rising fast, heart racing, heat pulsing under his skin. The pressure in his skull climbed, like something bottled and ready to explode.
A deep uneven breath.
“Will you excuse me, Mr. Chen?” he managed.
Mr. Chen nodded.
* * *
Dr. Kane left quickly, holding himself together just long enough to reach the nearest bathroom. He locked himself in a stall, pulled the pill bottle from his pocket, and swallowed two tablets dry. As he lowered his hand, his eye caught the faint scar on his left arm. His therapist had first suggested snapping a rubber band against his wrist. It hadn’t worked.
He tugged his sleeve down, came out of the stall, splashed cold water on his face, and straightened his tie.
He returned with calmer resolve. Nothing to lose now.
* * *
“Mr. Chen,” he said directly, his voice landing softer than intended. “I’ll be honest. I have no interest in the project you mentioned, but I can see it matters to you. I respect that, because I feel the same about Cultural Anthropology.”
He slowed, buying himself a moment to mimic confidence.
“I was promised this opportunity. However, from what you’ve said, maybe you never intended to honor that.”
He held Mr. Chen’s gaze. “It seems you expected me to accept your proposal. Let me guess, you thought the pay incentive would be enough to smother a dream…or replace it?”
Mr. Chen watched quietly, unreadable.
“Here’s the deal,” Dr. Kane’s voice steadied. “I’ll commit to your project under one condition: you give me what I want, and I’ll give you what you want. If not, I’ll go back to New York. Those are my terms.” The words felt heavy as they left his lips.
Mr. Chen leaned back.
“Dr. Kane, do you know why I invited you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You see things others refuse to confront.”
He paused before continuing, “And after hearing your passion, I know we’ve made the right choice.”
He smiled slowly. “Dr. Kane, you have your class. I had already arranged it with the dean. I wanted to be certain you were the right choice. All you needed to do was accept the project.”
The relief should have outweighed everything else. It didn’t.
Mr. Chen continued in a guarded tone, “What you hope to achieve through Cultural Anthropology, you will be able to do on a more impactful scale with this project.”
He slid a small sheet of paper across the table.
“That is just for you. Your team will be compensated separately.”
Dr. Kane held his breath. His hands trembled as he tried to make sense of the number staring back at him.
“Mr. Chen,” Dr. Kane asked softly, “what if I’d said no?”
Mr. Chen shrugged lightly.
“Then we would bid you farewell and find someone else who better appreciates a mutually beneficial relationship.”
A slight unease crept through him. He felt like he’d been cornered into a quid pro quo. He hoped he was overthinking.
“Dr. Kane,” Mr. Chen said, “if you agree to this project, you must follow all instructions entirely. And confidentiality is absolute.”
Dr. Kane’s concern must have shown, because Mr. Chen added, “Yes, everything is legal. Completely above board.”
Dr. Kane nodded, mentally encouraging himself to stay objective. And grateful.
“For this project, you will need three additional people,” Mr. Chen continued. “You begin your new job as Assistant Professor of Cultural Anthropology next week. I trust you are prepared.”
He slid a small silver card toward Kane. No name, no writing, only a single QR code.
“Only you can access this information. Follow the instructions, and we will meet in three weeks.”
He added, like an afterthought, “Don’t worry, you will know the right team when you meet them.”
With that, Mr. Chen stood and walked away.
The euphoria came in waves, subtle at first, then steady.
Dr. Kane was getting his class. After years of rejection, deflection, and polite dismissal, he had finally broken through.
Yet the victory felt… weighted.
* * *
For days afterward, his mind returned to Mr. Chen, and the way the offer had been framed. It wasn’t offered so much as it was expected. He could feel control slipping from his grasp, a feeling that often dragged old memories to the surface.
He hadn’t known his parents. At six months old, he’d been left on his grandmother’s doorstep with a note: Errol’s son.
Mama said she took one look at him and knew. “You know you are dead stamp of your father,” she would often say.
His father had died before his birth, and all he knew of his mother was that she was white. Schoolyard taunts were still vivid in his mind. “Muddy Marcus! Muddy Marcus!”
Except now, there were no bleachers to hide under.
The unease lingered, sharpening everything he noticed, even the view outside his window.
The town looked forgotten. Half-boarded storefronts. Darkened porches.
A community notice board cluttered with warnings:
Self-defense classes offered
Emergency meeting tonight
Keep children indoors after dark
The bombing at the Catholic church still hung in the air. Neighbors no longer lingered outside. Streets emptied early and fear moved faster than conversation.
* * *
As if on a timer, his thoughts drifted back to the meeting.
He pulled the card from his wallet and scanned the QR code.
The landing page displayed only two words: The Company. Capitalized as if that were the actual name. Beneath it, a single line instructed him to assemble three additional team members. The final item was a location marker with a prompt to save it.
Before he could make sense of the sparse details, a message flashed across the screen:
This information will disappear in one minute.
He tried to screenshot the page, hoping to study it later, but the device refused to capture it. When the countdown hit ten seconds, he abandoned the attempt and saved the location marker.
The screen went blank.
His phone vibrated once, followed by a flicker of static so sharp his ears rang. He jerked back, heart thudding. He forced himself to breathe. Probably just the old phone acting up, he told himself.
When he finally calmed, he resumed the search with more caution. The page was gone, scrubbed clean like it had never existed.
The location marker offered nothing either; it only noted that directions would unlock at 5 p.m. on the 26th, three weeks away, and that he should be ready to leave from the university at that time.
His research did nothing to appease his curiosity. He’d entertained a dozen possibilities, but none explained the secrecy. And people didn’t just hand out that kind of compensation without a shadow attached, whether desire, desperation, or fear.
And that made him nervous.
Only later would he understand that the moment he agreed, the terms had already changed.
Mysterious card - check
Suspicious character - check