Rain hit the mud hard as Mikhail sprinted across the gravel, coat whipping behind him. Kat kept pace, her flashlight beam cutting through the dark like a blade. Lars followed last, breath visible in the cold air, a metal pipe slung over his shoulder like a sledgehammer. The southern gate loomed ahead, rusted steel fencing, wrapped in chain, its padlock hanging loose and broken.
"They clipped it," Lars muttered. "Sloppy."
Mikhail raised a hand, signaling silence. The engine of a flatbed truck hummed low behind the gate. Shadows moved in its headlights, two figures lifting crates from the storage shed and sliding them onto the truck bed. One of the crates slipped and cracked open. Steel rebar spilled onto the gravel with a clatter.
Kat cursed under her breath. "That's the scaffolding order."
Mikhail stepped forward and raised his voice, not yelling, commanding. "Hey! Drop it. Now."
The figures froze. One turned, short and barrel-chested, blinking under the light. "Who the hell are you?"
"The owner," Mikhail said flatly. He didn't shout. He didn't need to.
Barrel-chest blinked. "Hoffmann didn't say nothin' about…"
"I bought the plant a week ago," Mikhail interrupted. "You're stealing from private property. Right now, the only thing you should be thinking about is whether you want this to end with a conversation or handcuffs."
The second man, thinner, twitchier, looked between them and the truck. He muttered something to Barrel-chest, but Mikhail caught the words. "That's the guy from the plant meeting," he said to Kat, pointing. "The supplier's cousin."
Recognition clicked in Kat's eyes. Lars didn't wait. He stepped around the gate, pipe still resting on his shoulder, expression carved in stone. "I've got three witnesses. One move and I'll testify with enthusiasm."
Tension broke. The thin one raised his hands. Barrel-chest swore and kicked the rebar crate. "Fine. Take your damn rods."
Kat had already started recording with her phone. "License plate clear," she muttered. "Truck's unregistered. Illegal transport."
"Get in the truck," the thin one whispered, and both men started backing off.
Mikhail stood rooted as the truck peeled out, gravel spraying behind it. When it disappeared down the access road, he turned back to the scattered crates.
Lars knelt beside one. "They weren't just taking extras. They knew what to grab. Someone leaked our inventory."
"I'll plug the hole," Mikhail said. He knelt beside another crate, checking the markings. "We're lucky. Only a third of it made it onto the truck. They didn't touch the custom forms."
Kat pointed to the broken chain. "We need security, real ones. This can't happen again."
"No," Mikhail said. "It won't." He stood and stared at the gate, wind flattening his coat. "This place isn't just steel and stone. It's a skeleton, my skeleton. I know where every joint should lock, every weight should shift. And I'll make damn sure it stands upright."
Lars tilted his head, a rare smile forming. "You sound like a guy who designs load-bearing systems in his sleep."
"I do," Mikhail said. He turned toward the lot, his boots squelching in the mud. "And now it's time to own it, too."
Kat wiped mud from her cheek. "Then let's finish this. No more halfway."
Mikhail's eyes glinted under the flashlight's glare. "Then let's start by owning it for real."
He stepped forward, toward Hoffmann's office, the wind driving behind him like a storm at his back.
The old wooden stairs to Hoffmann's office groaned under Mikhail's weight as he climbed. His boots left a trail of wet prints behind him, streaked with gravel dust and cold mud. Lars and Kat waited near the base of the steps, the wind pressing at their backs, as if nature itself wanted this moment to move faster.
Inside, the office smelled of cheap cigars and moldy upholstery. A flickering fluorescent bulb buzzed overhead. Hoffmann was hunched behind his metal desk, chewing on the end of a pencil and flipping through invoices. He didn't look up when Mikhail entered.
"You're back earlier than expected," Hoffmann said without a greeting. His voice was disinterested, but his eyes lifted cautiously. "Problems?"
Mikhail dropped a folded sheaf of documents onto the desk with a wet slap. "Theft. From our site."
Hoffmann's brow twitched. "Your site?"
"Don't play games," Mikhail said. His voice wasn't raised, but there was steel behind it now. "The transfer contract. The deed. Profit-sharing addendum. All signed, all stamped. Everything you asked for. You said 'sold.' That makes this mine now."
Hoffmann leaned back and laced his fingers over his belly. "You brought the rest of the funds?"
Mikhail reached into his coat and placed a thick envelope on top of the paperwork. It was sealed in wax, stamped with Erik's financing office. "Final payment. Plus a projected cut of our first-year profit margins. Twenty percent more than the valuation you originally quoted."
Hoffmann whistled softly, eyes scanning the stamp. "You brought in Dubois Financial?" He chuckled, dry and surprised. "You're more connected than you let on."
"I'm more prepared," Mikhail said coolly. "You want this plant back in shape? Let me do what I came to do."
There was a long silence. Then Hoffmann reached into a drawer and pulled out a worn leather-bound ledger. He flipped to a bookmarked page, signed a stub, tore it free, and stamped it with a rust-stained seal.
"Ownership certificate," he said. "You're on the books now. Quarry, plant, everything in between. Your headaches start today."
Mikhail took the document in both hands, his fingers steady despite the cold. The paper was heavy, the ink real. A legal stamp bore the city's mark. His name, his real name, was printed cleanly across the top.
Outside, Lars saw him step onto the porch with it. "Is that what I think it is?"
Mikhail nodded and held it out. Kat reached for it, eyes wide, and Lars stepped closer. The three of them stared at the certificate like it was a winning lottery ticket pulled from a muddy ditch.
"This is it," Mikhail said. "No more leases. No more doubt. We build from here."
Lars uncapped the cola bottle from earlier, now warm and flat, and handed it over. "Don't waste the symbolism."
Mikhail laughed, for the first time in weeks, and tapped the bottle neck against the steel trowel handle Lars offered in return. Kat followed, grinning through dirt-smeared cheeks.
The clink was quiet. But in that silence, the weight of real ownership settled like poured concrete around their feet.
Then Kat's phone buzzed.
She pulled it out, her expression changing as she read the screen. "You'll want to see this," she said. "A message just came through."
Mikhail's smile faded. He reached for the phone.