Page 148 of Under Construction

Ugh. Delete.

Fuck off

Delete.

You ruined everything and now you want me to give you a second chance. You still think you're the big deal don't you? I hate—

Delete delete delete.

With a frustrated groan, he tosses the phone next to the ukulele. Drains his glass in one swallow. Slams it back down on the coffee table with a hiss at the burn. Time for bed instead.

His temples throb with the beginnings of what promises to be a vicious hangover.

47Under The Light

"Whoa! Bad night?"

Jason barges into the office twenty minutes after Dennis, two large black coffees in hand. In hoodies and worn jeans, with dark circles under their eyes, they look like they've aged backwards—two exhausted college kids who've pulled one too many all-nighters.

Dennis's head pounds from drowning his feelings in scotch. Spoiler alert: the scotch is gone, the feelings survived.

"Bad week." He grabs the coffee gratefully, taking a huge gulp. "Sssss—ahhh hot hot!" He presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth, testing the burn. "Thit!" The word comes out garbled, making Jason snicker.

"Take it easy, man."

The legal team filters in as Dennis nurses his scalded tongue through half his coffee. Three lawyers in crisp button-downs and pressed slacks claim the conference table, their own coffee cups steaming. Two more trail in minutes later, nodding hello.

Papers cover every surface—stacks on the table overflow onto the floor where Dennis and Jason sit cross-legged, looking woefully underdressed next to the suited professionals. A laptopstreams the local news channel in the corner, keeping them updated on public reactions to Kim Industries. The reporters won't shut up about the fire and potential bankruptcy.

Chris hasn't texted since last night. Maybe those messages were just another game, seeing what else he could destroy. Dennis forces himself to believe it, to hold onto that anger.

By midday, after two more coffees, Dennis vibrates with caffeine jitters. He grabs a new folder from his pile, highlighting and post-it noting his way through until he hits a stapled section that feels... off.

The paper feels lighter, different.

"Hey Jae." Dennis points to the stack of approved permits where Jason's cataloging contractor signatures. "Can I borrow that?"

"Sure." Jason passes it over without looking up from his spreadsheet.

Dennis compares the documents side by side, then lets out a low whistle. "Oh... shit."

Jason's head snaps up along with the five lawyers at the conference table as Dennis runs his fingers over both documents. The difference is subtle but unmistakable—a slight variation in texture, in weight. He unclips the lighter one, holding it up to the window. Light streams through differently than the approved permit beside it.

Jason rocks forward onto his knees, crawling closer to peer over Dennis's hands. Two lawyers follow, hovering over Dennis's shoulders.

"You see this?" Dennis traces the watermark.

"Is that—" One lawyer leans closer.

"Hand me another," a second demands.

They pass papers back and forth, comparing watermarks, testing paper weights. Each confirmation builds the energy in the room.

"They're fake." Dennis meets Jason's eyes, hope flickering for the first time in weeks.

"We need forensics here, now." Nathaniel Hale, Thompson & Reed's Stanford star, already has his phone out.

"Everyone check for similar paper weights, odd watermarks," another calls out. The room erupts into focused chaos, papers shuffling, people calling out findings.

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