Juan Harrison stood in the shadows across from Mercury Solutions, watching the lights glow in the third-floor windows. His gray fedora sat low on his head. The company had taken everything from him—his invention, his savings, his future. They had smiled and shaken his hand while their lawyers buried him in paperwork he couldn't afford to fight. Now he wanted to watch it all burn. He pulled his gaze from the building and started walking. Mercury Solutions wasn't his target tonight. That would come later. First, he needed to understand what he was really capable of doing. His hands shook as he moved down the sidewalk, not from fear but from anger that still burned hot after three years. The Liquor Hut sat ahead, its bright sign cutting through the darkness. The small store had wide windows and colorful displays of bottles inside. This place meant nothing to him. No memories. No history. It would be his test run, a way to see if he could actually go through with the plan forming in his mind. He stopped at the corner and stared at the cheerful storefront. If he could do this, he could do anything. Juan walked past The Liquor Hut without going inside. His feet kept moving down the block until he reached a strip mall. A large shop window caught his eye. Metal display cases behind the glass held business cards and flyers. He scanned the notices—yard sales, guitar lessons, missing cats. His eyes stopped on a small advertisement for The Liquor Hut. Grand opening three months ago. Family owned. He touched the cold glass with his fingertips. A family business. People depending on it. Juan stepped back from the window. He turned and looked down the empty street. The Liquor Hut's bright sign still glowed in the distance. He couldn't do it. Not to them. But Mercury Solutions was different. They had destroyed him on purpose, with lawyers and lies. That fire would burn exactly where it needed to. He needed a place to prepare. Somewhere hidden where he could gather what he needed without questions. Juan walked through the quiet streets until he found a bungalow with an open garage door. He glanced around, then stepped inside. The concrete floor showed cracks near the back wall. He knelt and ran his fingers along the edges until he found a loose section. Below it, darkness opened into the old tunnels beneath Killead. Perfect. He could store everything down there until he was ready. Mercury Solutions had stolen three years of his life. Soon they would pay for every single day.

Juan pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket and opened it to a blank page. He needed to understand fire—how it started, how it spread, what materials burned fastest. The local library would have books on chemistry and building safety codes. Mercury Solutions occupied an old warehouse with wooden beams and paper everywhere. He would learn the building's weak points, map the exits, and figure out how much accelerant he'd need. His hand moved across the page, writing down each step. Knowledge first, then action. The next morning, Juan walked until he found a hardware store with a brick facade. Metal-framed windows displayed rows of tools and supplies inside. He pushed through the door and moved past the paint section. Gas cans sat stacked on a bottom shelf. Above them hung tiki torches with bamboo handles. He picked up two cans and carried them to the register. The clerk rang them up without looking at his face. Juan paid in cash and walked out with his purchase. That night, he returned to The Liquor Hut. A parking lot light cast bright white across the pavement and building front. Juan studied the area from across the street. He wasn't going to burn this place, but he needed to understand how buildings worked at night. Where the dark spots were. How long before someone might notice movement. His eyes tracked the glow from the light to the shadows at the building's edge. He crossed the street and walked around to the side. A manhole cover sat embedded in the concrete near the building's corner. Juan knelt and worked his fingers under the metal edge. It lifted with effort. Below, darkness opened into storage space beneath the building. Perfect access point. He lowered the cover back into place and stood. He had learned what he needed. Mercury Solutions would have similar features, similar weak spots. He tucked his hands in his pockets and walked away, his plan taking solid shape with each step.

Juan knew that burning Mercury Solutions would take more than anger and gas cans. He needed to understand the building's bones—ventilation systems, exit routes, what materials lined the walls. The city planning office would have blueprints on file for older structures. He adjusted his fedora and headed downtown, where records were kept in basement archives open to the public. Knowledge was the foundation of any good plan, and he was building his brick by brick. The city clerk brought him three rolled blueprints from 1987. Juan spread them across the metal table and studied each page. Mercury Solutions sat in a building with twelve ventilation shafts and four emergency exits. The walls contained asbestos insulation wrapped around old wooden beams. He traced the routes with his finger, memorizing the layout. After an hour, he rolled the papers and thanked the clerk. Outside, a bronze statue caught his eye—a cowering man surrounded by flames, his face twisted in fear. The plaque read "To Those Who Failed." Juan stared at the fearful expression. That's what success would look like for him. Not triumph, but watching his enemies face the same terror he'd felt when they destroyed him. He walked until he found a gym with brick walls and wide windows. Inside, metal dumbbells gleamed on black rubber mats. Men and women moved between machines, talking and laughing. Juan had been alone with his anger for three years. Maybe that was the problem. He pushed through the door and signed up for a membership. A regular routine would keep him steady while he planned. It would also give him a reason to be in this part of town without drawing attention. He picked up a dumbbell and started lifting. His reflection stared back from the window glass. On his way home, Juan passed a billboard with red letters stretching across bright yellow. "Toolmaster's—Your Hardware Headquarters." Images of hammers, saws, and drills filled the space below. He'd bought his gas cans from a small brick store last week, but this place looked bigger. More inventory. More options for what he'd need. He made a mental note of the name. Everything was coming together now. The blueprints gave him the building's secrets. The gym gave him cover. The billboard showed him where to get supplies without raising questions. Mercury Solutions thought they'd buried him three years ago. They were wrong.

Juan sat at a corner table in a diner called The Grease Trap, watching people through the front window. Three years ago, he'd eaten lunch with coworkers who smiled while they set him up. Now he trusted no one, which made planning easier. He sipped black coffee and opened his notebook to a new page. Mercury Solutions would burn, but first he needed to see how people moved through their routines without noticing what happened around them. A server refilled his cup without looking at his face. Perfect. That's exactly what he needed—to be invisible while he worked. He closed the notebook and left cash on the table, another small test complete. Outside, the afternoon sun beat down on the concrete. Juan walked along the sidewalk, his fedora blocking the glare. A large tree stood ahead, its branches spreading wide over the street corner. He stopped beneath it and felt the temperature drop. The shade made the heat bearable. People passed without looking at him—a woman on her phone, a man carrying bags, kids kicking a can. All of them focused on their own lives. Juan leaned against the trunk and watched Mercury Solutions across the street. Employees moved past windows on the second floor. One laughed. Another pointed at a computer screen. They had no idea he was out here. No idea what was coming. He studied the building's entrance, counting how many people went in and out in ten minutes. Fifteen people. All distracted. All predictable. He pushed off from the tree and walked away. Every detail mattered. Every observation brought him closer to the night when Mercury Solutions would finally pay. Juan walked three more blocks until the street opened into a wider intersection. A tall metal tower rose above the buildings, its antenna arrays stretching toward the clouds. He stopped and studied it. The structure stood visible from multiple directions, its beams catching the afternoon light. When Mercury Solutions burned, he would need a place to watch from a distance. The tower would help him mark his position. He could find a rooftop or parking garage with a clear view, using the tower as a reference point. Juan pulled out his notebook and sketched the tower's shape, adding notes about the streets around it. His three alibis were already prepared—receipts, witnesses, all the evidence pointing away from him. But he needed to see their faces when the fire started. Needed to watch them understand what they'd lost. The tower would guide him to the perfect spot. He closed the notebook and kept walking, his plan now one step closer to complete. He turned down a narrow passage between two buildings where foot traffic disappeared. Ivy climbed the brick wall on his left, green tendrils weaving through cracks in the old mortar. The passage would make a good escape route—forgotten, overgrown, the kind of space people avoided. Juan ran his hand along the rough brick, feeling where the ivy had loosened the structure. Mercury Solutions had a similar alley behind their loading dock. He'd walked it twice already, noting the cameras and lights. This passage showed him what neglected spaces looked like, how nature crept in when buildings aged. He emerged onto another street and headed home. The tree for cover, the tower for navigation, the ivy-covered wall for escape. Each piece fit together like numbers in a ledger. Soon the books would balance, and Mercury Solutions would pay what they owed.

Juan stood outside Toolmaster's, the hardware store's wide glass doors reflecting his fedora back at him. Inside, he filled a red basket with rope, matches, and a second lighter. The clerk rang up his items without asking questions. Juan paid cash and walked out with a plastic bag swinging from his hand. Each purchase brought him closer to the night Mercury Solutions would burn. He felt the weight of the supplies and smiled. Progress felt good. He needed to test everything before the real night. Juan drove to the edge of town where an old wooden shed sat abandoned in an empty lot. The structure had charred edges from someone else's fire, but the frame still stood. He pulled rope from his bag and practiced tying knots around the doorframe, then lighting matches one after another to check how fast they caught. The lighter clicked reliable and steady. He doused a small pile of kindling and watched how quickly the flames spread up the wood grain. Smoke rose thick and black. He stomped it out and checked his watch. Thirty seconds from spark to full burn. Mercury Solutions would go faster with the right placement. That night, Juan walked into the Neon Billiards Hall and felt the tension drain from his shoulders. Green felt tables stretched across the room under hanging lights. Neon signs buzzed on brick walls, painting everything in pink and blue. He ordered a beer and racked the balls on an empty table. The crack of the break echoed through the space. Stripes and solids scattered across the felt. He sank three balls in a row, then missed the fourth. It didn't matter. He was here to feel good about what he'd accomplished. The blueprints, the supplies, the practice burns—everything was falling into place. He finished his beer and left a tip on the bar. Outside, Juan passed under the shade tree near the hardware store and paused. Three years of planning had brought him to this moment. His alibi witnesses were in place, his old keycard still worked, and Mercury Solutions hadn't changed a single lock. They thought they'd destroyed him, but he'd built something better in the ruins—a perfect plan with no loose ends. He touched the brim of his fedora and kept walking. Soon they would understand what it felt like to lose everything. Soon they would watch their building burn while he stood across the street, just another face in the crowd. The waiting was almost over.

Juan's hand shook as he reached for his old Casterton Industries keycard in his desk drawer. The name was wrong—he'd been thinking Mercury Solutions for weeks, filling notebooks with the wrong company name. His carefully memorized alibis, his sketches of escape routes, even his practice runs near that hardware store—all of it pointed to a building that had nothing to do with his revenge. He sat down hard in his chair and pressed his palms against his eyes. Three years of planning, and he'd mixed up the target because anger had scrambled his focus. The real enemy was Casterton Industries, the place that had framed him and stolen his career. He opened his notebook and stared at page after page of useless notes. His confidence cracked like thin ice. He'd have to start over. He grabbed his fedora and left the apartment, needing air. His feet carried him through the streets without direction until he stopped at an urban water feature near a building entrance. Water flowed down a steel frame in smooth sheets, catching the city lights in ripples of color. He watched the water fall and reset, fall and reset, over and over. Nothing changed. Nothing progressed. Just the same motion repeating forever. Juan touched the keycard in his pocket and felt the weight of his mistake pressing down. All his preparation meant nothing if he burned the wrong building. The supplies in his closet, the witnesses he'd arranged, the timing he'd rehearsed—everything had to be rebuilt from scratch. He turned away from the water wall and started walking home. Casterton Industries would burn eventually, but tonight he was just a man who'd wasted three years chasing the wrong target. A sculpture caught his eye across the street. Two hands locked in a handshake, one side crumbling to pieces. He stopped and stared at the broken hand, how the fingers fell apart while trying to hold on. That's what Casterton had done to him—shook his hand while destroying everything behind his back. Juan's jaw tightened. The statue reminded him why he couldn't quit, why the mistake didn't matter in the end. He would rebuild his plan, trace Casterton's routines, memorize new escape routes. The rage hadn't gone anywhere. It just needed better direction. He walked past the sculpture and headed toward his apartment. The notebooks could be rewritten. The alibis could be adjusted. Casterton Industries would still burn, and he would still watch their faces when it happened. This setback only meant he had more time to get it right. Juan turned down his street and spotted a red fire hydrant on the corner. He slowed his pace and studied it—the brass valve, the worn paint from years of city use. A cold thought settled in his chest. When Casterton Industries burned, firefighters would use hydrants like this one to fight the flames. They would arrive fast, hook up their hoses, and spray water through broken windows. His mistake with Mercury Solutions had saved him from a bigger problem. He'd never tested response times. Never checked how quickly help would arrive. The anger that had driven him for three years had blinded him to basic facts. Juan stood under a streetlight and felt something shift inside him. Maybe the plan itself was flawed. Maybe watching their faces wasn't worth spending the rest of his life in prison. He touched the brim of his fedora and walked the last block home, the keycard heavy in his pocket, doubt settling in where confidence used to live.

Juan sat on a bench near his apartment and watched a group of kids play basketball under streetlights. Their sneakers squeaked against concrete as they drove toward the hoop. One kid missed a layup, swore, then grabbed the rebound and tried again. This time the ball dropped clean through the net. Juan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The kid hadn't quit after missing. He'd adjusted and scored. Juan thought about his notebooks full of wrong information, his three years aimed at the wrong target. Maybe mistakes weren't endpoints. Maybe they were just missed shots that taught you how to aim better. He stood up from the bench and headed home. Casterton Industries would burn, but only after he rebuilt his plan the right way. The anger was still there, sharper now, focused like a blade instead of scattered like buckshot. The next morning, Juan walked through the plaza and stopped at a metal sculpture. A butterfly, caught mid-transformation, rose from the base in twisted steel. The early stage showed a caterpillar wrapped tight. The middle showed the cocoon splitting open. The final stage showed wings spread wide, ready to fly. He touched the cool metal and thought about the past three years spent planning the wrong target. The sculpture reminded him that change took time. Destruction came before rebirth. He would tear down Casterton Industries, but maybe something better would come after. The butterfly didn't stay angry at the cocoon. It just broke free and moved on. Juan found a smooth stone seat near the edge of the plaza and sat down. The stone had depressions worn into it from years of people sitting in the same spots. He fit his body into one of the grooves and felt the weight of the city around him. Cars passed. People walked by with coffee cups. Nobody looked at him twice. The stone was solid and permanent, older than his anger, older than Casterton Industries. He pulled out his keycard and turned it over in his hands. The plan to burn the building still felt right, but sitting here made him wonder what came after. Prison? Running? The stone didn't answer, but it held him steady while he thought. He walked to the library and pushed through the heavy doors. Tall windows showed rows of books stacked on wooden shelves. The smell of old paper and binding glue filled his nose. Juan moved between the aisles until he found a chair near the back. He sat and stared at the spines around him. Each book was someone's attempt to make sense of the world. Some succeeded. Some failed. All of them got finished anyway. He thought about the butterfly sculpture and the worn stone seat. Both had survived longer than any grudge. Juan pulled out his notebook and opened to a blank page. Casterton Industries would burn. That much hadn't changed. But maybe after the fire, he could build something that lasted longer than revenge. He clicked his pen and started writing a new plan—one that included what happened the morning after.

Juan pulled a legal pad from his desk drawer and set it on the kitchen table. The morning light came through the blinds in thin strips. He wrote "Casterton Industries" at the top in block letters, pressing hard enough to indent the paper. No more mistakes. No more wrong targets. He drew a line down the middle of the page—on the left, everything he needed to relearn about the building. On the right, the gaps in his original plan that could have landed him in prison. The fire hydrant from last night stayed in his mind. Response times mattered. Exit routes mattered. He wrote "water pressure" and "alarm systems" under the left column. His hand moved faster now, filling the page with questions that had answers. The anger was still there, cold and patient, but now it had direction. He tapped his pen against the paper three times, then stood up and grabbed his fedora. Time to walk past Casterton Industries and start counting minutes. The walk took forty minutes. Juan kept his pace steady and noted every turn. He passed Casterton Industries twice without stopping, checking the street from both directions. On his third pass, he spotted what he needed—a pay phone booth on the corner, metal frame with glass panels intact. The booth looked old but functional. He stepped inside and lifted the receiver. The dial tone hummed in his ear. Perfect. When the time came, he could make calls without leaving any digital trace. He hung up and memorized the location, then continued his route. Two blocks later, Juan found a hardware store with a brick front. He walked around to the loading area behind the building. A yellow cabinet with a red flammable decal sat against the back wall, locked tight. Next to it, a heavy equipment dolly leaned on pneumatic tires. Juan watched a worker roll the dolly toward the loading dock, stacked with paint cans. The man left the dolly outside while he went back in for more stock. Juan checked his watch and counted. Three minutes before the worker returned. Three minutes when supplies sat unguarded. He turned and walked away before anyone noticed him watching. Back home, Juan added new notes to his legal pad. The pay phone location went on the left side. The hardware store loading schedule went on the right, along with a sketch of the yellow cabinet. His three alibis still worked—the receipts were dated but flexible. The parking pass in his wallet still had the Casterton Industries logo. Everything was coming together now, piece by piece, no wasted motion. He set down his pen and looked at the page. The plan was clean. The target was correct. When Casterton Industries burned, he would be across the street watching, and every face he saw would know exactly who had done this to them.

Juan stood in his apartment and spread everything across the bed. The keycard sat next to his parking pass, both worn but still valid. His three alibi receipts lined up in a row—coffee shop, movie theater, hardware store purchases from different days. He'd memorized the timestamps. The notebooks filled with wrong information went into a cardboard box, useless now. He grabbed his fedora and checked the inside band where he'd tucked a small folded paper with the pay phone location and street grid. Everything had a place. Everything had a purpose. He picked up a book of matches from the corner store and turned the small box over in his palm. The final piece. No accelerants that could be traced, just paper and old wood that would catch fast once it started. He slipped the matches into his shirt pocket and buttoned the flap. Tomorrow night, Casterton Industries would burn, and he'd be across the street watching every window light up orange. The anger in his chest felt calm now, cold and ready. Three years of planning had led to this moment. He was done preparing. Tonight he had one task left—timing the escape route. Juan walked six blocks under streetlights until he found the alley behind an office building. A weathered dumpster sat against the brick wall, its metal panels dented and scratched. Faded warning labels peeled at the corners. He checked both ends of the alley. Empty. Juan moved to the dumpster and crouched behind it, counting seconds in his head. Fifteen seconds to get low. Twenty to move around the corner. He stood and walked the route three times, faster each round. His boots scraped against pavement. A car passed on the street but didn't slow down. Nobody saw him. He checked his watch and nodded. The timing worked. Tomorrow night, after he started the fire, he'd follow this exact path while Casterton Industries burned. Every step was locked in now. Every second accounted for. He turned and headed home, the matches still pressed against his chest. He stopped on a rooftop two buildings down from Casterton Industries. The metal rooster weather vane spun slowly on top of the brick building across from him. Its pointed tail shifted west, then back to southwest. Juan watched it turn for three full minutes, checking the direction against the breeze on his face. Wind from the west meant the smoke would blow away from his watching spot. Wind from the east would send it straight toward him. He pulled out his small notebook and wrote down the direction and time. Tomorrow he'd check again at the same hour. The fire needed to spread through the building, not scatter into the street where firefighters could control it too fast. He studied the weather vane's numbered directions one more time, then climbed back down the fire escape. Everything was ready. The route was timed. The wind was measured. The matches waited in his pocket. Juan walked home through empty streets, his face calm, his plan complete. Morning came and Juan walked past The Liquor Hut on his final check of the area. An inflatable tube man towered over the sidewalk, shaped like a giant alcohol bottle with waving arms. The bright colors caught every eye on the block. People stopped to stare and point. Juan stood at the corner and watched the crowd gather. Perfect. Tomorrow night, any distraction would help. Witnesses would remember the tube man, not an older man in a fedora crossing the street. He turned away and headed back to his apartment. The last piece had fallen into place. Tomorrow Casterton Industries would burn, and he would finally watch them pay for what they'd done to him.