Samir Malik: The Ghost Clock

Samir Malik stood in his office with his jacket still on, tie loosened, staring at the city through floor-to-ceiling glass like it might blink first.

“They’ve been ahead of me all week,” he said finally. “And I can’t see how.”

Maribel didn’t look up from her tablet. Jalen leaned against the wall, arms crossed, letting the silence stretch.

“Two times,” Samir continued. “First—someone moved my investor meeting days before it happened. Quietly. Cleanly. I only found out when I walked into the wreckage.”

Jalen nodded. “Yeah. That one still annoys me.”

“Second,” Samir said, turning now, “the Bungalows feasibility objections. Filed early. Months early. Before zoning chatter. Before rumors. Before me.”

Maribel glanced up. “Which means whoever it is doesn’t react to opportunity.”

Samir nodded. “They anticipate it.”

Jalen exhaled through his nose. “That’s not luck. That’s prep.”

Samir rubbed his temple. “And I don’t like being late to my own future.”

Maribel tapped her screen and turned it toward him. “That’s why I flagged this.”

He stepped closer.

“It’s the permit packet for Bashir’s mobile car wash vans,” she said. “Routine. Except for this.”

She zoomed in.

Property Classification: Nonconforming Future Use

Samir’s brow creased. “That’s not accurate.”

“No,” Maribel said. “And it’s not random either.”

She scrolled.

“The developer consultant who flagged Bashir’s property is the same consultant who submitted early-use objections on the Bungalows parcels.”

Jalen straightened. “Same guy?”

“Same signature. Same formatting quirks. Same consulting LLC.”

Samir’s jaw tightened. “So whoever moved against the Bungalows is also watching my smallest holdings.”

“Or mapping you,” Jalen said.

Samir didn’t respond.

Maribel added quietly, “The consultant was paid in cash equivalents. Routed through an intermediary.”

Jalen smiled once. “I know a guy.”

Samir looked at him.

“Not a friend,” Jalen clarified. “More like… a professional nuisance. He finds who signs checks when people don’t want to be found.”

“Bring him in,” Samir said. “Quietly.”

The zoning department smelled like old paper and stale coffee.

Samir sat across from a woman he’d known for years—city planner, sharp mind, tired eyes. She closed the folder between them slowly.

“You didn’t hear this from me,” she said, “but there’s a residential push coming.”

Samir leaned forward. “Where?”

She slid a map halfway across the desk.

The Bungalows sat in the center, circled lightly in pencil. Surrounding parcels were marked in blocks.

“Track homes,” she continued. “High-end. Gated. There’s even talk of a private golf course.”

Samir stared.

“They’re clearing soft ground first,” she said. “Rent hikes. Code pressure. Appraisal reclassifications. Poor tenants don’t fight paperwork—they just leave.”

His voice was low. “And once they’re gone?”

She didn’t answer.

Samir didn’t need her to.

She opened another folder, hesitated, then pushed it forward.

“Draft proposal,” she said. “Hasn’t been filed yet.”

Samir scanned it.

Luxury residential development. Private amenities. Community exclusion baked into neutral language.

He closed the folder gently.

“So they’re starving the neighborhood,” he said, “so they can consume it... and move in the rich and well-to-does.”

She met his eyes. “That’s one way to put it.”

“No,” Samir replied. “It’s the accurate one.”

Jalen’s guy worked fast.

Too fast.

He called while Samir was still in the city building.

“I’ve got the consultant’s employer,” the voice said. “But you’re not going to like where it leads.”

Jalen glanced at Samir. “Tell him we’re mobile.”

“Yeah,” the man replied. “That’s probably smart.”

They drove without destination at first.

Jalen took streets that curved away from downtown—older neighborhoods, quieter ones.

“You ever notice,” Jalen said, “how the city only invests right before it erases something?”

Samir watched houses pass. “People call it progress.”

“People with keys.” Jalen said.

The car slowed in front of a modest home. Fresh sign in the lawn.

SOLD

Maribel checked the address. “This is part of the proposed golf course footprint.”

Jalen nodded. “Appraisal came in low. Way low. Same shell company paid the appraiser. He gave it a lower quote than it's actual value. The owner happens to go to jail and your Mystery man moves in to buy.”

"How convenient." Maribel mocked.

Samir stepped out.

He looked at the house like it might explain itself.

“Owner?” he asked.

Jalen hesitated, then answered. “Daniel Hale.”

The name settled between them.

Before Samir could speak, his phone rang.

Bashir.

“Samir,” Bashir said, voice tight. “The IRS is auditing me. They say it’s random—but they already have questions lined up.”

Samir closed his eyes briefly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know,” Bashir said. “That’s what scares me. Someone keeps messing with me.”

“We’ll handle it,” Samir replied. “You’re not alone.”

He ended the call.

Everything was connected now. The car wash. The Bungalows. The house. The pressure.

Maribel’s tablet chimed.

She stopped walking.

“Samir,” she said carefully.

She turned the screen toward him.

A corporate registry profile.

Shell Corporation: Cross Development Holdings

Below it—

A photo.

Adrian Cross stood on the lawn of the house, smiling slightly for a press photo, two thumbs up next to a SOLD sign like it belonged to him.

Because now—it did.

Samir stared.

His phone rang again.

Unknown number.

He answered.

“Mr. Malik,” Adrian Cross said smoothly, “I was wondering when you’d start looking forward instead of back.”

Samir said nothing.

“That car wash idea?” Cross continued. “Inspired. You meet people where they are. I respect that.”

Samir’s voice was even. “You’ve been counting my steps.”

A pause.

“No,” Cross said. “I’ve been walking faster.”

The line went dead.

Samir lowered the phone.

Jalen's eyes were settled on Samir.

"Adrian Cross?" Jalen asked.

Samir gave a single nod. "I need you to do something." He said as he scanned the area.

"Anything." Jalen shot back.

"You know that every week I work in the soup kitchen down at the homeless shelter." Samir began. "Tomorrow... when I'm there... I need you to find my niece."

Jalen nodded with a grunt. "Consider it done."

Around them, the neighborhood sat quietly—houses waiting, people unseen, futures already being priced out.

For the first time, Samir understood the game.

And the clock.