Debt Collector / Season 1, Episode 9
Apex Predator's Debt
The lift doors hissed shut behind Arthur Neave, sealing him into the steel box with the faint hum of machinery and the stale tang of recycled air. Floor 42, Apex Advisory, Canary Wharf—Gavin Rourke’s domain, though the man himself wasn’t here now. Arthur’s reflection stared back at him from the polished metal walls, a gaunt face under harsh fluorescent light, eyes like chipped flint. His suit, charcoal and tailored, hung on him with a precision that spoke of control, but his knuckles whitened around the handle of his leather briefcase. He’d walked out of that last meeting with Rourke two hours ago, the man’s half-truths and deflections still burning under his skin. Rourke knew something—knew who’d framed Jamie, knew why—but he’d danced around it, a smirk tucked behind every polished word. Arthur hadn’t pressed harder then. He didn’t need to. Not yet. The lift ticked downward, numbers blinking in red: 41, 40, 39. His phone buzzed in his breast pocket, a sharp vibration against his chest. He fished it out, the screen glowing with a withheld number. A text, short and clipped: Old Billingsgate. Now. You’ll want this. No signature, no context. The same anonymous summons as before, the same shadow pulling strings. His thumb hovered over the screen, the cold glass biting into his skin. Old Billingsgate—empty at this...