Chapter 6: The Benji Problem
Benji Donovan's soda company was called Artisan Elixirs. The name alone told me everything I needed to know about the target demographic: people who paid eight dollars for craft beverages and thought it made them interesting.
I spent the morning at Fin's laptop, digging through public records.
The company was incorporated three years ago. Initial funding came from Benji's family—old money, based on the property records linked to the Donovan name. Press coverage was mixed: enthusiastic puff pieces in lifestyle blogs, skeptical analysis in business publications.
The financials told the real story.
Artisan Elixirs had burned through its startup capital in eighteen months. Two rounds of additional funding—smaller each time—had kept the lights on. But the latest SEC filings showed negative cash flow, mounting debt, and a revenue curve that looked like a ski slope.
Benji wasn't running a company. He was running a vanity project on borrowed time.
I leaned back in the chair, letting the data settle.
Joe would kill Benji to remove an obstacle. That was the likely outcome if things proceeded normally. But what if Benji removed himself?
A failing business needed a savior. Someone with money and interest. Someone far enough away that Benji would have to relocate.
I started searching.
Business news, beverage industry, acquisitions. Most results were corporate giants buying each other—not useful. But buried in the trade publications, I found something.
Pacific Grove Distributors—a Los Angeles-based company specializing in premium beverages—had announced interest in acquiring small artisan brands. The article quoted their CEO: "We're looking for authentic products with passionate founders."
Passionate founders. That was code for "people we can buy out and rebrand."
I checked the company website. Contact form for business inquiries. Email address for their acquisitions team.
The plan formed quickly.
A burner email account took five minutes to create. Anonymous, untraceable, the kind of thing that would dead-end any investigation.
Subject: Acquisition Opportunity – NYC Artisan Beverage Brand
To whom it may concern,
I'm a former employee of Artisan Elixirs, a Brooklyn-based craft soda company. I believe the founder would be receptive to acquisition offers, though he hasn't publicly announced interest in selling.
The brand has strong recognition in the NYC market and could benefit from West Coast distribution. The founder is young, ambitious, and might welcome a fresh start.
Consider reaching out directly.
I attached the company's public contact information and hit send.
Seeds planted. Now I needed to watch them grow.
Benji's office was in Williamsburg—a converted warehouse space shared with other startups. The kind of place that had exposed brick and craft coffee but couldn't afford heat in winter.
I found a café across the street with good sightlines and settled in for observation.
Pattern Recognition was the goal today. I'd felt it activate briefly before—dots connecting without conscious effort—but I wanted to push it further.
The office had large windows. I could see employees moving inside, Benji's glass-walled private office in the corner. He arrived at 10:23, an hour late based on everyone else's schedule. Took a call immediately, feet on desk, laughing at something.
I let my attention soften. Stopped actively watching and started... absorbing.
By noon, patterns emerged.
The assistant—young woman, nervous energy—arrived at 8:15 every day. Always brought Benji coffee whether he was there or not. First sign of devotion or desperation.
The CFO—older man, stressed posture—had worn interview clothes twice this week. Thursday and today. Looking for an exit.
Benji treated his employees like furniture. Didn't acknowledge them in the hallway. Interrupted conversations to make demands. Classic narcissist behavior, the kind that hollowed companies from the inside.
But the most interesting pattern was the delivery schedule.
Three times during my observation, the same courier arrived. Same company logo, same boxes—supplies, probably, or raw ingredients. The courier knew the assistant by name. Chatted for a minute each time.
That relationship could be useful. Information flow. Access.
I filed it in the Memory Palace and kept watching.
By mid-afternoon, my neck ached from hunching over the café table. The coffee had gone cold hours ago.
I stretched, rolling tension out of my shoulders, and checked my phone. No response from Pacific Grove yet—too soon. These things took time.
But time was something I might not have.
Joe's stalking of Beck had been at least a week before I started surveillance. That meant he'd already built baseline data: her schedule, her routines, her vulnerabilities. He knew about Benji—had to. A boyfriend was always the first obstacle cataloged.
The question was timeline. How long until Joe decided Benji needed to go?
Impossible to know without more data on Joe's patterns.
My Detection didn't help here. It showed me intent, not planning. Joe could be plotting murder for months and I wouldn't feel it until he was ready to act.
I needed to get closer. Watch Joe more carefully. Learn his tells.
But that risked exposure. Every minute spent near Joe was a minute he might notice me, remember me, wonder why the same guy kept appearing in his orbit.
The Social Invisibility helped. I'd proven that yesterday. But it wasn't perfect. One wrong move, one moment of direct eye contact held too long, and I'd go from background to target.
Careful. I had to be so careful.
I left the café at four. Walked to a thrift store I'd spotted yesterday, looking for practical purchases.
Fin's wardrobe was limited. Three t-shirts, two button-downs, one jacket. I'd been rotating through them like a cartoon character.
The thrift store smelled like dust and old fabric. Racks of donated clothes organized by color, nothing by size. I browsed methodically, checking tags, holding items up for assessment.
Two shirts made the cut. A blue oxford that fit perfectly across the shoulders. A gray henley that was slightly too tight but looked intentional.
The oxford was a win. The henley went back on the rack after I caught my reflection—Fin's body was lean enough to pull it off, but barely. Fitted clothes drew attention. Attention was the opposite of what I needed.
I bought the oxford and a plain black t-shirt that would disappear into any crowd. Total cost: fourteen dollars. Budget maintained.
Outside, the afternoon had turned cool. I shrugged into Fin's jacket and started walking.
The email to Pacific Grove might take days to produce results. Maybe weeks. Maybe nothing would come of it at all.
I needed backup plans.
What would make Benji leave voluntarily? Money was the obvious lever, but I couldn't manufacture that. The LA acquisition was my best shot at combining financial incentive with geographic removal.
What else?
Scandal. If something damaged Artisan Elixirs' reputation badly enough, Benji might cut and run rather than face the fallout.
But manufacturing scandal was risky. Unpredictable. Might backfire, might not work at all.
Direct approach. Just talk to him. Convince him to leave.
That felt wrong too. What would I say? "Hey, leave town because a stalker is going to kill you"? He'd think I was insane.
The indirect approach was better. Manipulation through circumstance. Create conditions where leaving seemed like Benji's own idea.
Pacific Grove was the cleanest version of that. An acquisition offer, a pile of money, a fresh start in LA. Benji's ego would love it—validation of his "vision" from a bigger company.
All I had to do was make sure the offer came before Joe made his move.
I walked until the streetlights came on. The city transformed around me—day shift leaving, night shift arriving. Different energy after dark. Hungry.
My Detection picked up flickers. Nothing serious. The usual urban friction.
But somewhere out there, Joe Goldberg was watching Beck. Maybe right now. Maybe planning how to eliminate the boyfriend who stood in his way.
I had to move faster.
Back at the apartment, I checked email first. Nothing from Pacific Grove. Expected but disappointing.
The laptop screen glowed in the dark room. I should eat, should sleep, should let the body rest.
Instead, I opened a new document and started planning.
Benji Donovan – Removal Strategy
Primary: LA acquisition (in progress) Secondary: Professional opportunity elsewhere Tertiary: Direct intervention (last resort)
Timeline concerns: - Joe's stalking minimum 1 week ahead - Benji = obstacle = target - Estimated window: 2-4 weeks before escalation
Variables I don't control: - Pacific Grove's interest level - Benji's willingness to sell - Joe's specific timeline
Variables I do control: - Information flow to Pacific Grove - Surveillance of Joe - Positioning for direct intervention if needed
I read it back. Not enough. Too many unknowns.
The Detection told me Joe was dangerous but not when. The Memory Palace gave me perfect recall but not prediction. The Pattern Recognition was new, weak, still developing.
I was fighting blind against an enemy who'd been doing this for years.
But I had something Joe didn't: knowledge that he was hunting. Awareness of his patterns. The ability to anticipate moves he thought were invisible.
That had to be enough.
The email account showed a delivery notification. Confirmation that my message to Pacific Grove had been received.
Step one complete. Now I waited.
I closed the laptop and stared at the dark ceiling.
Tomorrow, back to surveillance. Watch Joe, watch Beck, watch for any sign that things were accelerating.
The race was on.
Somewhere in Brooklyn, Benji Donovan was sleeping in expensive sheets, dreaming about his failing company, unaware that two men had him on their radar.
One wanted him dead.
One wanted him gone.
The outcome depended on who moved first.
I rolled over, pulled the thin blanket up, and closed my eyes.
The email was out there, working its way through corporate bureaucracy. Maybe someone would read it tomorrow. Maybe someone would see opportunity.
Or maybe Benji would die before any of it mattered, and I'd feel my power drain away like water through a crack.
Sleep came eventually, broken by dreams I couldn't remember.
When the alarm buzzed at six, I was already awake.
Time to go back to work.
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