The Million Dollar Janitor

chapter 1 The Discovery

Evan Creed dragged his mop across the grimy floor, the wet slap echoing in the empty hallway. It was past midnight, and the Chicago high-rise loomed dark and quiet around him. At twenty-eight, he felt older—worn down by years of scrubbing toilets for minimum wage. His back ached, his boots squeaked, and his bank account screamed zero. Three bucks left. Rent was due tomorrow, and the landlord’s last text still burned in his pocket: Pay up or pack up.

He pushed the bucket forward, water sloshing over the edge. The penthouse level smelled like money—polished wood, leather, and secrets he’d never touch. Rich folks lived up here, not guys like him.

Evan was just the janitor, invisible, stuck cleaning their messes. Tonight, though, the mess wasn’t just dirt. The billionaire who owned this place, Victor Hale, had died two days ago—heart attack, they said. But Evan had overheard tenants whispering in the elevator: Murder. Poison. Something shady. He didn’t care. Dead or alive, Hale wasn’t paying his bills.

The penthouse door hung open, lights dim. Evan stepped inside, mop in hand. The place was a museum—gold frames, marble floors, a view of the city skyline that mocked his broke life. He started wiping down a desk, grumbling to himself, when his rag snagged on a painting—a big, ugly thing of a guy in a suit. It wobbled, then slid sideways. Evan froze. Behind it, a small safe stared back at him, built into the wall.

“What the heck?” he muttered. His heart thumped. He wasn’t a thief, but curiosity got him. He’d cracked a lock once—something his dad taught him before vanishing years ago. Evan grabbed a paperclip from the desk, bent it, and poked at the safe’s dial. Click. Click. Pop. The door swung open.

Inside sat a burner phone. Cheap, black, no brand. Evan picked it up, frowning. It buzzed in his hand—sharp, like a bee sting. A text lit the screen: You’ve inherited the Syndicate. Claim it or die.

His stomach flipped. “Syndicate? What’s that—gang stuff?” He looked around, expecting a joke. The room stayed quiet, but the words stuck with him. Claim it or die. Was this Hale’s? Some rich prank? Evan’s thumb hovered over the reply button, but his brain spun. He was nobody. Just a janitor. This couldn’t be for him.

Outside, tires screeched. Evan rushed to the window, pulling the curtain. A black SUV sat in the street below, lights off. Two guys in dark coats jumped out, looking around like hunters. One pointed up—straight at the penthouse. Evan’s breath stopped. They weren’t cops. They moved too sneaky, too fast.

“Crap.” He jammed the phone in his pocket and grabbed his mop, heart racing. The safe shut as he ran for the door. The hallway was long and empty, but the elevator dinged—someone was coming. Footsteps hit the floor, loud and quick. Evan dove into the stairwell, holding the mop tight. He didn’t know what “Syndicate” was, but those guys meant trouble.

He flew down the stairs, boots banging concrete. The phone buzzed again. He yanked it out, almost tripping. New text: Run if you want. They’ll find you. Evan cursed. Who was texting? Why him? He hit the ground floor, bursting through a side exit into the alley. Cold air smacked his face, trash cans rattling in the wind. The SUV’s engine roared close—too close.

Evan ducked behind a dumpster, chest pounding. He wasn’t a fighter. He wasn’t rich. He was nothing. But that phone felt like a loaded gun, and those guys were pulling the trigger. Headlights flashed across the alley, tires crunching glass. A voice shouted, “Check the back! He’s here!”

Evan squeezed the mop handle. His dad’s lock trick got him into this—maybe it could get him out. He peeked out. One guy was ten feet away, a gun shining in his hand. Evan’s heart slammed. He had no weapon, just a mop and a crazy text. The phone buzzed again. He checked it quick: Claim it at the docks. Midnight. Or they’ll bury you by dawn.

The guy turned, spotting the dumpster. Evan held still. Midnight was hours off, and he didn’t even know what “it” was. But his old life was done. This Syndicate thing had him now—and it wasn’t letting go.

The guy stepped closer, boots loud on the gravel. “Come out, punk,” he growled.

Evan’s hands shook. He couldn’t fight a gun with a mop. Running meant getting shot in the back. Then he saw it—a loose brick by the dumpster. Small, but solid. He grabbed it, fingers scraping the rough edge. The guy was right there now, close enough to hear him breathe.

Evan jumped up, swinging the brick hard. It smashed the guy’s face with a nasty crack. The thug stumbled, gun dropping. Evan kicked it under the dumpster and bolted. “Hey!” another voice yelled. The second guy ran from the alley’s end, chasing fast. A gunshot rang out, hitting a wall near Evan’s head. He zigzagged, knocking over trash cans to slow them down.

He hit the street, dodging cars and lights. A crowd spilled from a bar—drunk people laughing, not seeing him. Evan slipped in, head low. He glanced back—the second guy pushed through the alley, searching. Evan kept moving, heart in his throat. The phone buzzed again. He pulled it out, hands sweaty. Good hit. Docks. Midnight.

A horn honked. The SUV screeched onto the street, cutting through traffic. Evan ran across, nearly clipped by a cab, and ducked into a narrow side road. His boots splashed puddles, legs burning. He wasn’t built for this—running, fighting. He was a janitor, not a hero. But heroes didn’t get texts like that.

He stopped under a busted streetlight, gasping. The SUV’s lights flashed a block away—they hadn’t spotted him yet. Evan checked the phone. Docks. Midnight. Three hours left. He could ditch it—throw it away and hide. But those guys wouldn’t stop. And something else hit him. Inherited the Syndicate. What if it was real? Money? Power? A way out?

“Over there!” a shout came. The thugs were back, closing in. Evan took off again, cutting through a park. Branches scratched his face, but he kept going. The docks were far, and he had no ride. Just his feet and a brick in his pocket. The SUV’s engine growled louder—they were gaining.

Evan tripped, tumbling into wet grass. He scrambled up, chest heaving. The headlights lit the trees behind him. A shadow moved—close, too close. “Got you,” a rough voice said. Evan turned, brick raised, ready to swing. This was it—fight or fall.