The old man did not accept George’s name immediately.

He kept the thin file open on his lap and read the same page twice. Idris, Sella, and Brant stood in front of him inside the hotel suite. None of them spoke too quickly. The last time they had moved with confidence, Tobin had slipped away, Harlan had died, and Rust Gate had returned to the side they were trying to break.

"Someone may be feeding us this name," the old man said.

Sella nodded. "It could be."

"Then check it," he said. "I don’t want to run after a name someone dropped in front of us. Road, police timing, Maren. If George touches even one of them, we move."

Idris lowered his head. "What about the Tobin rumor?"

"Too thin," the old man said at once. "Leave Tobin out for now. Give me roads, police, and money. Rumors can wait."

That order shaped the next day.

World Zone did not go to George directly. They moved through small people first. A clerk near the freight office. A night guard at a transport yard. A broker who arranged warehouse space for men who did not like signing clean papers. Each one had heard something different, and none of it was enough by itself.

But Rovan had already prepared the ground.

He had not built a neat confession. That would have looked fake too quickly. He had only moved old notes, left questions where the wrong eyes could find them, and let men who already sold information add their own fear around the gaps.

At the police station, one old movement note had been allowed to sit in the wrong file. It mentioned a road diversion request near the forest road on the same week Maren’s convoy was hit. The request had not been signed by George himself. It was only marked with the code of a Malani Logistics subcontractor.

At a freight yard, Brant found another piece. A gate record showed a Malani contractor truck entering a storage lane two nights before the attack. The truck had carried empty crates, nothing illegal, but the timing was enough to make the page useful.

There was also a payment list from an old road maintenance file. It did not say bribe. It only showed small service payments made through a company that handled repairs for Malani’s outer yards. One of those names also appeared in an old patrol duty sheet near the forest road.

That was how Rovan had built it. Not one strong proof. Several weak pieces placed close enough that a hungry investigator would join them by himself.

Then the broker added the third piece.

"Small gangs can scare a driver," the broker said after Idris placed money on the table. "They can block one truck for one night. George can make a patrol look away. Permits, night routes, storage lanes. That is his business."

"Are you saying George arranged Maren’s death?" Idris asked.

The broker shook his head quickly. "I am saying he could. That is all I know."

It was different, but not useless.

Idris did not fully trust the broker, but the answer matched the other scraps too well to ignore.

By evening, Idris placed the gathered pages in front of the old man. There was no direct confession or clean proof. There was only a pattern that pointed upward instead of sideways.

The old man read everything without changing expression.

"A subcontractor near the forest road, police timing that smells managed, and a broker saying George can move routes." He closed the file. "It is not proof, but it is enough."

Sella folded her arms. "Even if he is clean, he will react when we squeeze him."

"Good," the old man said. "If he is guilty, he will slip. If he is only close to the real hand, someone behind him will twitch."

Brant asked, "How far?"

The old man’s eyes became colder.

"Rust Gate made us look weak. Harlan is dead, and Tobin is still standing." He tapped the file once. "Put pressure on George. Quietly. Yards, contractors, routes. I want him looking over his shoulder by morning."

The next part moved faster.

World Zone mapped Malani Company through the public face first. It was not only one office. Malani Logistics owned small transport yards, rented warehouse space, used private contractors, and handled freight for companies that did not want delays. Around that public body were smaller private lines, men who arranged favors, and drivers who knew which roads stayed quiet after dark.

They did not need to understand the whole company in one night. They only needed the soft edges. The places where George did not stand personally, but where his name still protected money. A small yard could burn without bringing the full city down. A contractor could be frightened without forcing George to run to television. That was the kind of pressure the old man wanted first.

That made the first target simple.

Near midnight, two men entered a transport annex on the edge of the industrial belt. The place held parked vans, spare tires, packing sheets, and fuel drums locked behind a metal cage. One guard was pulled away by a fake call at the side gate. Another was struck from behind before he could shout.

The fire started small.

It spread faster than the men expected.

By the time the first worker saw smoke, flames had already climbed the stacked packing sheets and reached the old roof insulation. Sirens sounded inside the yard. Men ran out with extinguishers, shouting over each other while black smoke rolled above the annex.

At the same time, two of George’s contractors received visits.

One was told that the next Malani shipment he touched would cost him his warehouse. The other found his driver beaten and left beside an empty truck with a warning folded into his pocket.

No one said World Zone’s name.

They did not need to.

By dawn, the transport annex was half burned, two contractors had stopped answering Malani calls, and the first pressure had reached George’s network.