The Business Card That Changed Everything

A story of modern revenge served digitally cold

Our garage opens onto one of those narrow Chicago alleyways that feels like it was designed by someone with a grudge against anyone who owns a car. Tucked behind Murphy’s Liquor & More, it’s barely wide enough for a delivery truck, let alone the parade of entitled drivers who treat our garage door like a convenient parking suggestion rather than, you know, an actual entrance to our home.

After five years of living here, my fiancée Mia and I have developed what we generously call “urban zen” about the situation. We’ve learned to breathe through the frustration when someone blocks us in with their hazard lights blinking, as if that magical orange glow somehow transforms illegal parking into a public service. We’ve perfected the art of polite confrontation and mastered the delicate dance of asking people to move without escalating into full neighborhood warfare.

But on this particular October evening, with autumn rain making the alley slick and the streetlights casting everything in an amber noir glow, our zen was about to be tested by someone who would turn our quiet frustration into something far more strategic.

The Setup

The trouble started, as it often does, with the best of intentions. Mia and I had just picked up my future mother-in-law, Audra, from Union Station. She was visiting us for the first time since Mia and I had gotten engaged, a week-long stay that had prompted a level of apartment cleaning that bordered on the obsessive.

“I just want everything to be perfect,” Mia had said that morning, adjusting the fresh flowers she’d arranged for the third time. “You know how my mother notices everything.”

I did know. Audra Walsh was a retired English professor with the kind of observational skills that could spot a dust bunny from across a room and the vocabulary to describe it in devastating detail. She wasn’t unkind, exactly, but she had standards that seemed to exist in a rarified atmosphere where everything was either “charming” or “concerning,” with very little middle ground.

The drive back from the station had gone well. Audra had complimented the city, asked thoughtful questions about our neighborhood, and seemed genuinely pleased about our engagement. I was starting to relax, thinking that maybe this visit would be easier than I’d anticipated.

That optimism lasted exactly until we turned into our alley and saw the familiar silhouette of a car parked directly in front of our garage door.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I muttered, putting our car in park and feeling that familiar knot of frustration settle in my stomach.

But this wasn’t just any inconsiderate driver. I recognized that car—a black BMW 3 Series with custom rims that probably cost more than my monthly rent. I recognized it because I’d seen it at my mother’s company holiday party six months earlier, where it had been parked across two spaces in the lot, as if following traffic laws was optional for people with German engineering.

“Of course it’s Logan,” I said, more to myself than to anyone else.

“Who’s Logan?” Audra asked from the backseat, her voice carrying that particular note of polite curiosity that suggested she was already filing this information away for future reference.

“Just… someone I know,” I replied, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice.

Logan Mercer was one of those people who seemed to have been specifically designed to test your faith in humanity. I’d met him at my mother’s office Christmas party, where he’d cornered me near the coat check with a whiskey in one hand and a business philosophy in the other. He was the kind of person who wore a velvet blazer unironically and described himself as a “creative disruptor” while running what was essentially a one-man operation out of a shared workspace downtown.

“I’m building an empire,” he had told me that night, gesturing expansively with his drink. “Architectural visualization is just the beginning. I’m revolutionizing how people experience space.”

What he actually did, as far as I could tell, was create 3D renderings of buildings for real estate developers and call it “experiential design consulting.” His business cards—which he distributed with the enthusiasm of a political candidate—described him as a “Creative Consultant” and “Spatial Storyteller,” titles that managed to sound both important and completely meaningless.

The Confrontation

As if summoned by my recognition of his car, Logan emerged from Murphy’s Liquor & More with the casual confidence of someone who had never doubted his right to occupy any space he chose. He was carrying a can of hard iced tea and wearing that same velvet blazer, despite the October chill. When he saw our car, his face broke into the kind of smile that suggested he viewed this encounter as entertainment rather than inconvenience.

“Paul!” he called out, raising his can in a mock toast. “Small world, man. Small world.”

I got out of our car, very aware that both Mia and Audra were watching through the windows. The last thing I wanted was to create a scene in front of my future mother-in-law, but I also wasn’t about to let Logan turn our homecoming into his personal theater.

“Hey, Logan,” I said, keeping my voice level and polite. “You’re blocking our garage. Could you move your car, please?”

He took a long, deliberate sip of his drink, as if he were considering a complex philosophical question rather than a simple request.

“Chill out, Paul,” he said, drawing out my name like he was talking to a child. “I’ll move in a minute. Let me finish my drink first.”

“It would take you thirty seconds to move the car,” I replied. “You can finish your drink after you’re not blocking someone’s driveway.”

Logan’s expression shifted slightly, and I could see him recalibrating for a different kind of performance. He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the alcohol on his breath—apparently the iced tea wasn’t his first drink of the evening.

“Relax, man,” he said, his voice taking on that particular edge that people use when they want to sound reasonable while being anything but. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. I own my time, I own my space. This is a public alley.”

“Actually, it’s not,” I said, pulling out my phone to show him the no-parking signs posted at both ends of the alley. “And you’re blocking a private driveway.”

That seemed to flip some kind of switch in Logan’s brain. His casual arrogance hardened into something more aggressive, and his voice rose loud enough to echo off the brick walls around us.

“Are you trying to intimidate me, Paul?” he asked, puffing out his chest like a territorial bird. “Because that’s not going to work. You think I’m scared of you? Look at you, man. You’re all gentle and housebroken. You probably asked permission before you got engaged.”

I heard the passenger door of our car open, and Mia stepped out with her phone already in her hand.

“Paul, let’s just call the police,” she said, her voice calm but firm.

“Oh, that’s cute,” Logan said, turning his attention to Mia with a condescending smile. “Let me guess—you trained him well, didn’t you? Does he always hide behind his girlfriend?”

That’s when he made his first real mistake. He placed his hand on my chest and gave me a small shove—not hard enough to knock me down, but aggressive enough to cross the line from verbal harassment into physical confrontation.

So I did exactly what Mia had suggested. I pulled out my phone and called 911, speaking clearly and calmly to the dispatcher while Logan continued his performance.

“I’d like to report someone blocking my driveway and becoming physically aggressive,” I said. “He’s been drinking and he just pushed me.”

That’s when Logan made his second mistake. Instead of backing down or trying to defuse the situation, he decided to double down on crazy.

“Oh my God!” he shouted, loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood. “This man is assaulting me! He’s threatening me! I feel unsafe!”

He began pacing back and forth, gesturing wildly and speaking in the kind of theatrical voice that suggested he thought he was performing Shakespeare rather than having a breakdown in an alley. Mia, with the presence of mind that made me fall in love with her in the first place, started recording the entire scene on her phone.

“Sir, I haven’t touched you,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “You’re the one who pushed me.”

“That’s not what happened!” Logan screamed. “You lunged at me! I was defending myself!”

It was such a blatant fabrication that I almost laughed. Almost. But I could see Audra’s face through the rear window of our car, her expression a mixture of concern and barely concealed horror at the spectacle unfolding in front of her.

The Cavalry Arrives

Chicago police response times in our neighborhood are usually somewhere between “eventually” and “next Tuesday,” but apparently a report of a drunk person having a meltdown in an alley gets priority treatment. Two patrol cars arrived within five minutes, their red and blue lights turning the narrow alley into a mobile disco.

Logan’s demeanor changed instantly. The theatrical fury disappeared, replaced by the kind of practiced charm that suggested he’d talked his way out of trouble before. He straightened his blazer, ran a hand through his hair, and approached the officers with the confident stride of someone who believed his own bullshit.

“Officers, thank you for coming,” he said, his voice now perfectly reasonable and slightly concerned. “I was just trying to leave when this man became aggressive with me. As you can see, I’m blocked in by his car.”

It was a masterful performance—the kind of smooth deflection that might have worked if we lived in a world without smartphones and witnesses.

The first officer, a woman in her forties with the patient expression of someone who had seen every possible variation of human stupidity, looked from Logan to me to our car, which was clearly parked legally in front of our own garage.

“Sir,” she said to Logan, “your vehicle is blocking a private driveway. That’s illegal parking.”

“I was just running into the store for a minute,” Logan protested. “I had my hazards on.”

“Hazard lights don’t make illegal parking legal,” the second officer observed. “And sir, have you been drinking tonight?”

Logan’s eyes darted between the officers, and I could see him calculating his next move. He glanced at the can of hard iced tea in his hand as if he’d forgotten it was there.

“This?” he said, holding up the can. “Oh, I… I found this on the ground. I was going to recycle it. I don’t drink and drive, officers. I’m very responsible.”

Mia stepped forward and handed her phone to the first officer. “I recorded the entire interaction,” she said. “He admitted to drinking, pushed my fiancé, and then started screaming about being assaulted.”

The officers watched the video in silence. Even without sound, Logan’s aggressive behavior was obvious, as was the moment when he shoved me. When they finished watching, they asked Logan to step away from his car for a field sobriety test.

He passed—barely. His blood alcohol level was just under the legal limit, enough to explain his behavior but not enough to arrest him for drunk driving. The officers issued him a warning for illegal parking and disorderly conduct, with the clear understanding that next time he wouldn’t be so lucky.

“Consider this your wake-up call,” the first officer told him. “Next time we won’t be so understanding.”

Logan nodded and apologized with the kind of theatrical sincerity that fooled no one. He got into his car, started the engine, and began to back out of the alley. But as he passed our car, he slowed down, rolled down his window, and made his third and final mistake.

With a flourish that suggested he thought he was delivering the perfect closing line, he flicked his wrist and tossed something at my feet. It fluttered through the air like a black leaf before landing on the wet asphalt.

“Don’t forget my name, Paul!” he called out as he drove away. “Remember how I talked my way out of that? That’s what happens when you mess with someone who knows how the world really works!”

The Gift

I bent down and picked up what Logan had thrown at me. It was his business card—expensive black cardstock with raised lettering that probably cost more per card than I spent on lunch. The design was aggressively modern, all sharp angles and sans-serif fonts, with his contact information laid out like a manifesto:

LOGAN MERCER
Architectural Visualizer
Creative Consultant
Spatial Storyteller

Below his name were his phone number, email address, website URL, and—most helpfully—a link to his downloadable résumé.

It was the kind of business card that screamed “I take myself very seriously and you should too.” The kind of card that someone throws around at networking events, convinced that their personal brand is so powerful it will open doors and change minds. The kind of card that Logan probably carried everywhere, ready to transform any interaction into a professional opportunity.

But as I stood there in the alley, looking at Logan’s contact information gleaming under the streetlights, I realized he had just made a critical error in judgment. He had given me something far more valuable than he intended: access.

“Are you okay?” Audra asked as I helped her out of the car. Her voice was carefully controlled, but I could see the concern in her eyes.

“I’m fine,” I said, slipping the business card into my pocket. “Just some people never learned how to share space with others.”

Mia took my arm as we walked to our front door. “I can’t believe he threw his business card at you. What kind of person does that?”

“The kind of person who thinks everything is about building their brand,” I replied. “Even public meltdowns.”

We spent the rest of the evening trying to salvage what was supposed to be a welcoming dinner for Audra. Mia reheated the pasta she had made earlier, I threw together a salad, and we opened a bottle of wine while we told sanitized versions of neighborhood stories that wouldn’t make Audra question our choice of residence.

But throughout dinner, I found myself thinking about that business card. Logan had meant it as a final gesture of dominance, a way of saying “remember who you’re dealing with.” What he had actually done was hand me a complete dossier of his professional life, served with a side of arrogance that practically begged for consequences.

The Research Phase

After Audra went to bed and Mia settled in to grade papers (she taught middle school English, a job that required the patience of a saint and the organizational skills of a military strategist), I poured myself a glass of wine and fired up my laptop.

I work in database management for a mid-sized consulting firm, which means I spend my days thinking about how information flows through systems, how databases talk to each other, and how user input gets processed and stored. It’s not glamorous work, but it has given me a deep appreciation for how interconnected our digital lives really are.

Logan’s business card was like a roadmap to his online presence. His website was a masterpiece of self-promotion—sleek galleries of architectural renderings, testimonials from clients who described him as “visionary” and “transformative,” and a bio that managed to make creating 3D models sound like performance art.

But more interesting than his website was his downloadable résumé. Logan, in his infinite confidence, had made his entire professional history available to anyone with an internet connection. It was a beautifully designed document that laid out his education, work experience, skills, and references in exhaustive detail.

And that’s when the idea began to form.

Logan clearly thought of himself as a creative genius trapped in a world that didn’t appreciate true innovation. His résumé painted a picture of someone destined for greatness, someone whose talents were being wasted on mundane commercial projects. He listed skills like “experiential design leadership” and “spatial narrative development” with the kind of grandiose language that made my marketing team sound modest by comparison.

But here’s the thing about the modern job market: it’s driven by algorithms and keywords and application volume. Most companies use automated systems to filter through hundreds of applications, looking for specific qualifications and experience markers. And those systems don’t care about your personal brand or your creative vision—they care about whether you can stock shelves or operate a cash register or answer phones with a smile.

Logan had given me his résumé, his contact information, and his complete professional profile. He had essentially handed me the keys to his digital identity, wrapped in expensive cardstock and delivered with a sneer.

I spent the next hour browsing job search websites, familiarizing myself with the application processes for various entry-level positions around Chicago. Retail stores, fast food chains, call centers, warehouse operations—the kind of jobs that Logan had probably never considered in his entire privileged life.

The beautiful irony was that I wouldn’t need to lie or fabricate anything. I would use Logan’s actual résumé, his real contact information, his genuine qualifications. I would simply… redirect his career aspirations toward opportunities that might broaden his perspective on the working world.

The Campaign

Over the next two weeks, I developed what I came to think of as “The Logan Project.” Every evening after dinner, after Mia had finished her lesson planning and Audra had retired to our guest room with a book, I would open my laptop and spend an hour applying for jobs on Logan’s behalf.

I started with retail positions—sales associate roles at clothing stores, customer service positions at electronics retailers, cashier openings at grocery chains. I filled out each application with meticulous attention to detail, using Logan’s exact qualifications and experience but tailoring the cover letters to emphasize his “people skills” and “flexible schedule.”

For a position at a high-end department store, I wrote: “My background in spatial design has given me a unique understanding of how customers interact with retail environments. I’m excited about the opportunity to apply this knowledge to creating exceptional shopping experiences.”

For a grocery store cashier position: “My attention to detail and commitment to excellence would make me an ideal candidate for ensuring accurate transactions and positive customer interactions.”

The applications themselves were works of art. I spent time crafting responses that sounded enthusiastic without being obviously fake, professional without being pretentious. I emphasized Logan’s “creative problem-solving skills” and his “ability to work in fast-paced environments,” qualities that were technically true based on his résumé but would serve him well in very different contexts than he was used to.

What made the whole project particularly satisfying was that Logan’s own résumé worked against him. His extensive education and professional experience made him appear overqualified for most entry-level positions, which meant hiring managers would either assume he was desperate (and therefore worth interviewing) or that he was slumming until something better came along (and therefore worth interviewing to see what his story was).

I applied to movie theaters, coffee shops, bookstores, and fast food restaurants. I submitted applications to call centers, delivery services, and retail chains. I even applied for a few positions that required weekend and evening hours, knowing that Logan’s current lifestyle probably didn’t accommodate working nights at a convenience store.

Each application included his real phone number, his actual email address, and his legitimate professional references. I wasn’t creating fake information—I was simply expanding his job search beyond the narrow parameters of his ego.

The cover letters were my favorite part. For a position at a pet store, I wrote about Logan’s “passion for creating environments where both humans and animals can thrive.” For a movie theater job, I emphasized his “understanding of how spatial design influences audience experience.” Every letter was technically truthful while being completely inappropriate for his actual career goals.

By the end of the second week, I had submitted eighty-seven applications across forty-three different companies. Logan Mercer, Spatial Storyteller and Creative Consultant, was now officially in the running for positions ranging from sandwich artist to warehouse associate to customer service representative.

The Waiting Game

The beauty of my plan was that it required no ongoing effort from me. I had simply planted seeds in the vast ecosystem of Chicago’s service economy and could now sit back and watch them grow. Hiring managers would review applications, automated systems would send confirmation emails, and HR departments would schedule interviews according to their own timelines.

Meanwhile, I returned to my normal life. Audra’s visit concluded successfully—she pronounced our apartment “charming” and our relationship “quite solid,” which in her vocabulary was practically a ringing endorsement. Mia and I fell back into our routine of work, dinners out, and quiet evenings at home.

I didn’t think about Logan every day, but when I did, I found myself imagining his confusion as his phone began ringing with unexpected opportunities. I pictured him staring at emails from companies he’d never heard of, wondering how his information had ended up in their databases.

The first confirmation came about three weeks after my application blitz. Mia and I were having coffee on a Saturday morning when my mother called with neighborhood gossip.

“You remember Logan, don’t you?” she asked without preamble. “Diane’s son from my office?”

“Sure,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. “What about him?”

“Well, apparently he’s been having some kind of technological breakdown. Diane says he’s been getting flooded with job offers, but not the kind of jobs he usually goes for.”

I set down my coffee cup carefully. “What kind of jobs?”

“Retail mostly. Fast food places. She said he got a call from a movie theater last week asking him to come in for an interview, and he thought it was about some kind of architectural consulting project. Turns out they wanted him to work the concession stand.”

I could hear the amusement in my mother’s voice. Diane was Logan’s mother, a perfectly nice woman who worked in my mother’s accounting department and had the misfortune of having raised a son who thought the world owed him a living.

“That’s… weird,” I said.

“Diane thinks someone might be playing a prank on him. Either that or there’s some kind of glitch in the job search websites. She said Logan’s been trying to figure out how his résumé ended up on all these applications he doesn’t remember submitting.”

“Technology can be unpredictable,” I agreed.

“Honestly, it might be good for him,” my mother continued. “That boy has always thought he was too good for regular work. Maybe getting some perspective on how the other half lives would do him some good.”

After I hung up, Mia looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Logan’s getting job offers?”

“Apparently so,” I said, returning to my coffee with what I hoped was an innocent expression.

“For jobs he didn’t apply for?”

“That’s what it sounds like.”

Mia studied my face for a moment, and I could see her working through the timeline in her head. “Paul, you didn’t…”

“Didn’t what?”

“You know what.”

I took a long sip of coffee, buying myself time to construct a response that was technically truthful. “I have no idea how Logan’s résumé ended up on job search websites.”

Which was accurate—I hadn’t put his résumé on any websites. I had simply used the information he provided to apply for specific positions that I thought might interest him.

Mia shook her head but didn’t pursue the topic further. She knew me well enough to recognize when I was parsing my words carefully, and she was smart enough to understand that sometimes it was better not to ask for details.

The Fallout

Over the next month, the reports from my mother became a regular source of entertainment. Logan’s situation had apparently escalated from amusing inconvenience to full-blown crisis management.

“Diane says he’s been getting five or six calls a day,” my mother told me during one of our weekly check-ins. “Pizza places, retail stores, some kind of telemarketing company. She said he spent an entire afternoon trying to figure out if someone had hacked his email account.”

“Did he find anything?”

“Nothing. All the applications look legitimate, like he actually submitted them himself. But he swears he doesn’t remember applying for any of these jobs.”

I made sympathetic noises while privately marveling at Logan’s inability to consider that someone might have used his publicly available information against him. For someone who claimed to understand how systems worked, he seemed remarkably clueless about the implications of making his entire professional life accessible through a simple download link.

“The funniest part,” my mother continued, “is that some of these places are actually calling him back for second interviews. Apparently he’s very qualified for retail management positions, given his background in client services and project management.”

That was an aspect of the plan I hadn’t fully anticipated. Logan’s actual experience, translated into retail terms, did make him an attractive candidate for certain positions. His education and professional background suggested someone who could handle responsibility and deal with customers, qualities that many service industry employers struggled to find.

“Has he considered that maybe this is the universe’s way of telling him to broaden his horizons?” I asked.

“Oh, you know Logan. He thinks this is all beneath him. Diane said he referred to it as ‘economic harassment’ and threatened to sue someone, though he’s not sure who.”

The image of Logan pacing around his apartment, fielding calls from assistant managers at chain restaurants and trying to figure out who to blame for his predicament, filled me with a warm sense of satisfaction. He had thrown his business card at me as a gesture of superiority, confident that his name and credentials would intimidate me into backing down. Instead, he had handed me the tools to dismantle his carefully constructed professional persona one phone call at a time.

But the real confirmation that my plan was working came during a family dinner in late November. Mia and I were at my parents’ house for our monthly meal, sharing updates about work and wedding planning, when my mother casually mentioned that Logan had gone offline.

“Diane says he shut down his website,” she said as she passed the mashed potatoes. “And he made all his social media accounts private. Apparently all the job calls were affecting his ability to conduct business.”

“Really?” I said, accepting the potatoes with what I hoped was an expression of mild interest rather than triumphant satisfaction.

“She said potential clients were calling the number on his business cards and getting voicemail messages about retail applications and interview scheduling. It was confusing his professional contacts.”

Mia glanced at me across the table, and I could see her struggling not to smile. “That must be frustrating for him.”

“Oh, Diane’s beside herself,” my mother continued. “She said Logan’s been having anxiety attacks about his ‘brand reputation’ and his ‘digital footprint.’ He hired some kind of consultant to help him figure out how to ‘rehabilitate his online presence.'”

The idea that Logan—a man who had spent months lecturing people about “digital disruption” and “brand management”—had been forced to hire someone to clean up the mess created by his own arrogance was almost too perfect to believe.

“I hope he figures it out,” I said, though privately I hoped nothing of the sort.

The Resolution

By Christmas, the Logan situation had quietly resolved itself. According to my mother, he had largely disappeared from the Chicago professional scene, possibly relocating to another city where his name wasn’t associated with a mysterious flood of service industry job applications.

“Diane says he’s taking some time to ‘reassess his career trajectory,'” my mother reported during our holiday gathering. “She thinks he might be working for a company in Milwaukee now, but she’s not sure. He’s been very vague about his current situation.”

I nodded sympathetically while cutting myself another slice of ham. The truth was, I had stopped thinking about Logan weeks earlier. Once I confirmed that my plan had achieved its intended effect—forcing him to confront the consequences of his arrogance—I had moved on to more important things, like planning my wedding and focusing on my actual career.

But that evening, as Mia and I walked home through the quiet streets of our neighborhood, she finally asked the question I had been expecting for months.

“You did it, didn’t you?”

“Did what?”

“Don’t play dumb, Paul. You used Logan’s business card to sign him up for all those jobs.”

I considered denying it, but Mia knew me too well for elaborate deceptions. “I may have helped expand his employment opportunities.”

“Using information he gave you voluntarily.”

“Technically, he threw it at me. But yes, I used publicly available information to submit job applications on his behalf.”

Mia was quiet for a moment, processing this confirmation of what she had probably suspected all along.

“Do you feel bad about it?”

I thought about the question seriously. Did I feel guilty about using Logan’s own arrogance against him? About forcing him to experience the consequences of treating other people like obstacles to his personal ambitions?

“No,” I said finally. “I don’t feel bad at all.”

“Good,” Mia said, taking my arm. “Because that was brilliant.”

Epilogue: Lessons in Karma

Six months later, as I was cleaning out old files from my desk, I found Logan’s business card tucked into a folder of miscellaneous papers. The expensive cardstock had lost its luster, and the raised lettering that had once seemed so impressive now looked pretentious and overdone.

I held the card up to the light, remembering the moment Logan had flicked it at my feet with such theatrical contempt. He had intended it as a final insult, a way of asserting his superiority even in defeat. What he had actually done was provide me with everything I needed to turn his own professional tools against him.

The lesson, I realized, wasn’t about revenge or getting even with people who wronged you. It was about understanding that in our hyper-connected digital age, information is power, and the people who throw that information around carelessly are often the ones most vulnerable to having it used against them.

Logan had built his entire professional identity around the idea that he was smarter and more sophisticated than everyone else. He had created elaborate online portfolios and downloadable résumés because he was convinced that his credentials would open doors and impress potential clients. He had never considered that those same tools could be used to redirect his career in directions he never intended to explore.

In the end, the most satisfying part of the whole experience wasn’t Logan’s professional downfall—it was the knowledge that he had orchestrated it himself. Every application I submitted used his real qualifications, his actual contact information, and his genuine professional experience. I hadn’t lied or fabricated anything; I had simply helped the market discover opportunities that aligned with his skill set, even if they didn’t align with his ego.

I dropped the business card into my trash can and returned to my work, secure in the knowledge that sometimes the best revenge is simply giving people exactly what they’ve asked for, even when they’re too arrogant to realize they’ve asked for it.

And if Logan ever decides to throw another business card at someone in a fit of entitled rage, I hope they remember that information shared in anger can become power held in patience. Sometimes karma doesn’t strike like lightning—sometimes it works like a database query, processing information systematically until it returns exactly the results you deserve.

This story explores themes of modern digital vulnerability, workplace entitlement, and the unexpected ways that our interconnected world can hold people accountable for their actions. While the revenge was elaborate, it was entirely legal and used only information that Logan had made publicly available, serving as a cautionary tale about the importance of thinking carefully about what we share and how we treat others in an increasingly connected world.