The first week of Reclaim Digital's launch had been electric—a whirlwind of progress, positive feedback, and enough dopamine from small wins to power both Ryan and Dylan through sleepless nights. For the first time in a long time, Ryan felt like he was building something that mattered. But for every high, there came a quiet, creeping cost.
By Wednesday, that cost began to show.
Ryan had averaged less than four hours of sleep per night since launch. The excitement he once felt with each sale had been replaced with an anxious need to stay ahead, to control every variable. Orders had to be packed perfectly. Listings had to be airtight. Every customer message, every metric, every uptick or dip in visibility set off an alert in Ryan's brain.
He was wired. Overclocked. And increasingly brittle.
---
"You okay, man?" Dylan asked, sliding into the cafeteria seat beside him and offering a chilled bottle of green tea.
Ryan gave a tight smile. "Running on fumes. But we're up seven percent in views."
"Dude, I love your energy, but you're looking... haunted. You sleep at all last night?"
"Three hours. Maybe. I had a dream I was stuffing packing peanuts into a time bomb."
Dylan raised an eyebrow. "Your subconscious is trying to send a fax."
Ryan took a sip of tea and exhaled. "I just want to make sure we don't fall behind. You know Jordan's watching."
Dylan didn't need convincing. Jordan Vance hadn't made a direct move in days, but Ryan felt the tension like static in the air. And right on cue, Dylan pulled out his phone and slid it across the table.
"Another listing flagged. Mega Man X."
Ryan scanned the alert.
"Listing removed: Alleged counterfeit. Buyer concern reported."
Ryan gritted his teeth. "It was authentic. I filmed myself opening the cartridge. Showed the board serial."
"I know. This is targeted. I appealed, but eBay still pulled it."
"We need a strike log," Ryan said, already opening a shared document. "Timestamp every removal, every flag, every bad interaction. If we can prove this is coordinated, we might be able to escalate to support."
Dylan nodded. "And I'll scan forums again. If Jordan's bragging, we'll find it."
They typed side-by-side, chewing bites of pizza between entries.
---
By Thursday morning, the pattern was clearer.
Three more negative-leaning posts had appeared on two separate forums. The accounts were new, with limited activity. But their language was telling—similar phrasing, identical criticisms.
"These guys all use the word 'questionable' and talk about 'overpriced nostalgia,'" Dylan said, squinting at the screen. "Feels like a coordinated disinformation campaign."
Ryan sighed. "That's Jordan. Always subtle. He doesn't lie, he implies. He lets doubt spread like mold."
"Should we respond?"
"No. We drown it out. More testimonials. More social content. More transparency. We let our buyers be our voice."
---
Friday afternoon brought a heavier blow.
Ryan came home to find an envelope in the mailbox. No return address. His name, printed in blocky black letters.
Inside was a printout of their storefront. A red marker had circled their rating and scribbled a message across the top:
> "Nice little shop. Would be a shame if it disappeared."
Ryan froze. For a long time, he just stared at the paper. His fingers went cold.
His mom's voice floated from the living room. "Sweetheart? Something wrong?"
He folded the letter, forced a smile, and called back, "No. Just... weird school thing."
But his hands trembled as he walked upstairs.
---
He called Dylan from his room.
"We have a problem."
"Another flag?"
"Worse. He mailed me a threat. Hand-delivered."
Dylan didn't laugh. Didn't even pause.
"I'm coming over."
By 6:00 p.m., Dylan had arrived, armed with snacks, his laptop, and a roll of adhesive Velcro.
"We're setting up a camera. Right now. Mailbox surveillance. Just in case."
Ryan helped him affix the small webcam inside the window above the porch. It angled downward, capturing the entire yard.
"We catalog everything now," Dylan said. "Logs, packages, visitors. If this escalates, we'll need a timeline."
"And backups. More than one storefront. Archive our customer list. Move our blog off the same host as the store."
"Mirror listings on a secondary account, with randomized posting intervals."
They went back inside and pulled up the new heatmap Dylan had created. It tracked red flags on the platform against suspected usernames across forums. A web was forming—subtle, but visible.
"If we can pinpoint a few shared IPs..."
"We build the case."
---
Saturday was supposed to be a rest day. It wasn't.
Ryan spent the morning tweaking listing formats and filming new verification clips. Dylan worked on a new brand logo and compressed videos for a mobile-friendly store version. By 1:00 p.m., they'd also created a form letter for responding to buyer inquiries.
At 3:00 p.m., they got a call.
It was from an anonymous Google Voice number. Ryan let it go to voicemail.
The message was ten seconds of static.
"He's messing with us," Dylan said, pacing. "He wants us to make a mistake. To panic."
Ryan shook his head. "We don't flinch."
"But we do respond. We go louder."
---
By Sunday, they had retooled everything.
New listing format with bold trust statements
Enhanced seller bio emphasizing testing, refunds, and live demos
Social post featuring customer reviews and unboxing footage
They also created a new YouTube channel: Reclaim Unboxed. Dylan hosted the first video.
"What's up, retro fans! I'm Dylan, and this is Reclaim Digital—your last stop before the nostalgia scam train hits. Today we're testing a genuine Game Boy Color with Pokemon Silver in real time."
The video was short, well-lit, and authentic. They shared it across five forums and two subreddits.
By the end of the day, it had 400 views.
---
"You sure you're okay?" Dylan asked as they shut down for the night.
Ryan looked out the window. Porch light flickering gently. No sign of intruders. Yet.
"No," he said. "But I'm focused. And that's enough."
Reclaim Digital had survived sabotage, disinformation, and intimidation.
It had earned a second week.
And Ryan would fight for every one after that.
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