At thirty-two, he was standing in the cramped, yellow-tiled kitchen of Unit 3B. It was the top floor of a neglected 1920s brick triplex. He wasn't looking at the peeling linoleum or the avocado-green stove. He was looking at his future.

He almost backed out. But instead of walking away, he used the inspection report as a weapon. He went back to the seller. "The property needs $30,000 in immediate repairs," Leo argued through Elena. "Drop the price by $20,000, or I walk."

It was a mess. The owner was an absentee landlord living across the country. Two units were rented way below market value to tenants on month-to-month leases. The third unit—this one—was vacant and smelled of stale cigarettes.