He doesn’t deny it.
Themainchatclientopens in a cascade of windows. Pings stack up in the Nightjar room, usernames scrolling like a stock ticker.
I read faster than most people can talk. Today, though, keeping up feels I’m like trying to drink from a firehose.
you see the article?
it’s 100% him
bet they’re too scared to say his name
NIGHTJAR WHERE YOU AT
“They’re subtle,” Bran says dryly.
I ignore him and start to type back on instinct.
His hand lands on the top corner of my screen—not yanking it away, just grounding.
“Slow down,” he says. “You don’t owe them anything.”
“I owe the next girl not ending up on those rocks,” I shoot back. “This is how I do that.”
He holds my gaze for a beat, then eases his hand back. Not surrender—permission on probation.
“Fine,” he says. “But we do it my way. No taunting, no grand reveals, no telling half the internet you ‘heard it’s Henry’ this time.”
I bristle. “That was strategic.”
“That was you shaking the tree to see what fell out,” he says. “Congratulations, something fell out. Now we don’t kick the trunk until the whole damn thing lands on your head.”
I grit my teeth, then type.
chill. details are vague on purpose.
Responses flood in.
they mentioned “prior incidents”
that’s code for the stalker thing last year right
…Nightjar was right about him then
A private ping pops up in the corner of my screen. Different handle. One of the old ones from last year.
Minotaur. Cute, if you like Greek mythology.
told you it was connected
I frown, fingers hovering.
Bran leans in just enough to read, careful not to touch me. “How long you known this one?” he asks.
“A year,” I say. “Came out of the woodwork during the original Thurston mess. Claimed to have an in with somebody at state level. Dropped a couple of things that later checked out.”
“Ever verified their IP?” he asks.
“Yes, Dad,” I say. “Twice. Bounces around like mine. They’re careful.”
