I grab my phone, hands shaking. My mind races with explanations. Maybe he got a call. Maybe an emergency. Maybe he realized he didn’t want this either. I try to laugh it off, but it sticks in my throat. I start to type a message to Izzy:You will not believe this!
Then my phone buzzes, screen flashing an unknown number.
Instinct tells me to ignore it. Instead, I answer.
“Miss Hale.” The voice is low, clipped, male. No greeting, no question. I freeze, suddenly colder than the room. “I’m with the FBI. Your company works with the Sharov Corporation, doesn’t it?”
A dozen thoughts race through my mind, none of them coherent. “What? Who—”
“Listen carefully.” His tone sharpens. “You’ve been reviewing their accounts. Have you noticed anything unusual? Anything at all?”
Panic claws at my chest. I search for words. “I handle a lot of files. I’m not—” The silence on the line grows heavy, as if he’s waiting for me to trip myself up.
My mind flashes to the glitches, the open door, the emails gone wrong. I want to ask how he got my number, how he knows who I am, but fear closes my throat.
He continues: “Miss Hale, this is serious. We know Sharov’s people have eyes everywhere. If you’ve seen anything, if you have access to documentation, you need to cooperate. Think carefully. You could be rewarded for your help.”
My hand tightens around the phone. My first instinct is to lie, to deny everything, but I hesitate. The pause stretches. My silence must be answer enough.
“Meet me in two days,” he says. “I’ll text you the location. Bring anything you have; screenshots, files, anything unusual. We’ll keep you safe. Don’t mention this call to anyone. Not your company. Not your friends. Understand?”
My mouth is dry, tongue thick. “What if I don’t—?”
“Miss Hale, I’m not asking.” The tone is final, ice-cold. “I’m giving you an opportunity. Don’t waste it.”
The line clicks dead. I stare at the phone, heart pounding, fingers numb. The room feels smaller, the walls too close.
Tom’s jacket and phone still rest on the chair, an unfinished scene I can’t read. I look around again, as if expecting him to materialize, to explain any of this. The silence is absolute.
Every sense is jangling, fear and adrenaline mixing until I’m not sure if I want to run or scream.
I send a text to Izzy:Something happened. I’ll explain later. I’m okay. just needed air.
I don’t trust myself to say more.
I leave the hotel room, glancing back once, expecting to see a shadow at my heels. The elevator ride down is endless. Each floor that ticks by, the weight in my chest grows heavier.
On the sidewalk, I pull my coat tight, pulse thrumming in my ears. I keep walking, quick steps echoing, unable to shake the feeling that eyes track my every move. The city is too bright, too loud, every face a threat.
When I finally reach my building, I pause before going inside, double-checking every window and street corner. My nerves buzz with dread. I don’t sleep, lying awake until dawn, the phone clutched in my hand.
In the thin gray light of morning, I scroll back to the call log, reading the number again and again. I try to convince myself it was a prank or a mistake, but the words ring too true. My world is suddenly smaller, more dangerous, twisted into knots I can’t untangle.
I should let it go. I should bury the files, forget the name Sharov, act like nothing happened. My curiosity, mystubbornness, refuses to die. There’s a game in motion now, and I’m trapped in the center.
I wish I could pretend otherwise.
Chapter Six - Miron
The interrogation room reeks of bleach and sweat, a concrete box with one battered chair and a single bare bulb.
I lean against the wall, arms folded, watching as they drag the man in. Tom, he called himself, though his driver’s license tells a different story. His face is a mess: split lip, purple swelling under both eyes, dried blood crusted on his chin.
He stumbles, barely able to stand, eyes flicking wildly from me to the door and back again. I let the silence draw out, savoring his confusion.
He stares at me, lips trembling. “I don’t know what this is, man. I didn’t do anything. Please, just let me go. I swear, I didn’t touch her—”
A flicker of amusement crosses my face. I sit, taking my time, letting him sweat. The urge to laugh is strong; his fear is so raw, so earnest, it borders on pathetic. I study him: not especially tall, not ugly, the kind of face women call safe.
