I don’t say anything. I just keep walking.
I crash that night on my own couch. Not because I forgot my plan to leave. Because I walked the city for six straight hourstrying to decide where I could go and who I could trust—and came up blank.
Everyone I know works for the network.
Everyone I know lives on the cloud.
And now the cloud’s been compromised.
I sleep with the lights on and the stun baton under my pillow.
I dream about red bands and children without eyes.
The next morning, I wake to the sound of glass clicking.
Not shattering.
Not breaking.
Clicking.
Like fingers tapping rhythmically.
I sit up fast.
Someone’s at my window.
But I’m fifty floors up.
I crawl to the window, careful not to cast a shadow. Look down.
Nothing.
But on the window ledge—placed precisely at the edge—sits a small silver hex key.
My breath catches.
It doesn’t belong to me.
I check the locks.
The seals.
Everything looks intact.
But I know what a planted calling card looks like.
That’s the moment I realize I’m not imagining it.
I’m being watched.
Followed.
Targeted.
And that dossier didn’t just crawl into the system.
It wasdelivered.
