The vault is exactly where my source said it would be—half-hidden behind a false wall, the keypad already fried like someone got sloppy or rushed. That alone makes my stomach twist. Sloppy gets people killed. Rushed means panic. Panic means someone was here recently.
I kneel anyway.
The concrete seeps cold through my jeans as I work the panel open, fingers moving on muscle memory and instinct. I’m not a hacker, not really, but you learn things when you grow up with nothing but time and anger. When you need answers more than safety.
The vault door gives with a soft hiss.
Inside are drives. Old ones. Labeled in faded marker, dates spanning years. Ministry stamps. Private contractors. I recognize one of the symbols before my brain fully catches up, and my breath stutters.
Masked Riders.
The name tastes like metal in my mouth.
I shouldn’t touch it.
I do anyway.
That’s when I see him.
The body is slumped against the far wall, half-shadowed, blood dried dark against his throat. A bullet wound, clean and professional. Execution-style. His mask lies a few feet away, cracked clean through the crown.
My heart slams against my ribs.
One of theirs.
The realization hits all at once, crashing through me with a sickening clarity: this isn’t just a data drop. This is a crime scene. A message. And I’m standing in the middle of it with my fingerprints practically glowing.
I stagger back, pulse roaring in my ears, and that’s when I feel it.
The camera.
I don’t see it at first. I feel it, like a pressure between my shoulders, like being stared at by something that doesn’t blink. Slowly, I lift my gaze, eyes tracking the ceiling, the corners, the shadows.
There.
A tiny red light.
Recording.
“Oh,” I whisper.
The word barely makes it out.
I should run. Smash the camera. Burn the place down. Every instinct screams at me to disappear, to become another ghost in a city full of them.
Instead, I freeze.
And then—against every shred of survival instinct I have—I look straight into the lens.
I don’t know why I do it. Maybe because I’m tired of being hunted by questions. Maybe because if someone is watching, I want them to see me clearly. I want them to understand that I’m not afraid.
Or maybe I just want them to know I see them too.
The rain outside grows louder, drumming against the roof like applause or warning, and for a moment—just one—I swear the city itself leans closer, listening.
I grab only one drive. Just one. Shove it into my jacket like a talisman and back away from the vault, eyes never leaving that unblinking red dot. My heart is racing now, not with panic, but with certainty.
This is it.
