Time.
I pull up the café incident footage again—every angle, every reflection. Police body cams. Traffic cams. Private security feeds I had to call in favors to access.
The “delivery truck accident” replays on a loop.
It still doesn’t sit right.
The pole didn’tsnap—it was weakened. Deliberately. Astress fracture disguised as weather damage. One clean hit was all it took.
Professional.
My pulse stays steady as I rewind again—slower this time.
There.
A reflection in the café window, just before impact.
A man standing too still.
I zoom.
Enhance.
My breath catches.
He’s not local.
It’s not his clothes—casual enough. Not his posture—relaxed, unthreatening.
It’s his eyes.
They’re trained.
Watching without appearing to watch.
I use facial-recognition software—not government-grade, but better than most journalists have access to. Cross-reference with NGO footage, conflict-zone embeds, and leaked passport photos.
It takes twenty minutes.
Then his face locks onto a match.
Ilya Markovic.
Former private military contractor. Eastern European. Clean record on paper.
Dirty everywhere else.
I dig deeper.
Ilya doesn’t kill.
Heobserves.
Surveillance specialist. Forward scout. The man you send before the real damage begins.
And then I find the connection.
One shell company. One shared financial conduit.
