“And?”
“And it’s like chasing smoke.”
The rage crests, hot and blinding.
“Then you’re not digging deep enough,” I roar, slamming my fist into the desk. “People don’t just wake up invisible. Someone taught them how to disappear.”
The line goes silent.
“Find him,” I say again, my voice going cold. “This is what you’re paid to do.”
I hang up before he can answer.
My father’s name flashes across the screen seconds later. I don’t answer. I don’t need to hear his voice to know what he’ll say.
Shut it down. Make it go away. This isn’t how we operate. You’re letting it get sloppy.
Titan’s call comes in next. I let it ring out too.
I don’t know what I could say to him that I haven’t already said, or what I could do to make this move faster—to get inside that fucking writer’s head and erase everything they know before it spreads any further.
This anonymous writer isn’t just poking the bear - they’re mapping its skeleton. Every article peels back another layer of the lie we’ve spent years perfecting. Goliath thrives in shadow. In silence. In the spaces the law pretends not to see.
This person is dragging all of that into the light.
And the worst part? They’re not wrong.
That truth coils in my chest, poisonous and unwelcome. I crush it down where it belongs. Truth is irrelevant. Control is what matters now.
WhoeverAnonymousis, they’ve crossed a line they don’t know exists.
And when I find them - because I will - I won’t waste time debating theory or trading philosophy. I won’t argue with their ideas. I’ll put them in the only place ideas like that belong.
I’ll see how well their convictions hold when they’re no longer words on a page, when the distance disappears and the consequences become immediate. Because anyone can write about vigilance and justice in the abstract.
What matters is what you do when you’re forced to live inside it.
If evil hides behind faith,then maybe justice hides there too.
I read the line once.
Then again—slower this time. Like if I take it apart carefully enough, it might stop feeling like it was written for me.
It doesn’t.
This particular article cuts closer than the others. It doesn’t rant. It doesn’t accuse. It catalogs. Disappearances that never quite added up. Inconsistencies buried in police reports. Patterns that only show themselves if you’re already looking for them. Rumors of off-book enforcers crossing state lines to finish what the justice system quietly abandons.
There’s no mention of Goliath. No names. No proof.
But it skirts the perimeter so closely I can feel heat licking at my skin.
The writer doesn’t know it—but they’re staring straight at us.
And I know better than most that curiosity is a gateway drug to death in my world.
Instead of anger, something else settles in my chest. Slower. Heavier.
Admiration.
