I recognize the way they move. Law enforcement, or something adjacent. But not police. Not even private security.
The screen doesn’t pick up audio, but it doesn’t have to. The first guy says something, mouth hard. Briar tilts his head, playing polite. The second circles behind, scanning for cameras, alarms, maybe signs of another occupant.
They herd Briar into the living room, by the fireplace. The one with the hidden wall. I wonder if they know. I wonder if they’re here for me, or for him.
I want to run. I want to help. But I am glued to the screen, watching the story unfold in real time.
First guy keeps his distance, one hand on his own weapon. The second guy goes for the kitchen, poking through the drawers, opening the fridge. Briar just sits, one leg crossed, gun still tucked at his back, face neutral.
My heart kicks at my ribs.
I reach for the keypad, punch 911. It doesn’t do anything—probably reroutes to the building’s internal system. I try to listen, but the room is a vacuum. No sound at all.
The second guy comes back, nods to the first, and now they both stand over Briar. There’s a beat where nothing happens. Then everything happens at once.
One lunges, going for Briar’s throat. Briar leans back, lets the motion carry past, and brings his elbow up into the guy’s jaw. Bone cracks. He staggers, but the other pulls a taser and fires point blank. Briar’s muscles twitch, eyes rolling as he grins, and then he keeps moving—like the electricity is just another flavor of pain.
He rips the prongs from his shirt, blood already on his teeth. The gun comes up, fast as a blink, and he shoots one through the knee. There’s no scream, just a collapse. The second tries to draw, but Briar is on him, all teeth and hate. The gun drops. Briar grabs him by the throat, slams him face-first into the marble coffee table. The table holds, bit the guys teeth don’t.
First Guy tries to get up, slips in his own blood, clawing for the holster. Briar stamps down on the injured leg, and the noise that comes out of him isn’t human.
Briar turns, gun raised, and shoots him in the head. The body jerks, then stills before Briar turns on the crumpled mess by the coffee table.
He’s already dead, the force of being slammed breaking his neck as his head lolls at a weird angle.
Everything stops.
I sit there, hands shaking, watching the blood pool on the white carpet. Watching Briar as he stares down at them, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
He looks up, right at the camera. Holds the gaze for a full five seconds.
Then he smiles and starts grabbing the bodies and pulling them down the hall.
I try to process what happened. My brain skips and stutters, replaying the violence frame by frame. The gunshot. The fist to the throat. The way that guys teeth fell from his mouth.
My hands shake. My legs refuse to move.
There’s a sound behind me, soft, a whirr and a click. I turn toward the noise and see the laptop. The lid is open. I tell myself not to touch it. I tell myself it’s none of my business.
But it is my business. It’s all I have left.
I move to the bench, drop down, and pull the laptop closer. Touching the pad, the screen powers on, the desktop awash in icons. No password, no lock screen.
I start with the first folder. It’s called “M.O.D.” I have to look twice, because the acronym means nothing to me.
Inside the folder are hundreds of files. Some are text, some are video, most are high-resolution images. The first is a series of photographs—surveillance stills of an academy, Westpoint. At first, the images are banal: people in uniform, teachers on the steps. Then the sequence changes. There’s a shot of the building at night, lit by emergency strobes. Smoke pours from a hole in the roof. The next morning, the place is a husk, windows blown out, police tape strung across the lawn.
I open a text file. It’s a log, written in a weird half-code. I see my own name in the first paragraph, then my name, then astring of words that make my blood run cold: “Observe, report, escalate. If contact persists, activate Protocol J/11.”
I back out, heart slamming in my chest.
The next folder is called “Assets.” It’s full of faces. Some I recognize from the news: politicians, cops, a handful of lawyers. Every image has a note attached, a single line of black text. “Compromised.” “Under review.” “Flagged for disposal.” “Green light.”
I scroll faster, desperate to reach the end. The last row holds a single image.
It’s me.
The photo is from last night, just before the gala. I’m standing in the kitchen of my apartment, tie crooked, smile fake. The annotation is just one word.
