Her fingers curl tighter around the drive.
“Disappearances that didn’t line up with official reports.”
“Funding that rerouted just before operations went dark.”
“Names that showed up in places they shouldn’t… and then vanished.”
I feel it click into place.
Not data.
Not theory.
Evidence.
“You found something buried,” I say.
“I found something they buried,” she corrects.
Yeah.
That tracks.
“And instead of deleting it,” I say slowly, “you walked out with it.”
“I copied it,” she says. “Then I watched what happened after the originals were wiped.”
I hold her gaze.
“And?”
Her voice drops.
“They relaxed.”
That word lands harder than anything else.
Because it means the danger didn’t start when she took the files.
It started when they thought they were safe.
“They don’t know what you have,” I say.
Her expression shifts—just slightly.
“They know something survived.”
That’s worse.
Much worse.
I move closer without thinking this time, stopping just in front of her.
“That drive,” I say, “is the only leverage you have.”
“It’s not leverage,” she replies.
“It’s truth.”
