I couldn't know.
But the words felt right.
The same way the knife felt right.
The same way the kill felt right.
Mercy Logistics.
Follow the money.
I searched the bodies.
The first man had a wallet. Cash. Credit cards. A driver's license with an address I didn't recognize.
The second man had a phone.
Locked.
But I knew how to bypass locks.
The phone took twenty minutes to crack.
I sat on the floor beside the bodies, my back against a stack of boxes, my fingers working the screen. The blood was dryingon my hands, flaking off in red-brown pieces, leaving stains on the glass.
The contacts were encrypted.
But the messages weren't.
I scrolled through them—shipping manifests, delivery schedules, names I didn't recognize.
And then I found it.
A message from someone named "Dispatcher."
*"Shipment 47-B en route. Destination: Mercy HQ. ETA: 48 hours."*
*47-B.*
My batch number.
My designation.
My name.
I stared at the screen.
The numbers blurred.
Tears? Or exhaustion? Or something else entirely?
I didn't know.
I couldn't know.
But I knew I had to keep going.
I had to follow the money.
