Page 8 of Crown Of Blood
I frown, try again. Another error.
Then the document deletes itself—vanishes before my eyes.
“No, no, no—”
I unplug the Wi-Fi immediately, but it's too late. The cursor freezes, then the screen goes black.
The laptop hums. Restarts. Blank.
Every trace of my work is gone.
My stomach turns to ice. I back away slowly, staring at the dark screen.
Someone got in.
Someone wanted to make sure I couldn't finish what I started.
The city hums beyond my window, oblivious. But I can't shake the feeling that somewhere out there—in one of those blacked-out cars or high-rise offices—someone is watching, waiting, and smiling.
I cross to my closet, pull out the metal lockbox I keep for moments like this, and drop the USB inside. It holds backups—partial ones, but enough to rebuild the trail.
The rest… I'll have to start again tomorrow.
I sink onto the couch, exhaustion finally dragging at me. The hum of the fridge, the soft patter of rain, the pulse in my throat—all of it blends into white noise.
Just before I drift off, I think I hear it again.
That low, distant sound of power.
A car engine idles somewhere below my window.
Chapter 3
The city doesn’t sleep.
It just changes masks.
By morning, the rain has turned to fog, and the street outside my apartment hums with horns, engines, and impatience. I’m halfway through my third cup of coffee, wrapped in a robe and pretending the night before didn’t happen.
The photo.
The sedan.
The file that erased itself.
Maybe I am paranoid.
Or maybe I’m finally right about something dangerous.
The newsroom group chat is already alive when I open my laptop—talk of deadlines, the mayor’s press conference, and some celebrity divorce that apparently needs three editors. I scroll until I see my editor’s name.
Miles:
We need to talk about the Moretti piece. Call me.
My pulse trips. Moretti piece.
I haven’t told anyone what I found. Not even him.
