Chapter2
864 Words
Chapter 2 — THE FILE
Morning came late.
The city had that dull, grey kind of light — the kind that made everything look half-alive. Adriana hadn’t slept. She’d spent the rest of the night replaying the recording, again and again, like a punishment she couldn’t stop giving herself.
Every time, the same line.
Every time, the same voice.
> “Leave no witnesses.”
She sat at her small kitchen table, a cup of coffee untouched beside her. The air smelled of rain and burnt toast — a cruel reminder that life didn’t pause just because the world tilted.
Her laptop was still shut. She hadn’t dared to open it again after the text. But it sat there like a secret breathing on her counter.
Finally, she caved.
The journalist in her — the part that had chased truth through riots, crime scenes, and corruption — wouldn’t let her walk away. She reconnected the cable, turned it on, and waited.
The screen flickered to life.
No warning. No crash. Just her desktop, perfectly normal.
Almost too normal.
Adriana searched the encrypted folder again. “ROSSI, INTERNAL.” Still there. She clicked it open.
The audio file was gone.
In its place, a single image had appeared — a still frame of surveillance footage. Grainy. Taken from above.
Two men in dark suits. One standing, one sitting.
The man sitting had his back to the camera, but the other—
Her stomach tightened. The standing man had Nikolai’s build. That same sharp posture, the same precision in the tilt of his head.
The timestamp on the footage read October 4th, 2:11 a.m.
This morning.
Adriana’s breath caught.
If the image was real, that meant Nikolai wasn’t just alive — he was here. In the same city.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn’t anonymous. It was Jonas — her editor.
> “Voss, where the hell are you? You missed check-in. You’re trending on internal watch again. You good?”
She stared at the screen for a second before typing back:
> “Yeah. Just chasing a lead.”
A few seconds later, another ping.
> “The Rossi case? Drop it. It’s off-limits. Orders from upstairs.”
She stared at the message, her jaw tightening.
Of course it was. Rossi’s family had always had reach — not just in the underworld, but in boardrooms, media, politics. No one touched their name without consequences.
She typed back one word.
> “Noted.”
Then she deleted the conversation.
Adriana leaned back in her chair, running both hands through her hair. Her reflection in the dark screen looked older, harder. There were shadows under her eyes she didn’t remember having.
She turned her focus back to the image. In the corner of the screen, partially visible in the grain, was a logo. She squinted, zooming in.
A warehouse emblem.
Faded lettering: Dion & Co. Shipping.
Her pulse quickened. The docks.
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
She grabbed her recorder, a small camera, and the pistol — just in case. The weight of it in her pocket was unfamiliar but oddly comforting.
By the time she stepped outside, the rain had softened to a mist. The streets were slick with last night’s storm, the scent of diesel and wet concrete heavy in the air.
The docks were quiet when she arrived — too quiet. Cranes loomed above her like skeletons, and the wind howled through rusted containers.
She found Dion & Co. easily enough. Half the letters had peeled off, and the chain-link gate hung open like an invitation.
Inside, puddles reflected the broken light. Footprints marked the damp floor — fresh ones.
She followed them slowly, heart thudding in her ears.
The trail led to a back room.
The door was slightly open.
Adriana pushed it gently, every muscle tight.
A desk sat in the middle of the room. On it — an old cassette player, still spinning. The tape hissed, playing nothing but static.
And beside it… a single photograph.
She picked it up.
It was a picture of her. Taken last night, through her apartment window.
Her stomach dropped.
A sound came from behind her — the faint crunch of a boot on concrete.
Adriana spun around, gun raised, but the doorway was empty. Only the rain.
Then a low voice echoed from somewhere behind her. Calm. Familiar.
> “You really shouldn’t have come here, Adriana.”
Her breath caught.
That voice.
> “You’re supposed to be dead,” she whispered.
Nikolai stepped into view, the shadows peeling away from him like they’d been waiting. His hair was shorter, his face sharper, colder — but it was him.
He looked at her the same way he used to — like she was both a question and a warning.
> “Everyone’s supposed to be something,” he said softly. “You, for instance… you’re supposed to know when to walk away.”
Her grip on the gun tr
embled. “Why send me the file?”
He smiled, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.
> “Because you were the only one who would open it.”
- Writer
