A manila envelope lay on the clinic desk.
No return address. No note.
Aniya opened it cautiously.
Inside were photographs—blurry, but unmistakable.
Her mother at a street corner. Her university professor locking a bike. A friend laughing outside a bookstore.
She stared for several seconds. Then said aloud, “No message needed."
She left the clinic immediately.
---
Antonio was in the command room, bent over blueprints of rerouted shipments. The moment he saw her face, he straightened.
“What happened?"
She dropped the envelope on the table. “He's escalating."
He opened it, flipping through the photos.
“Where did these come from?"
“They were left for me at the clinic. No fingerprints."
He scanned the images again. “These aren't our surveillance angles."
“I already checked. This
