The note was simple. Handwritten, elegant, yet heavy with unspoken weight: “Do not open the red folder.”
Valen had left it on the marble countertop before leaving for the airport. Just a short trip, he’d said, a meeting he couldn’t postpone. He’d kissed my forehead, squeezed my hand, and left with that same controlled confidence that always made me feel simultaneously safe and like the world was burning around me.
And, of course, I opened it.
The red folder sat there like a pulse on the counter, beckoning. Its edges were pristine, unmarked, yet I could feel the danger radiating from it. My fingers trembled as I lifted it. The clasp was tight, but my impatience won the battle. I pried it open.
Inside was chaos neatly organized. Photos, dossiers, receipts, even a small USB drive tucked i
