The number was a burner.
He knew it before the tech team confirmed it—cheap routing, disposable SIM, a hopscotch chain of proxies meant to buy time, not invisibility. Whoever sent the message was professional enough to be patient and sloppy enough to be found eventually. He filed both facts in separate mental drawers and closed them with care he didn’t feel.
“What do you need from me?” Trina asked, still on the bed where he’d left her, back against the headboard, hands wrapped around her knees like she was trying to become smaller than the room could see.
“Nothing,” he said. Then, catching himself: “Stay with me. That’s the only thing.”
He called Alexander first. Three rings, then the familiar, level voice. “Talk.”
“Breach,” Adrian said. “Private images of Trina and me. Direct to her
