Chapter 13 The Unseen War
1510 Words
The cold metal disc from the old studio felt like it had left a permanent mark on her palm. Nian didn’t tell anyone. Not at first. She tucked it into a small velvet pouch and hid it at the back of a drawer in her new Brooklyn loft.
But she moved differently now. Every corner of the bright, airy space felt like it had eyes. The exposed brick walls, the high factory windows with their new, expensive locks—they weren’t just features. They were potential hiding spots.
She called Yue Lin. Not for emotional support this time. For a name.
“You need Eagle Eye Security,” Yue Lin said without hesitation, her voice low over the phone. The background noise of a busy courthouse filtered through. “Discreet. Expensive. But they don’t ask questions you don’t want answered, and their reports disappear after you read them. I’ll text you the contact.”
The team arrived two days later—two men and a woman in unmarked black polos and trousers, carrying sleek, nondescript cases. They looked like generic tech installers. Nian gave them the run of the place. For six hours, she sat in the small kitchen nook, pretending to sketch, listening to the soft beeps of their scanners, the occasional murmur of professional jargon.
The woman, Mara, was the one who found them. She didn’t say a word. Just walked over to where Nian was trying to draw a bracelet that kept turning into tangled wire, and placed two tiny, sleek black squares on the butcher-block table between them. Each was smaller than a dime.
“Ventilation duct, northeast corner,” Mara said, her voice flat. “And behind the large abstract canvas in the reception area. Still transmitting. Latest gen. Power source is independent, long-life micro-cells. Installed within the last five to seven days.”
The air left Nian’s lungs. Five to seven days. That was after she’d signed the addendum. After she’d started moving in. Someone had been here. In her space. While she was unpacking boxes, choosing paint samples, believing she was building something of her own.
“Remove them,” she said. Her voice didn’t shake. It was just… hollow.
“Standard procedure is to leave them and monitor the feed, trace it back,” Mara said, watching her.
“Remove them,” Nian repeated. “But… leave something in their place. Something that looks real from a distance. In those spots. And add a couple more obvious ones. In the ceiling corners of the main studio space and the meeting room.”
Mara’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. A hint of respect flashed in her cool eyes. “Decoys. You want to play.”
“I want to control what they see,” Nian corrected. Her stomach was a knot of cold fury. “Can you do that?”
A small, tight smile. “We can do that.”
The real cameras were gone by sunset. In their place, Mara’s team installed perfect replicas—dummy units with blinking LED lights that mimicked a transmission signal. They added two more in highly visible locations. Anyone looking would see a basic, amateurish surveillance setup. The kind someone might install because they were paranoid, but didn’t really know what they were doing.
The next step required an actor.
Yue Lin came over with takeout Thai food two nights later. They sat at the new, round meeting table, right under one of the dummy cameras in the ceiling corner. The food was mostly for show. The conversation was the performance.
“So,” Yue Lin said, her voice pitched just a little too loud, a little too casual. “The International Design Association. You really think they’ll bite?”
Nian leaned forward, playing her part. “It’s the logical next step. Sheldon’s backing gets ‘New Dawnbreak’ made. But the IDA’s independent certification? That’s the gold stamp. It separates the work from the Thorne name entirely. Gives it legitimacy in the European market he can’t touch. I’ve drafted the initial inquiry. Quietly. I’m meeting with a contact next week.”
It was all lies. Every word. The IDA was a real organization, but she had no contact, no plans. It was bait. Poisoned bait, she hoped.
Yue Lin nodded along, playing the supportive friend. “Risky. If Sheldon finds out you’re seeking outside validation…”
“He’ll have to understand it’s business,” Nian said, the line feeling brittle in her mouth. “Not a lack of faith.”
They ate some of the food. They laughed at the right moments. The dummy cameras watched, blind and stupid.
Three days of silence followed. Nian worked. The new studio began to feel like a shell she inhabited, not a home. Every creak of the old floorboards, every rumble from the street below, made her shoulders tense.
He came on a Thursday afternoon. No call. No warning.
She was at her new drafting table—a massive, reclaimed oak slab—when she heard the distant whirr-clunk of the industrial freight elevator at the end of the hall. Her studio was the only one on this floor. Few people knew the code.
Her pencil stilled. She didn’t look up, not even when the heavy steel door to her space swung open.
Sheldon Thorne filled the doorway. He was in a charcoal grey suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt open. He looked like he’d come from a meeting, not like he was paying a social call. His gaze swept the room. It was a slow, comprehensive scan. It lingered for a half-second too long on the ceiling corner where the dummy camera with its tiny red light was clearly visible. Then it moved to the other one, over the meeting table. His expression didn’t change. No surprise. No acknowledgement.
“You’ve made progress,” he said. His voice was neutral, filling the high-ceilinged space.
“It’s functional,” Nian replied. She put her pencil down. Her palms were dry. She willed them to stay that way.
He walked further in, his shoes soft on the polished concrete. He stopped a few feet from her table, not coming around to her side. He took in the pinned sketches on the mood board, the half-formed wax models, the tools laid out in neat rows. His eyes missed nothing.
“Environment is adequate,” he finally said. The word ‘adequate’ was a deliberate, calculated understatement.
From inside his suit jacket, he withdrew a simple black folder. He held it out to her. “A shortlist. Media and public relations firms. Vetted for discretion and results. ‘New Dawnbreak’s’ debut cannot have any missteps. Review them. Choose one.”
She stood up. Her legs felt steady. She walked around the table, closing the distance. When she took the folder, her fingers brushed against the back of his hand.
The contact was brief. A fraction of a second. His skin was cool, like marble in a shaded room. A tiny, electric jolt traveled up her arm. She saw the barest tightening of his jaw. He felt it too.
She took the folder, holding it against her chest like a shield. She looked up, meeting his eyes directly. The grey-blue was stormy today, unreadable.
“Sheldon,” she said, her voice clear in the quiet studio. “The studio you helped me get… is it safe?”
The question hung there, sharp as a shard of glass.
He didn’t look away. Didn’t blink. His gaze held hers, and for a long, stretched moment, he said nothing. The silence wasn’t empty. It was thick with things unsaid—accusations, warnings, secrets.
Then, as if she hadn’t spoken at all, he reached into his inner pocket again. This time, he produced two thick, cream-colored cards. He placed them on the edge of her drafting table.
“Next week. London. The Aethelred private collection exhibition. Several of my mother’s early pieces will be on display. As the designer of ‘New Dawnbreak,’ it would be… instructive for you to see them.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He turned and walked back toward the door, his footsteps echoing.
Nian stared at the invitation cards. They were heavy, expensive stock. Embossed gold lettering.
As the steel door sighed shut behind him, she picked one up. Then the other.
On the back of the second card, in the familiar, aggressive s***h of his handwriting, was a line of text.
True hunters never leave traces in their own den. Trust your instinct, but verify everything.
She stared at the words. The ink was dark, fresh. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, confused rhythm.
Was it a warning? A confession? A piece of advice from one player to another?
The dummy camera in the corner blinked its steady, fake red eye. She looked from the card in her hand to the tiny light, and back again.
The game hadn’t just moved to her new studio. He had just acknowledged it was being played at all.
- Writer
