The hum of the servers filled the small office as Lena Hart leaned into the glow of her monitor. She had her sleeves rolled up, her hair pinned back, and her jaw set in a line that said no one was leaving until she had a name.
On her screen, a labyrinth of digital crumbs unfolded: IP handoffs, bounced signals, fragments of metadata that should have been wiped but weren't. She pushed through proxy after proxy, fingers typing like she was unraveling a puzzle built by a nervous amateur.
"Got you," she whispered.
The others lifted their heads. Daniel Kane, leaning against the file cabinet with a cup of coffee he hadn't touched, straightened. Alex Reed rolled his chair over. Ethan pushed up from his desk. Even Marcus Vale, the oldest and most skeptical among them, set down his pen.
Lena tapped the screen. "The uploader used a throwaway account — cheap phone, prepaid, bought with cash. But people who panic make mistakes. The clip wasn't posted through an anonymizer. First hop was a home router. Trace leads to an apartment in Old Dockside. Registered tenant: Mateo Alvarez. Twenty-four. Day laborer. No priors."
"Day laborer," Marcus repeated. His voice was iron. "That neighborhood's caught between crews right now. Dock shifts cut. People scrambling for rent. He'd have every reason to want extra cash — or protection."
Daniel's eyes narrowed. "Or revenge."
Lena pulled up more records. "He's not affiliated. No gang ties in his history. No arrests. Nothing to suggest he's part of anything larger. Just… a scared kid with a phone who happened to be in the wrong place with the wrong lens."
"Or the right lens," Ethan muttered.
They didn't wait. By dusk, the five of them stood in the dim stairwell of a cracked apartment block, the kind of place where plaster fell like snow when the trams rumbled past. Daniel rapped hard on the door marked 3C.
No answer.
He knocked again, louder. "Police. Mateo Alvarez, open the door."
A scrape. The shuffle of bare feet. Then the door opened a crack, and a pale face peered through, wide-eyed and thin, hair sticking in nervous strands.
"Yes?" The voice was barely a whisper.
Daniel held up his badge. "We need to talk."
The room was cramped: mattress on the floor, two chairs, a table with an ashtray full of cheap cigarette butts. They sat Mateo across from them, with Ethan against the wall, Alex leaning on the window, and Marcus standing like a sentry near the door.
Lena set her laptop on the table, screen still frozen on the bystander video. She clicked play. The shaky footage filled the silence: the alley, the dragging, the park bench, and the voice. Don't let this happen again.
Mateo flinched so hard his chair scraped the floor. His hands went to his hair, pulling tight. "I— I didn't—"
"You filmed this," Daniel said flatly.
Mateo's throat bobbed. He didn't answer.
"You uploaded it," Lena pressed, her tone calm but merciless. "Not once. Twice. Same device, same signature. You wanted people to see."
"I thought—" His voice cracked. He looked at the door, then at the floor, as if afraid the shadows themselves carried ears. "I thought if everyone saw, then maybe… maybe someone would stop him."
"Stop who?" Marcus asked, his tone like stone.
Mateo's lips trembled, but the name never came out. He swallowed hard and shook his head, clutching at his knees.
Daniel leaned forward, his voice low, steady, dangerous in its control. "Mateo, listen to me. You're not in trouble for filming. But you're in danger. You saw what happened to Vito. You know what happens to people who get too close. If we could trace you, so could they. You're a thread, and threads get cut."
Mateo's breathing quickened. He shook his head violently. "No, no, no, I didn't mean— I wasn't trying to— I thought I was far enough away, I thought—"
"You thought wrong," Alex cut in sharply. "And now we're here because we need to know what you saw. You didn't just catch shadows. You were close enough to hear his voice. You saw him. That's why you can't sleep at night, isn't it? Because when you close your eyes, you see that bench. That face."
Mateo clutched his head and let out a choked sound. "It was him," he whispered finally, the words dragged out of him like blood from a wound. "It was him sitting there. Everyone moved around him, like— like they were puppets and he was the one pulling strings. He didn't even move, and they… they dragged Vito like he was nothing. And when he spoke—"
He stopped, trembling.
"What about when he spoke?" Lena asked gently.
Mateo's eyes filled with panic. "It was like— like the world stopped to listen. He didn't even raise his voice. Just… just those words. And they killed him after. I didn't film it. I couldn't. But I heard it. Vito screaming. Then nothing."
The room fell silent.
Daniel studied the boy. Not a liar. Not a mastermind. Just someone who had been in the wrong place and decided to hold his phone steady instead of running.
"You understand," Marcus said finally, "that if he knows you filmed, you're already dead. If he even suspects, you won't see another sunrise."
Mateo nodded frantically, tears brimming. "I know. I know. Please. Don't let him—"
Daniel cut him off. "You're under our protection now. But that means you cooperate. Every detail. Every sound. Every face you saw. You give us everything."
Mateo looked at them all — five officers, sworn to drag the untouchable into the light. He saw the hard set of their jaws, the fire in their eyes. For a flicker of a moment, he believed them.
But somewhere deep down, fear whispered louder: that no matter what the police promised, Vincenzo Moretti did not forgive, did not forget, and did not leave witnesses breathing for long.
____________________________
The ride to the precinct was silent, save for the muted wail of the siren that Daniel ordered left on — not because they needed to push through traffic, but because he wanted anyone watching to know this wasn't a casual pickup. It was a statement: the police had something worth protecting.
Mateo sat between Ethan and Alex in the back, shoulders hunched, eyes darting like a trapped animal. His hands wouldn't stay still; they knotted together, rubbed his knees, clawed at the fabric of his jeans. Alex leaned just enough to cut through the boy's spiraling thoughts.
"Look, kid," he said, voice low but sharp, "this is the safest place for you now. Four floors of cops, cameras, locks, and a whole lot of people who hate Vincenzo just as much as you do. If his people come sniffing, they won't find an open door."
Mateo gave a weak nod, but his breath still came quick.
When they pulled up to the central precinct, the building loomed like a tired fortress — cracked stone, iron-framed windows, and the faint smell of cigarettes clinging to the steps. Marcus led the way inside, shoulders squared like he was escorting a foreign dignitary instead of a trembling dockworker.
Inside, Daniel didn't dump Mateo into a holding room. He chose the secure interview chamber — reinforced glass, one entry, double locks. "Better than a safe-house," he muttered. "Here, at least, we control the walls."
The boy sat under harsh fluorescent light while the team arranged themselves around him. Lena set up her laptop at the corner of the steel table, already pulling up digital maps and files. Ethan unpacked a small case of recording equipment, making sure every word would be captured. Marcus stood sentinel by the door, arms crossed, his mere presence promising there would be no mistakes on his watch.
Daniel dropped a folder onto the table — a neat, deliberate sound that made Mateo flinch. "You're under our roof now. That means two things. One, you're safe as long as you don't do anything stupid. Two, you tell us everything, because half-truths get people killed. And you're fresh out of second chances."
Mateo's eyes flicked to the folder, then to Daniel, then down again. His voice was a rasp. "You don't understand. He doesn't have to find me himself. People do it for him. People I don't even know. They'll kill me just for thinking I saw him. I thought it was ok to upload video and no one will find me but I been too stupid."
Lena leaned in, her tone sharper than Daniel's but strangely grounding. "And that's exactly why you're here, Mateo. Because now it's not just you in the dark. It's us, too. You gave us a thread. Threads can unravel knots. But only if you hold steady."
The boy swallowed hard, then finally gave a slow nod.
Daniel exchanged a glance with Marcus, then motioned toward the observation glass. "Fine. Let's start. From the moment you entered the park. Every step, every sound. You talk, we listen. You stall, we assume you're hiding something. And hiding from us is worse than hiding from him."
Mateo exhaled, trembling, and began to speak. The words came halting at first, then faster, as if confessing would buy him time. The dragging, the bench, the voice, the scream. His memories poured into the room, filling the sterile walls with shadows that weren't there but might as well have been.
Behind the glass, an officer scribbled notes, while in the hallway two uniforms shifted uneasily. The building had seen killers and liars before, but tonight it felt heavier, like the precinct itself knew it had just become the stage for something larger.
Daniel caught the feeling, too. He stood tall, watching Mateo break, and thought: If this boy's words hold, then for the first time in years we have a chance to corner Vincenzo Moretti where he can't walk away.
But another thought followed, darker, as his jaw clenched tight. If the Morettis find out we've got him here, this whole precinct turns into a war zone.