It started with a whisper.
Not the dramatic kind—the sharp beep of a security breach or the blare of an emergency siren. No, this was a soft chime from Ethan's phone. Subtle. Insidious. The kind of sound that didn't announce disaster—it suggested it.
He glanced at the screen.
Then he went still.
Anna noticed it immediately. She'd been re-buttoning her coat, preparing to leave the restaurant. But his stillness cut through the morning buzz like a scalpel.
"What is it?" she asked.
Ethan slowly rotated the screen toward her.
Zurich: Red-Level Alert. Audit Triggered – Holdings under Review.
He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.
Then his phone vibrated again. But this time, it wasn't the Caymans.
Anonymous leak published. Title: "Inside Kellerman's Pharma Fortress: The Human Cost of a Billion-Dollar Empire."
Anna's brows rose. "The reporter?"
Ethan gave a single nod. "He ran it early."
She exhaled, the sound halfway between a laugh and a curse. "So much for a gentle rollout."
"No. This is the tremor before the quake. The audit's been flagged, but results take time. The article will stir the pot first. Enough to make Kellerman nervous."
She frowned, lips tightening. "Will it affect the timing? You said seventy-two hours before the Cayman freeze."
"It might push him to move faster," Ethan replied, his voice measured. "Which is exactly what we want. If he tries to access funds early—before he realizes they're already compromised—it'll trip the legal review triggers sooner."
"And if he doesn't?" she asked, folding her arms.
"Then the article bleeds him in the press. The worker unrest gains traction. The safety violations become front-page headlines. We burn him socially and internally until he's forced to run."
Anna tapped the rim of her coffee cup. "So, worst case... it accelerates our timeline."
"Exactly," Ethan said. "Best case—it panics him. And panic leads to mistakes."
She studied him for a moment, then nodded once. "Let's make sure it's the last mistake he ever gets to make."
Ethan signaled for the check and stood, already on his phone. "We'll need to move. Everything we've done so far—it's going to start making noise. And that means people will come looking."
"We need clothes," Anna said. "I'm not facing down a corporate meltdown wearing jeans I caught you in."
Ethan shot her a sharp look, arching one brow. "You broke into my life, kidnapped me, and hijacked my files—and now you're critiquing fashion?"
"It's called multitasking," she deadpanned.
He shook his head, amused despite himself. "I was going to suggest the same thing."
He hesitated, then added, "You're coming to my place."
She blinked.
"It's closer to the servers and secure lines. We won't have time for the back-and-forth. Less commute. Less risk. When this blows up—and it will—we need to be able to react immediately."
She didn't argue.
Later that afternoon, they drove to her place first.
Anna's apartment was on the fourth floor of a narrow mid-rise—clean, stark, and quiet. Minimalist to the point of monastic. She moved quickly, tossing her few belongings into a duffel bag. There weren't many. A few outfits. Two pairs of shoes. One drawer of documents. No makeup, no jewelry.
Ethan lingered by the bookshelf. Among the sparse titles and legal journals, only one personal object stood out: a photo frame.
A much younger Anna clung to the back of a man—her father, no doubt. They were both laughing, wide and wild and alive. Carved into the wooden frame in faint script: Wild Pack Forever.
Ethan didn't comment. Just made a mental note.
They drove in silence.
His home—perched on a quiet ridge just outside the city—was a striking contrast. A tall wrought-iron gate opened to reveal manicured lawns, rows of lantern-lit hedges, and a sleek black Trident parked in the drive.
The house itself was an architectural statement—glass, steel, and stone woven together in brutal elegance. Inside, every detail screamed curated wealth: polished oak floors, high vaulted ceilings, a marble fireplace that stretched two stories tall. A grand piano sat untouched beneath a skylight. Shelves held first editions, not trinkets. The scent was leather, old whiskey, and faint cedar.
Anna blinked.
"You live in a Bond villain's hideout," she muttered.
Ethan smirked. "I take that as a compliment."
She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. He showed her to the guest wing—more like a hotel suite than a spare room—then disappeared to fire up the encrypted server.
Anna sat on the sofa, clean clothes hugging her frame, hair still damp from a shower. She was rereading the redacted depositions they'd stolen weeks ago. Her eyes scanned every line with renewed aggression.
Ethan brought in a second monitor, rerouting feeds, layering encryption, and watching legal chatter scroll across deepnet channels.
"We bought ourselves twenty-four hours, maybe thirty-six," he said.
Anna looked up. "Then let's make them count."
By 3:00 p.m., Ethan had initiated two more disruptions:
A flagged safety concern report was uploaded to a national watchdog database, detailing contamination risks in one of Kellerman's storage facilities. The report was anonymous—but damning. A manipulated audit log surfaced revealing altered quality control entries for a batch of injectable anesthetics. Just enough to warrant an internal inquiry. Just enough to spark panic.
By 5:00 p.m., internal messages at Kellerman Pharma were in chaos. Regional directors demanded emergency meetings. Floor managers began lockdown procedures.
And somewhere, someone with just enough clearance tried to access a dormant account... only to find it locked.
Not frozen yet.
But it would be.
And when it was—Kellerman would realize the fortress he built... had no exits.
That night, the alerts didn't stop.
Phones buzzed. Anonymous tips hit whistleblower hotlines. And in Ethan's apartment, two wolves sat across from each other over half-eaten rations—real food, not plastic—watching the empire tremble.
They didn't celebrate.
They just prepared for the quake to hit.
And when it did...
They'd be ready to bring it down brick by brick.
Anna scrolled through a live-feed dashboard, watching red flags ripple across the map like blood in water. Her eyes were sharp, but her body leaned into the plush armchair like a predator conserving energy.
Ethan looked up from his screen. "I suggest the Velasquez cartel be our next target."
She arched a brow, intrigued.
"It's as far from the pharmaceutical business as you can get. A financial node, not a supplier. If we aim there next, no one connects the dots too soon."
"And the chaos they stir up won't be traced back to us," she said slowly. "Because they're always in trouble."
He gave a ghost of a smile. "Exactly."
Anna tilted her head, considering. "I thought we were focused on the inside."
"We are. But this gives us breathing room. While Kellerman scrambles to plug his own leaks, the cartel distraction buys us time—and gives us leverage."
She didn't reply immediately.
Then, "Do it. Just don't take your eye off the pharma side."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Ethan said, already typing.
Their eyes met—silent understanding passing like a current.
Outside, the city lights flickered like stars. Inside, two conspirators plotted the next fracture.
The quake was coming.
And this time, it would leave no survivors.
But something shifted in Ethan.
It wasn't pride in the plan or adrenaline from the high-stakes game.
It was the need to do this right. To finish it clean. To dismantle the empire he had once helped build with the precision only he could offer.
A perfect job—even if it meant tearing down his own past.