He approached without a badge.
No camera crew.
No microphone.
Just a notebook folded once too many times and eyes that tracked exits before faces.
"Aria Lin," he said, casual. "Two minutes?"
She studied him.
Journalists always wanted more than two.
---
They walked, not stood.
Movement reduced attention.
"I'm writing about comebacks," he said. "Public ones."
"And private ones?" Aria asked.
He smiled. "Those don't publish well."
---
Noah ran a background check in real time.
"Freelance," he murmured. "But not really. Embedded in three outlets. Stringer history doesn't line up."
Aria kept her pace even.
---
The journalist lowered his voice.
"Your schedule change this morning," he said. "Not production-driven."
"Everything here is production-driven," Aria replied.
"Not when police reroute without incident reports," he said. "Or when two unmarked vehicles stay idling through lunch."
---
She stopped.
He stopped too—perfect timing.
"I'm not here to expose you," he said. "I'm here because someone is watching me for watching you."
Noah went still.
"That's new," he whispered.
---
Aria met the journalist's eyes.
"Who sent you?" she asked.
"No one," he said. "That's the problem."
---
He slipped her a card.
Not a name.
A time stamp.
A location.
"They think journalists are external," he said. "They forget we're infrastructure too."
Then he walked away.
No chase.
No follow-up.
---
Noah pulled up traffic feeds.
"That location," he said slowly, "is tied to an analytics subcontractor. Officially defunct."
Aria closed her hand around the card.
"The system didn't send him," she said.
It had attracted him.
Which meant something was leaking.
And leaks always meant pressure.
Somewhere, the architecture was starting to crack.