I didn't sleep.
Not a second.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that line glowing on my screen again — You shouldn't have seen that.
I could still feel Jacob's hand on the power button, the way his jaw tightened when the lights flickered. He'd said nothing after that, just walked me down the elevator in silence, eyes scanning every corner like he expected someone to follow us.
I barely remember getting home. Now, morning sunlight filters through my blinds, painting my walls in soft stripes. It should've been calming, but even the quiet feels wrong — too sharp, like the city is holding its breath.
I shower, dress, and walk to the subway on autopilot. People brush past me, talking about normal things — coffee, deadlines, rent — but all I can think about is how easily life keeps going after something monstrous.
When I reach Nexora Tower, the mirrored glass feels colder than usual. My reflection looks… different. Fragile, maybe. Or just haunted.
Inside, everything hums with the same efficient rhythm — heels clicking, printers whirring, polite smiles everywhere. I can almost convince myself that the night before was just a nightmare.
Until I log in.
My password doesn't work.
I try again.
And again.
Access denied.
My stomach twists. "No," I whisper under my breath. "No, no, no—"
"Miss Hart?"
I spin around. Mr. Jung stands behind me, hands clasped, his expression unreadable.
"Everything all right?" he asks.
"I… my system won't let me log in."
He leans in, eyes narrowing. "Strange. IT must be running a security sweep. Don't worry — we take privacy very seriously here."
I nod, but his words sound like a warning.
As he walks away, I notice the two security guards stationed near the elevators. They weren't there yesterday.
They know.
The thought flashes through my head like lightning. I grip the edge of my desk until my knuckles ache.
"Hey," someone says quietly.
I turn. Jacob's standing there, coffee in hand, eyes cautious but calm. "You okay?"
I swallow hard. "Do I look okay?"
"Not really." His voice softens. "Come on. Let's talk."
We end up in the break room, empty except for the humming fridge. He closes the door behind us.
"Someone's watching me," I blurt out. "My login's blocked, there are guards everywhere—"
He sets his coffee down, his eyes locking onto mine. "Listen. You can't let them see you panic. That's how they know."
I laugh shakily. "Know what? That I'm terrified?"
"That you're guilty of seeing something you shouldn't have."
The way he says it makes my breath catch.
"So you're admitting it," I whisper. "You saw it too."
He's silent for a long time. Then finally: "Yeah."
That one word makes my heart stutter.
"I was on the top floor that night," he says quietly. "I was supposed to deliver a report to Mr. Cross. But when I got there…" His voice trails off. "I stayed in the hallway. I heard everything. When I looked inside, it was already over."
I don't realize I'm shaking until he reaches out, steadying my hand.
"Why didn't you say anything?" I ask.
"For the same reason you didn't." His gaze is steady, but there's pain in it. "Because no one would believe us. Because people who talk disappear."
My throat tightens. I want to argue, but deep down, I know he's right.
"What are we supposed to do then?" I whisper. "Pretend it didn't happen?"
He hesitates, then says, "Pretend… for now. But not forever."
There's something in his tone — a quiet conviction that scares and comforts me at the same time.
Before I can ask what he means, someone opens the break room door. It's just another employee, yawning, grabbing a bottle of water. But the moment breaks, and Jacob steps back, slipping his mask of calm professionalism back on.
"Get some air," he murmurs before leaving. "And don't open any emails you don't recognize."
The rest of the day feels like walking through fog.
Every phone ring makes me flinch. Every time someone passes by, I expect them to stop and call my name. When I finally escape the office, it's already dark, rain streaking down the glass doors.
I find Jacob outside, standing under the awning, smoking. The soft glow of city lights paints his face in shades of amber and gray.
"You shouldn't smoke," I say before I can stop myself.
He smirks faintly. "You shouldn't stay late."
Touché.
We fall into step together, walking toward the subway. The rain drums softly against the pavement, and for a moment, I almost feel… safe. Like if I just keep walking beside him, the world can't touch me.
"You said earlier — pretend for now," I say finally. "What did you mean?"
He exhales, watching the smoke twist upward. "I mean you can't fight something like this head-on. You play their game until you know how to win it."
"You sound like you've done this before."
He hesitates. "Maybe I have."
The way he says it — the darkness in it — makes me curious and afraid all at once.
We reach the subway entrance. I stop, turning to face him. "Who are you, Jacob?"
He looks at me for a long time, the city lights reflecting in his eyes. "Just someone who stopped believing in heroes a long time ago."
Before I can reply, he disappears down the steps, leaving me in the rain with a heart full of questions.
That night, I dream of voices — whispers in dark hallways, my name echoing through static. When I wake, my phone buzzes with a new message. No sender.
They're watching both of you.
Jacob's apartment smelled faintly of old paper and coffee. The blinds were always closed, and the faint glow of computer monitors painted the room in icy blue.
I sat hunched over my desk, scrolling through data logs. Every file told a story, and every story ended the same way — silence.
There were names. Dates. Transfer records. My brother's was there too.
Ethan Reed.
Nexora Security — "terminated" three years ago. The official report said he died in a car accident. The photos I'd found said otherwise.
I rubbed my face with my hands. I'd been digging for months, gathering proof of what Cross had built this empire on. Lies, blood, and fear. But I was still missing one thing — a witness.
Now, fate had handed me one.
Lily Hart.
I didn't want her dragged into this. But the second she saw that murder, it was already too late.
My phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.
Keep your distance from her if you want to live.
My grip tightened. "You should've stayed dead, Cross," I muttered under my breath.
But the truth was, he'd already found me once.
And if he did it again, I wasn't sure either of us would survive.
I didn't go to work the next morning right away.
I sat on the edge of my bed, phone clutched in both hands, staring at the message.
They're watching both of you.
The words didn't look real. But the cold knot in my stomach told me they were.
For a moment, I thought about calling Jacob — but what would I even say? Hi, some ghost hacker thinks we're being hunted? He already knew. Maybe he'd even expected it.
The rain had stopped by the time I stepped outside. The city felt muted, like the air itself was listening. I kept glancing over my shoulder — the man by the newspaper stand, the black car parked too long at the corner. Maybe they were just people. Maybe I was losing my mind.
At the office, everyone looked the same — perfectly put together, perfectly indifferent. I smiled when spoken to, typed when told to, and ignored the tremor in my hands.
Then I saw it.
On my desk sat a plain white envelope. No name. No markings.
My heart stumbled. I looked around, but no one seemed to be watching. Slowly, I slid it open.
Inside was a single photograph.
Me.
Standing by my apartment window. Last night.
I dropped it. The paper fluttered to the floor, landing face-up — that eerie image staring back at me. My breath came in shallow bursts. I crouched, trembling, to pick it up again, but my fingers wouldn't close.
"Lily?"
I turned. Jacob was there, holding a stack of folders. When he saw my face, his expression changed instantly.
"What happened?"
I couldn't speak. I just held up the photo.
He took it, his jaw tightening as he looked. Then he looked at me — and there was something fierce in his eyes, something that scared and comforted me all at once.
"Who gave you this?"
"I don't know," I managed. "It was just… there."
He looked around the room, then back at me. "Come with me."
I followed him out, heart pounding. We didn't stop until we reached the emergency stairwell — empty, echoing, the kind of place sound goes to die.
He turned on me. "Listen to me carefully. You can't go back to your apartment tonight."
"What? Why?"
"Because someone was close enough to take this photo," he said, holding it up. "That means they know where you live. They're not just watching — they're warning you."
I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to steady my breathing. "What do they want?"
His voice dropped. "Control. Fear. Silence."
I sank onto the stairs, my mind spinning. "This is insane. I didn't do anything. I didn't want any of this—"
"I know," he said softly. "Neither did I."
He sat beside me, the faint scent of rain and coffee clinging to his shirt. For a while, neither of us spoke. I listened to the distant hum of the city below, the faint creak of the stairwell.
Finally, I said, "You said you've done this before. What did you mean?"
He hesitated. His eyes met mine — dark, tired, honest.
"My brother used to work for Nexora," he said. "He believed in this company. In Cross. Until he found something he wasn't supposed to."
"What happened to him?"
Jacob's jaw clenched. "They said it was an accident. I saw the photos. It wasn't."
I wanted to say something, anything — but all I could do was reach out and touch his hand. He didn't pull away.
"That's why you're still here," I whispered. "You're trying to finish what he started."
He nodded slowly. "I was close. But Cross is careful. He wipes everything. Files, people, memories. He's a ghost who builds empires out of bones."
I stared at him, feeling something twist in my chest — fear, anger, maybe admiration. "Then why help me?"
"Because you saw what he's capable of," he said quietly. "And now he knows your face."
He stood, pacing. "If we don't do something soon, you'll end up like the others. That message wasn't a threat — it was a countdown."
I covered my face with my hands. "Oh my God…"
"Hey," he said softly. I felt his hand on my shoulder, grounding me. "Look at me."
When I did, his voice gentled. "We'll get through this. I promise."
"How?" I asked. "He's everywhere. Everyone works for him. Even the police—"
"Not everyone," Jacob said. "I have a few people who still owe me favors. They can hide us, at least for a while."
I stared up at him, blinking through tears I hadn't realized were falling. "Why are you doing this for me?"
He looked away. "Because I couldn't save my brother. Maybe I can save you."
Something broke inside me then — not fear, not relief, but something rawer.
We left work early that day. Jacob told Mr. Jung I wasn't feeling well. He didn't argue. Maybe he already knew something we didn't.
The rain started again as we walked through the city. Jacob led the way, glancing over his shoulder every few steps. His hand brushed mine once, briefly, accidentally — but I didn't move away.
We stopped at a small diner on the edge of Midtown. Neon lights flickered over chipped countertops and empty booths. The smell of coffee and fried food filled the air.
He ordered black coffee for himself, hot chocolate for me. We sat in silence, pretending to be ordinary people on an ordinary night.
Finally, I said, "If you had the chance… would you kill him? Damian Cross?"
Jacob didn't answer right away. He stirred his coffee, watching the swirl of steam. "Killing him wouldn't fix anything. But I think about it sometimes."
I swallowed. "I think I would too."
He looked up then, meeting my eyes. For a second, the tension between us shifted — something unspoken but heavy, like we were standing at the edge of a storm.
"I don't want you to lose yourself in this," he said quietly. "What you saw — what we both saw — it changes people. Don't let it take the part of you that's still good."
I wanted to tell him it was too late for that. That the moment I saw that man die, some piece of me had already cracked. But I just nodded.
Outside, a car engine idled. Jacob's gaze flicked toward the window. "We should go."
We rode the subway in silence. I could feel eyes on us — or maybe just imagined them. Every reflection in the glass looked distorted. Every announcement over the intercom sounded like a warning.
When we finally reached my stop, he grabbed my arm gently. "Not here," he said. "You're coming with me."
"Jacob—"
"No arguments," he said firmly. "If you stay there tonight, you won't wake up in the morning."
The seriousness in his voice left no room for protest. I nodded, my throat tight.
We walked through dim streets until we reached an old apartment building near the river. The hallway smelled faintly of dust and old paint. His apartment was small but warm — books stacked everywhere, files spread across the desk, a half-broken lamp by the couch.
"Nice place," I murmured.
He gave a small, humorless smile. "It's a mess. Sorry."
"It's real," I said softly. "That's more than I can say for most things in this city."
He handed me a blanket. "You can take the bed. I'll crash on the couch."
I shook my head. "No. I'll take the couch."
"Lily."
"Jacob."
We stared at each other for a second before he sighed. "Fine. Couch it is."
I smiled faintly. "Thank you. For… everything."
He shrugged, but there was warmth in his eyes now. "Don't thank me yet. Tomorrow might be worse."
I laughed quietly, though it came out more like a sigh.
When he turned off the lights, the room fell into shadows. I lay on the couch, listening to the rain against the window. Every now and then, I heard him move — papers rustling, the click of a keyboard.
Sleep came slowly, dragging me down into uneasy dreams.
Somewhere between waking and dreaming, I heard him whisper — maybe to himself, maybe to me:
"You're not safe here."
My voice came out barely audible. "Then where can I go?"
There was a pause. Then his answer, low and certain:
"With me."
That was the moment I knew — whatever this was between us, fear or fate or something deeper — it was already too late to turn back.