Elara Quinn POV
The alarm did not ring.
Elara was already awake.
Her heart was beating fast, like she was late for something important. She sat up in bed and checked her phone. December 1st. 5:02 a.m.
She smiled before she could stop herself.
Today was the first day of the Christmas Hope Drive.
She jumped out of bed and pulled on her shoes, moving on pure energy. Outside, the sky was still dark. The city felt quiet, like it was holding its breath. Elara loved this hour. It felt like the world belonged only to people who cared enough to wake up early.
As she locked her door, her phone buzzed.
A reminder flashed on the screen.
Toy inventory. Donation logs. Volunteer sign-ins.
Her chest tightened, not from stress, but from excitement.
"Okay," she whispered. "Let's do this."
The bus ride felt too slow. Every stop made her tap her foot harder. She kept thinking about the boxes of toys waiting at the community center. About the families who would walk through those doors in just a few weeks. About the kids who would wake up on Christmas morning and feel seen.
Christmas mattered to her because it always had.
When Elara was seven, Christmas meant watching other kids leave group homes with smiling families while she stayed behind. It meant paper snowflakes taped to windows and a dinner that ended too early. It meant pretending not to care.
But when she was sixteen, Grace Patterson had changed everything.
Grace had walked into the group home carrying food and laughter and warmth. She had looked Elara straight in the eyes and said, "You matter."
That night, Elara believed it.
That was the Christmas she decided she would never stop helping.
The bus doors opened with a loud hiss. Elara stepped off and headed for the Riverside Community Center. Her breath came out in small white clouds. She fished her keys out of her bag, her hands shaking from the cold and excitement mixed together.
The door clicked open.
Inside, the lights were off. The building felt still and quiet, just how she liked it. Elara flipped on one light, then another, moving fast. She set her bag down and pulled out her notebook. She loved this part. The planning. The work before the noise.
She opened the storage room and froze.
One of the boxes was open.
Elara stepped closer. Toys spilled out onto the floor, messy and uncounted. Her stomach dropped.
"No," she murmured.
She knelt and started checking labels. The seal on the box was broken. This box had been logged yesterday. She knew it had. She remembered writing the number down.
Her heart pounded as she flipped through her notebook. The number was there. Clear and neat.
Something was wrong.
She stood up fast and looked around. The room was empty. Too empty. The air felt tight.
"Hello?" she called, her voice echoing.
No answer.
Elara told herself not to panic. It was probably nothing. Maybe someone came in late. Maybe a volunteer moved things and forgot to tell her.
Still, her hands would not stop shaking.
She bent down and carefully packed the toys back into the box. She resealed it and wrote a note to double check the count later. She hated loose ends. Loose ends turned into problems.
She moved into the main room and powered up the computer. The donation spreadsheet loaded slowly. Elara tapped her fingers on the desk, her eyes scanning the screen.
The total appeared.
$47,000.
She let out a breath. Everything looked right. Still, that open box stayed in her mind like a warning she did not understand.
"Elara?"
She jumped.
Marcus Chen stood in the doorway.
She forced a smile. "You scared me."
Marcus stepped inside, smooth and calm, like he belonged everywhere. "Sorry about that. I saw the lights on and figured you were here. You always are."
"I like starting early," she said.
He glanced at the computer screen. "Looks like a great year already."
Elara nodded. "It's not about the number. It's about what we do with it."
Marcus smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. "Of course. Still, people love numbers. They like seeing results."
She felt that small twist of discomfort again. "I usually wait until everything is handed out."
"That's old school," Marcus said lightly. "These days, visibility matters."
Elara closed the spreadsheet. "Families matter more."
For a moment, his smile tightened. Then it was gone.
"I admire your heart," he said. "Really. It's why the board trusts you."
That should have felt good. It did not.
Elara nodded and turned back to her work. She did not see Marcus leave. She only noticed when the room felt quiet again.
She tried to shake the feeling off.
The morning moved fast. Volunteers began to arrive. The building filled with voices and movement. Elara answered questions, signed forms, and directed people where to go. She smiled until her cheeks hurt.
Still, her eyes kept drifting back to the storage room.
At noon, she checked the box again.
Everything was still there.
She told herself she had imagined the problem.
By late afternoon, Elara finally sat down. Her phone buzzed with a message from Grace.
Proud of you. Don't forget to eat.
Elara smiled and typed back a heart.
As she slipped her phone away, she noticed something else on the desk. A small flash drive. Black. Plain.
She frowned.
That had not been there before.
She picked it up slowly, her fingers cold.
"What's this?" she whispered.
Her mind raced. She never left things like this lying around. She was careful. Always careful.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
Elara turned.
Marcus Chen stood in the doorway again.
This time, he did not speak.
He leaned against the frame, watching her with a calm, measuring look. His smile was soft, practiced, and wrong.
"You're working too hard," he said gently.
Elara held the flash drive tighter. "Did you leave this here?"
Marcus's eyes flicked to her hand. Just for a second.
Then he smiled wider.
"That," he said, "is something we'll talk about soon."
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"What does that mean?" she asked.
Marcus stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. The click echoed too loud.
"You're doing amazing things, Elara," he said. "And amazing things attract attention."
The flash drive felt heavy in her palm.
"Attention can be dangerous," he added quietly.
Elara swallowed.
For the first time that morning, she felt afraid.
And she did not know why.