Eva

3

________

The coffee shop is nearly empty, just the way I like it. The barista hums a familiar pop song while wiping down the counters, and the scent of espresso lingers in the air. Normally, this kind of setting would calm me—quiet, predictable, safe. But tonight, my nerves are on edge.

I adjust my seat, pulling my notebook closer as I glance at the door. Martin Caldwell is late, and I can’t decide if that’s a bad sign or just typical ex-corporate behavior. Twenty minutes have passed, and I’m still nursing the same lukewarm latte, my mind looping back to last night’s text:

“Stay out of this, or you’ll regret it.”

The logical part of me says it’s just a scare tactic, a bluff to make me drop the story. But my gut tells me otherwise. That message wasn’t random. Someone knows I’m looking into Kane Enterprises, and they want me to stop.

The barista glances my way, her brow furrowing slightly, probably wondering why I’m still here. I glance at my phone, scrolling through notes from last night’s insomnia-fueled research session. Caldwell’s name popped up in two old articles buried under layers of corporate PR—a rising star at Kane Enterprises who left under a cloud of suspicion. Officially, he was fired for mishandling confidential data. Unofficially? The rumors pointed to something much messier.

That alone makes him worth my time. Add the fact that he agreed to meet me in this dingy coffee shop, and I’m practically salivating over what he might reveal.

The door swings open, and a man walks in. He’s taller than I expected, with a scruffy beard and an air of nervous energy. His eyes dart around the room before landing on me.

“ Stone?” he asks, his voice low and rough.

“That’s me.” I motion for him to sit.

Caldwell slides into the chair across from me, his gaze flicking to the door, then back to me. He doesn’t have the polished look of a former tech executive—no tailored suits, no corporate sheen. Instead, he looks like someone who hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in months.

“You said you wanted to talk about Kane Enterprises,” he says, folding his hands on the table. “I’m not sure how much help I’ll be.”

“We’ll see about that.” I keep my tone casual, letting him think he’s in control. “Let’s start with why you left.”

His lips press into a thin line. “I didn’t leave. I was forced out.”

“Why?”

Caldwell hesitates, his fingers drumming on the table’s edge. “Officially? They said I violated an NDA. Unofficially… I started asking questions they didn’t want me to ask.”

My pulse quickens. “What kind of questions?”

He leans forward, his voice dropping. “The kind that get you blacklisted in this industry. Kane Enterprises isn’t just a company—it’s a fortress. Layers upon layers of security, and not just for their tech. People who get too close to the truth tend to… disappear.”

“Disappear?” I echo, skepticism laced with curiosity.

“Not like that,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “I mean professionally. Their careers vanish. No one will hire them, no one will work with them. It’s like they don’t exist.”

“Are you saying Dominic Kane orchestrates this?”

Caldwell shrugs, his expression darkening. “I don’t know how involved he is personally. But his company isn’t clean. They’ve made a lot of enemies—some powerful, some dangerous. And if you’re digging into whatever’s happening now, you need to be careful.”

I sit back, processing his words. It’s not a smoking gun, but it adds weight to the rumors I’ve been chasing.

“What about the recent leaks?” I ask. “Do you think they’re coming from inside the company?”

Caldwell’s gaze flickers to the door, his tension palpable. “I don’t know for sure, but it wouldn’t surprise me. A company like Kane Enterprises has a lot of people with access to sensitive information. Not all of them are loyal.”

I narrow my eyes. “And you wouldn’t happen to know anyone specific, would you?”

His expression hardens. “I agreed to meet you because I thought you’d ask the right questions, not because I want to end up in someone’s crosshairs. If you’re looking for names, you’re asking the wrong guy.”

I sigh, closing my notebook. “Fine. Let me ask you one last question, then.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Why did you agree to meet me?”

For the first time, Caldwell smiles—a bitter, humorless twist of his lips. “Because someone needs to take Kane down a notch. And maybe you’re the one crazy enough to do it.”

The air feels heavier when I step outside. The street is quiet, the hum of distant traffic the only sound. I slip my notebook into my bag, my mind churning with Caldwell’s cryptic warnings.

He’s holding something back—probably out of fear. And I can’t blame him. If even half of what he said is true, I’ve stumbled into the middle of a very dangerous game.

I pull my phone from my pocket, intending to jot down notes while the conversation is fresh. But as I unlock the screen, a prickle of awareness creeps up my neck.

I stop walking, my grip tightening on the phone. The feeling is subtle but unmistakable—the sense of being watched.

I glance over my shoulder, scanning the dimly lit street. A man stands near the corner, half-hidden in shadows. He’s wearing a dark hoodie, the hood pulled low over his face.

For a moment, we’re locked in a silent standoff. Then he turns and disappears around the corner, his shadow melting into the night.

My pulse pounds as I stand frozen on the sidewalk. Was he watching me? Or just some random guy out for a late-night walk?

The unease curling in my stomach feels more like instinct than overreaction. I shake it off and keep moving, my steps quick and purposeful.

By the time I reach my building, my nerves are frayed. The apartment, usually a sanctuary, feels like a joke when I can’t shake the sense of danger pressing closer. I bolt the door behind me and drop my bag onto the counter.

I flip open my notebook, scanning the notes I scribbled during the meeting: “Kane Enterprises has enemies on both sides of the law. People who get too close to the truth tend to disappear.”

The words feel heavier now, loaded with implication. Caldwell’s warnings echo in my mind, louder than before.

My phone buzzes on the counter, and I grab it instinctively. The number is blocked.

The message is short, but the weight of it punches through me:

“You were warned, Ms. Stone. Walk away, or the next message won’t be so polite.”

I stare at it, my breath catching in my throat. The glowing screen feels like a taunt.

Without hesitation, I take a screenshot. Deleting the message might feel safer, but I’ve learned better than to erase evidence.

This isn’t intimidation anymore. It’s a threat.

The apartment feels too quiet, the shadows too deep. I flood the room with soft light, but it barely scratches the surface of my unease.

Pacing the small living room, I replay Caldwell’s words: “Kane Enterprises isn’t just a company—it’s a fortress.”

The logical thing to do would be to walk away. Let this story go before it pulls me under.

But that isn’t who I am.

I grab my laptop, pulling up every file I’ve saved. The pattern of leaks, sabotage, and cover-ups points to a calculated attack on Kane Enterprises. But the bigger question remains: Who’s behind it, and why?

Dominic Kane’s warning echoes in my mind: “Don’t dig where you don’t belong.”

Too late for that.

As dawn breaks, I sit on the couch, exhaustion tugging at me, but the fire in my chest keeps me awake. I’m not walking away. Not now. Not ever.

If Dominic Kane is the key to this story, I’ll find him. And I’ll get the answers—no matter what it costs.

The sky outside my window begins to shift from black to muted gray as the first hints of dawn creep in. The city is waking up, but I’m still wide awake, my thoughts tangled in the chaos of the last few hours.

The message on my phone feels like a living thing, its weight pressing against my chest. “You were warned, Ms. Stone. Walk away, or the next message won’t be so polite.”

It’s a threat, plain and simple. But it’s also a warning. Someone out there is watching me, monitoring my every move, and they’re not shy about letting me know it.

I pace the small living room, my notebook clutched tightly in one hand, the other scrolling through my phone. The shadowy figure from earlier, the blocked number, Caldwell’s cryptic warnings—it’s all spinning in my head, and none of it is adding up.

Could Dominic Kane be behind this? He warned me at the gala not to dig, but his tone felt like a man protecting his empire, not someone actively threatening me. Caldwell made it clear that Kane Enterprises has enemies—powerful ones—and they don’t play by the rules.

But why target me? I’m a journalist, not a hacker. I haven’t even published anything yet. Unless… they see me as a threat simply because I’m asking the wrong questions.

The thought doesn’t comfort me.

I sink onto the couch, flipping open my notebook. Caldwell’s words stare back at me, a jumble of paranoia and half-answers: Kane Enterprises is a fortress. Enemies on both sides of the law. People disappear.

I underline the word fortress . That’s what Kane’s world is: carefully controlled, meticulously secured. So how does someone like Caldwell—a fired engineer who looks like he’s been living off vending machine dinners—fit into this?

And then there’s the leaks.

Caldwell hinted they might be coming from inside the company, but he stopped short of naming anyone. Is he afraid? Or is there more to the story?

The memory of his bitter smile flashes in my mind. “Someone needs to take Kane down a notch.”

Whoever sent me that message doesn’t just want me to stop digging—they want me to vanish, professionally or otherwise. I can’t let that happen.

I close my notebook and head to the kitchen, the clink of the glass against the counter breaking the silence as I pour a fresh drink of water. The apartment feels too quiet, the kind of silence that amplifies every creak of the floorboards and every distant hum of the building’s pipes.

My gaze drifts to the window, the faint orange glow of sunrise washing over the skyline. Normally, the view would calm me. Now, it feels like an illusion—a serene backdrop hiding unseen threats.

I set the glass down and grab my laptop, pulling it open on the counter. It hums to life, the soft blue glow spilling onto my notebook.

A quick search pulls up Caldwell’s name again, but the same scant details flash on the screen: fired from Kane Enterprises for breaching confidentiality agreements, no public interviews, no social media presence. It’s as if he’s tried to erase himself from the world.

I lean forward, digging deeper. An archived industry forum thread catches my eye, buried on the third page of search results. The comments are dated nearly six months ago, around the time Caldwell was fired.

User 1: “Big shake-up at Kane. Anyone know what happened to Caldwell?”

User 2: “He got too close to something. They’re saying it was more than just breaching an NDA.”

User 3: “Caldwell was working on something classified. He asked too many questions and paid the price.”

I highlight the text, copying it into my notes. Whatever Caldwell was involved in, it’s clear his departure wasn’t as simple as corporate politics.

I scroll further, catching another fragment of conversation:

User 4: “If Caldwell talked, Kane would have bigger problems than a few leaks.”

User 5: “He won’t talk. He knows better. People like him always do.”

A chill snakes down my spine. Caldwell did talk—to me. And judging by the warning text I received, someone doesn’t want me sharing whatever I’ve learned.

I sit back, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. The pattern is becoming clearer, but the motives remain elusive.

I glance at the clock. It’s just after six, and the rest of the world is stirring. Normally, I’d be winding down after a sleepless night, but the thought of closing my eyes feels impossible. My mind is racing too fast, connecting threads that shouldn’t exist.

The figure from the street lingers in my memory. Was he following me? Watching me? Or was it my imagination running wild?

The unease sitting in my stomach says otherwise.

I grab my phone and scroll through my messages, stopping at Kara’s last text:

Kara: , don’t be stupid. You can’t report a story if you’re dead.

She’s right. Of course, she’s right. But the idea of backing off feels like a betrayal—not just to my instincts, but to the work I’ve poured myself into.

I hover over the keyboard, typing and deleting my response twice before finally settling on something simple:

Me: Still alive. I’ll call you later.

Her reply comes almost instantly:

Kara: That’s not comforting. Be careful, okay?

I smile faintly, setting the phone down. Kara has always been my safety net, the person who reminds me to take a breath when I’m teetering on the edge.

But this isn’t the kind of story you walk away from. Not when you’re this close.

I pull up Dominic Kane’s name, the familiar flood of articles and profiles filling the screen. His public image is unshakable: innovator, genius, untouchable. But I know better than to trust the PR-crafted narrative.

Kane Enterprises is a fortress, but even the strongest walls have cracks. Caldwell is proof of that. The leaks are proof of that.

A nagging thought takes hold as I skim the headlines. Kane warned me at the gala not to dig, but his tone was protective—like he wanted to shield me from something, not threaten me. Could he be aware of the dangers swirling around his company? Or is he part of the machinery working to silence me?

The possibilities twist in my mind, each one more unsettling than the last.

I close my laptop and stand, the tension in my shoulders making every movement feel heavy. I need air, something to clear my head. The apartment feels too small, the walls pressing in.

Grabbing my coat, I step out into the hallway, the morning light filtering through the narrow windows. The city hums to life around me as I step onto the sidewalk, the distant roar of traffic blending with the chatter of early risers.

But the unease from last night hasn’t left me.

I keep my steps brisk, my eyes scanning the faces around me. Every shadow feels like it’s hiding something. Every passerby feels like they’re looking just a little too closely.

The paranoia is suffocating.

I turn onto a quieter street, the crowds thinning as I walk toward the park. The crisp morning air stings my cheeks, but it does little to soothe the tension knotting my stomach.

A sudden sound—a sharp click of a camera—makes me stop.

I whirl around, scanning the street behind me. A man in a dark jacket stands near the corner, a camera slung casually around his neck. He looks away when our eyes meet, his movements too quick, too practiced.

It could be nothing. Or it could be Lang.

My chest tightens as I step toward him, my heart pounding in my ears.

“Hey!” I call out.

The man doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns and slips into the crowd, his pace deliberate but unhurried.

I hesitate for half a second before breaking into a jog, weaving through the morning foot traffic.

But when I reach the corner, he’s gone.

By the time I return to my apartment, my nerves are frayed. The encounter feels like confirmation—someone is watching me. Someone who doesn’t want me to know they’re there.

The text message, the shadowy figure, the man with the camera—it’s all connected. I’m sure of it.

I bolt the door behind me and lean against it, my breath coming in uneven bursts. The safety I felt within these walls has evaporated, replaced by a cold certainty: I’ve crossed a line, and there’s no turning back.

The message on my phone echoes in my mind:

“Walk away, or the next message won’t be so polite.”

For a brief moment, I consider Kara’s advice. Let the story go. Walk away. Save myself.

But then I think about Caldwell’s warnings, the cracks in Kane Enterprises, the shadowy network of enemies working to bring it all down.

This isn’t just about me. It’s about the truth.

And I’m not backing down.