The Aerodyne Dynamics press conference began precisely at 9:00 a.m.
No delay. No falter. The broadcast faded in with surgical smoothness — the company's sleek logo pulsing across the screen before giving way to the calm, composed face of CEO Victor Hales.
He stood behind a clear podium in a dark suit, silver tie knotted with precision, expression set in mournful solemnity. The backdrop was stark: a black-and-white photo of Dr. Elias Merren projected high above, captioned simply: In Memory.
Victor began.
"We are deeply saddened to confirm the passing of Dr. Elias Merren. Elias was more than a scientist. He was a visionary. A man whose brilliance helped elevate Aerodyne to the forefront of technological advancement."
Noah Stroud sat alone in his apartment, watching.
He hadn't moved much since last night. The TV light flickered off the half-shadowed walls, illuminating nothing but cold silence and uneaten food. The flash drive sat on the coffee table, untouched.
Victor continued.
"Though Elias was intensely private, we now believe he struggled in silence. His sudden death has left a void we cannot easily fill—but in honoring his memory, we will carry his work forward with renewed focus."
Noah muted the volume.
His jaw clenched.
Merren hadn't been struggling. He hadn't seemed depressed. He was quiet, yes, but never distant. He had plans—for their project, for something bigger, something buried beneath the layers of Aerodyne's stacked systems.
And now they were saying he took his own life.
Noah stood up, walked to the kitchen, then stopped. He stared back at the flash drive.
Level 43 of Aerodyne HQ. One hour later.
Victor Hales entered the boardroom without ceremony. The wall-to-wall windows let in a flat, filtered gray light. A live feed of the press conference looped silently on the corner screen.
Around the long, polished table sat Aerodyne's inner circle.
Lucien Brex, Head of Security and Compliance, adjusted his cufflinks and nodded as Victor approached. Across from him, Nora Vex, Legal Counsel, tapped twice on her tablet and slid it aside.
Victor took his seat at the head of the table.
"Let's begin," he said, voice clipped. "What did we lose?"
Brex answered.
"We pulled the access logs from Merren's home terminal before the police locked it down. There's a gap. A USB connection was made roughly thirty-four minutes before local authorities arrived."
Nora leaned forward.
"Encrypted files were accessed. Flagged as restricted tier-three. Most pertain to autonomous drone testing and early field simulations."
"Was anything traced back to our network?"
"No," Brex said. "The files were removed. Whatever Merren was working on is outside our system now."
Victor steepled his fingers.
"Do we have a name?"
"Not yet. The device was air-gapped, no ID signature. But we've launched a sweep of all terminal logs from the past seventy-two hours. We'll find them."
Nora raised a brow.
"If someone inside Aerodyne took those files—"
"Then they'll surface," Victor interrupted. "One way or another."
He stood, moving to the windows.
The city below stretched outward in steel-gray silence. Rain began to tap faintly against the glass.
"We won't plug the leak," Victor said quietly. "We'll trace it."
Noah sat on the edge of his bed, the flash drive resting in his palm.
He had told himself he wouldn't open it. That it wasn't his place. That the right thing was to turn it in.
But the press conference replayed in his mind—every polished word, every choreographed pause. It wasn't grief. It was a cover.
He plugged the drive into his laptop.
The screen blinked once. A folder appeared, encrypted but labeled simply: MERR-CORE.
A password prompt.
He tried three guesses. Failed.
Then he typed something else: the name of the drone they built together—K-10. It worked.
Inside were dozens of files. Logs. Test footage. Internal memos.
One file stood out, marked in red: RED_WINTER.log — Encrypted
Another had Merren's voice.
A recorded message. Short.
"Noah. If you're hearing this… you know by now they'll never admit what they did."
Noah closed his eyes, the audio still playing.
"Don't expose them yet. Just learn. Understand what they're building. Then decide."
Noah sat in silence, the glow of the screen the only light in the room.
He'd turned on the storm.
And there was no turning back.