LightReader

Chapter 15 - Chapter 15: The Sound of Scratching

The seven words from Sarah Jenkins landed in my inbox like a coded message from a war zone. He's dirtier than you think. Stay quiet. Stay safe. It was a confirmation, a warning, and a death sentence all in one. The validation I felt was a brief, exhilarating rush—the story was real, she was on it, the wheels of justice were turning. But this initial relief was immediately swamped by a tidal wave of ice-cold dread. Sarah wasn't just telling me she had the story; she was telling me the story was dangerous. She was warning me that the hornet's nest had been kicked, and the hornets were now aware they were being hunted.

I immediately forwarded a screenshot of the email to Kevin. His reply came less than a minute later. My place. Now.

Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in Kevin's apartment. It was nothing like I had expected. I'd pictured some kind of mystical dojo, filled with ancient scrolls and exotic artifacts. Instead, it was a clean, minimalist space in a modern high-rise with a stunning view of the city. The only hints of his secret life were a series of framed, intricate calligraphic drawings on one wall and the ever-present canvas duffel bag resting by the door.

He studied the screenshot on my phone, his expression grim. "This is good and bad," he said, echoing the conflict raging in my own mind. "It's good because it means she's hooked. Sarah Jenkins doesn't waste time on stories that don't have legs. If she's telling you he's dirty, she's already found something to corroborate your evidence."

"And the bad?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"The bad," Kevin said, meeting my eyes, "is the 'stay safe' part. That's not something she says lightly. It means she believes Finch is a genuine threat. And now, he's a cornered threat. He knows someone is digging into his past. He doesn't know who, but he'll be looking. He'll be tearing his company apart trying to find the source of the leak. He's going to be paranoid, volatile, and dangerous."

Jessica's presence, which had been a low hum of vengeful satisfaction since my emails went out, now congealed into a familiar, sharp spike of fear. She knew this man. She knew his capacity for ruthless self-preservation. Her fear was a primal warning, a ghostly instinct telling me that the predator was now on high alert.

"So what's our move?" I asked.

"We do exactly what she says," Kevin stated, his voice leaving no room for argument. "We lay low. We become ghosts, figuratively this time. No more freelance investigating. No more poking the bear. You go to work, you come home. You become the most boring man in Chicago. My job is to watch our six, to keep an eye out for anything… unusual. Both physically and metaphysically."

The next week was a masterclass in paranoia. My life, which had become a chaotic whirlwind of supernatural encounters, was now forced into a state of suspended animation. The waiting was a heavy, suffocating blanket. Every day, I'd perform the ritual of normalcy. I'd take the 'L' train to my cubicle, losing myself in the anonymous sea of commuters. At the office, I'd stare at spreadsheets until my vision blurred, the mindless repetition a strange sort of meditation.

But my senses were screaming. Every time my manager walked past my desk, I'd feel a jolt of adrenaline. Every time an IT technician worked on a nearby computer, I was convinced they were secretly installing spyware to monitor me. I analyzed every conversation, every sideways glance, searching for signs that Finch's internal witch hunt was closing in on me. The mundane had become menacing.

My tiny apartment, once my sanctuary, now felt like a cage. I stopped ordering food delivery, suddenly paranoid about who might be at my door. I subsisted on canned soup and instant noodles, the diet of a man under siege. The nights were the worst. Every creak of the old building, every distant siren, was the sound of discovery, the sound of Finch's retribution coming for me.

The only respite was my daily "training" with Kevin. We'd meet at a different location each day, and he would guide me through the shielding exercises. The practice became my anchor. It was a proactive step, a small way of fighting back against the overwhelming sense of powerlessness.

"You're getting better," he noted one afternoon as we sat on a bench overlooking the grey waters of the Chicago River. "Your shield is still more like a picket fence than a brick wall, but it's something. You're not leaking as much."

"I feel like I'm going crazy," I confessed, watching a tour boat glide by, filled with smiling tourists in a world I no longer recognized. "Just waiting. It's worse than fighting the monsters."

"Sometimes waiting is the fight," Kevin said quietly. "Patience is a weapon, Alex. And right now, it's the only one we're allowed to use."

I could feel Jessica's frustration with this strategy. Her essence was a constant, impatient thrum against the inside of my mental shield. She wanted action, confrontation, revenge. This silent, defensive crouch was torture for her. I had to constantly fight to keep her emotional bleed-through from overwhelming me. Patience, I would think, directing the thought at her. Let the scorpion do her work.

The quiet broke on a Tuesday night.

I was in my apartment, half-watching a mindless sitcom on my laptop, trying to pretend it was a normal evening. The black phone, which had been silent for over a week, suddenly lit up on my coffee table. But it wasn't the familiar ping of a completed assignment or the urgent buzz of a new one. It was a single, stark notification, displayed in a pulsing, amber-colored font. A warning.

[System Alert: Unsanctioned Metaphysical Entity has breached your designated safe zone. Nature: Thaumaturgic Tracking Sigil. Threat Level: Unknown. Recommend immediate evasive maneuvers.]

I stared at the screen, the words swimming in front of my eyes. Breached your safe zone. My apartment. Tracking Sigil. Someone wasn't just looking for me with human methods. Someone was looking for me with magic.

As the full meaning of the alert crashed down on me, I felt a familiar psychic jolt. It was Jessica, reacting not with anger or impatience, but with a surge of pure, unadulterated terror—a terror I recognized instantly. It was the same fear she felt when she thought about Harold Finch.

My blood ran cold. Finch. He hadn't found me through corporate channels. He had escalated. He had hired someone like Kevin.

At that exact moment, I heard it. A sound from the hallway outside my apartment door.

It wasn't the sound of footsteps. It wasn't the sound of a neighbor fumbling with their keys. It was a soft, dry, scratching sound. The sound of something brittle and sharp being dragged across the wood of my door. Scratch. Scrape. Scratch.

I froze, every muscle in my body locking up. My apartment was on the top floor. No one should be at my door.

I crept silently from the couch, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I was sure it must be audible. The scratching stopped. It was replaced by a low, whispering hiss, like dry leaves skittering across pavement. It sounded like it was coming from the bottom of the door, from the mail slot.

My eyes were glued to the door, my mind screaming. The system alert on the phone still pulsed with its amber light. Recommend immediate evasive maneuvers. But there was nowhere to go.

The doorknob began to turn. Slowly. Silently.

Finch had found me. And he hadn't sent a lawyer.

More Chapters