Detective Samuel Kiplagat had learned that corruption in Valmere was not an infection; it was an organ. You couldn't remove it without killing the host.
He'd been reassigned from Elias Hart's case after his report "contradicted studio findings." But he hadn't stopped looking. The fall, the doctored autopsy, the missing surveillance footage — they all formed a puzzle that wanted to be solved by someone foolish enough to care.
Maya found him in a coffee stall near the docks. He looked older, eyes gray from sleeplessness.
"You shouldn't be here," he said when she sat across from him. "They're watching me."
"They're watching everyone," Maya said. "But they don't know what to look for."
He studied her. "You changed your face."
"Just my name."
"And what do you want from me?"
"Truth," she said. "And a name."
He exhaled, rubbed his jaw. "Cassian Vale."
Maya's silence confirmed everything.
"He has friends everywhere," he warned. "People vanish when they threaten his profits."
"I don't vanish," Maya said quietly. "I multiply."
He almost smiled, then thought better of it. "If you're serious, you'll need evidence."
"I already have it," she said. "I just need the world to see it."
---
That night, Maya broke into the storage level of Vanthe Studios. The corridors were silent except for the hum of servers and the slow drip of an air vent. The keycard she'd stolen from Cassian's assistant opened every door.
Inside one glass room were files—contracts, ledgers, recordings. She found the one labeled Project Seraph—Elias's last work. Within it: forged signatures, unpaid royalties, and something else—a letter of complaint Elias had filed a week before his death, accusing Cassian of blackmail.
Maya's fingers trembled as she traced his handwriting. The letter had never been sent.
Then the lights flickered.
A voice behind her said, "You shouldn't be here."
She turned. Cassian's head of security—tall, lean, with a smile that didn't touch his eyes—stood in the doorway. He reached for the alarm switch.
Maya didn't speak. She slid the shard of glass from her coat pocket, its edge dulled but symbolic. Under the humming lights, she moved with precision learned long ago from her family's tutors—swift, silent, efficient.
When she walked out moments later, the alarm never sounded. The security guard would live, though his pride would not.
Outside, rain soaked the streets. Maya walked through it, the stolen files pressed to her chest, the city's glow bending around her like a halo of false redemption.