Morning light hit my face like it had a personal grudge. Warm, bright, unforgiving. I groaned and rolled onto my side, but sleep didn't come back. Yesterday crashed into me all at once. The fear. The rush. The way everything lined up too cleanly, like the worldube Goldberg machine of bad decisions.
I stared at the ceiling, heart already beating faster than it should.
I couldn't back down now.
I stood and faced my PC, stopping just short of touching it. The screen was dark, innocent-looking. Like it hadn't dragged me headfirst into something that could bury me alive. Funny how objects never look guilty.
"Baby! Get up! Breakfast is ready!"
Then, sharper. "And don't touch that computer before you eat!"
Mom's voice cut straight through my spiral. Like a tether yanking me back into the real world. I left my room and immediately got hit with a nag, a lecture about posture, and a kiss on the cheek.
Spoiled rotten. Guilty as charged.
Breakfast was laid out neatly. Oats, fruit, milk, biscuits. Balanced. Deliberate. My weak stomach dictated half our grocery list. Fruit was non‑negotiable. So was sunscreen. So were tinted windows. SPF bottles outnumbered lotion like it was a competition.
Weak body. Stubborn mind.
I inherited Mom's fragile genes. Albinism. Sunlight didn't just annoy me, it punished me. My regular checkup was coming up too. Friday morning. Tomorrow.
Great timing.
No pets allowed in the house, so tech became my comfort instead. My coping mechanism. Mom never forced me out of my room or threatened to take my PC away. She understood. Her coping was cleaning and lofi playlists on repeat. Mine was screens, silence, and control.
After breakfast and a quick peck on the cheek, I went back to my room. Door unlocked. Always unlocked. Secrets weren't hidden behind locks in this house. They were hidden behind routine.
I sat down.
Second video.
This one gave me more than faces. The alley was narrow, cramped, like it swallowed sound. A dirty white dog wandered into frame. An ascal. One ear torn, half-healed. That detail stuck. Dogs like that didn't survive everywhere.
Somewhere between Mid City and Lower Junction.
The bricks mattered too. Old. Chipped. Dark stains that weren't recent. A cigarette butt crushed near the wall. A spa poster peeling at the corners, promising relaxation in a place that had none.
I cross‑referenced CCTV feeds, rolling back timestamps until patterns aligned. It felt less like searching and more like assembling a puzzle that wanted to be solved.
11:42 PM. January 12th.
It was February now. Too recent to ignore.
I followed the white SUV across cameras, frame by frame, location by location. My chest tightened when I caught the license plate clearly.
Fake. Probably.
Probably wasn't good enough.
I needed confirmation. Which meant involving people. Which meant risk.
I hated this part.
I searched again, deeper this time, and found two freelancers tied to the auto industry and insurance. Not law enforcement. Not criminals either. The kind of people who answered questions for the right tone and the right timing.
I inserted a burner SIM into my phone, routed it through my PC, and altered my voice. Lower. Flat. Nothing like me.
Ring.
"Hello? Mark speaking."
"Cutting to the chase," I said. My voice didn't shake, even if my hands did. "White SUV. Plate number—" I fed him a random string.
"Oh. Vehicle check? Hold on."
I stayed on the line. Hanging up too fast could leave traces. Silence stretched. My pulse ticked in my ears. Then he came back.
"SUV purchased December 4th. Buyer's a man in his forties. Kyle Milson. Brunette. Beard. Neck tattoo."
"Thank you," I said. "I'll contact you again. Soon."
I ended the call and let the phone die in my hand. Burner SIM snapped out and crushed between my fingers like it had offended me personally.
Next: insurance.
Marie Wilson.
Same setup. Same precautions. Same artificial calm.
"Car accident on December 28th," she said. "Minor, but documented."
That was enough.
Another SIM destroyed. Names logged. Numbers tagged. Everything labeled with codes, not identities. The rule was forming whether I acknowledged it or not.
Kyle Milson had a record.
Which meant the police already knew him.
I leaned back in my chair, exhaled slowly, and stared at the ceiling again.
I wasn't inventing justice. I was stitching gaps closed.
And that meant only one thing.
"I guess I'm calling Charlie again."
The thought didn't scare me anymore.
That scared me more than it should have.