Chapter 2 — A Warning Written in Silence
The message did not leave Myra's mind.
Stop asking questions.
The words echoed with a quiet authority, not like a threat spoken in anger, but like a certainty already decided. Whoever had written it knew her movements, her habits, her investigation.
Which meant one thing.
She was close to something important.
And someone wanted her to stop.
The university archives smelled of old paper and forgotten history. Dust floated in thin streams of sunlight as Myra carefully turned the brittle pages of a decades-old newspaper.
Missing persons.
Unreported incidents.
Unregistered businesses.
A pattern was beginning to form — small details scattered across years, connecting powerful names, unexplained deaths, and sudden disappearances that had never reached public attention.
Every trail ended the same way.
No records.No witnesses.No answers.
Only silence.
"Looking for something specific?"
The sudden voice behind her made her freeze.
The archivist stood at the end of the aisle, his expression unusually tense. His eyes shifted toward the documents spread across her table.
"You should be careful with those files," he said quietly. "Some histories are better left untouched."
Before she could question him, he walked away.
Another warning.
Another silence.
That evening, rain fell heavily across the city, blurring the streets beneath a veil of grey. Myra stepped out of the archive building, pulling her coat tighter as thunder rumbled in the distance.
Something felt wrong.
The street was too empty.The air too heavy.
She had taken only a few steps when a black car stopped abruptly beside the pavement. Its windows were dark, concealing whoever sat inside.
The door opened slightly.
No one stepped out.
No voice called her.
Only an invitation.
Her instincts screamed danger. She stepped back.
The car door slowly closed again, and the vehicle disappeared into the rain without a sound.
A message without words.
A warning without explanation.
That night, sleep refused to come.
Myra sat by her desk, reviewing her notes. Names connected to hidden companies. Locations of suspected meetings. Financial records that didn't make sense.
And one recurring detail.
A symbol.
A small black crest that appeared in multiple documents — subtle, almost invisible, yet always present where power and secrecy intersected.
She traced its shape carefully in her notebook.
A circle enclosed by broken lines.
A mark of control.
A mark of something organized.
Something dangerous.
A sudden sound broke the silence of her apartment.
A faint movement near the window.
Her breath caught.
The curtains shifted slightly, though the window was closed. The room felt colder, heavier — as if unseen eyes filled the darkness.
Slowly, she approached.
Her hands trembled as she pulled the curtain aside.
Across the street, beneath the flickering streetlight, stood the same man.
Still.
Unmoving.
Watching.
Rain fell around him, yet he made no attempt to seek shelter. His dark figure remained fixed, as if he had been standing there for hours.
Waiting.
For her.
Anger rose stronger than fear. Without thinking, she rushed downstairs and into the storm.
"Why are you doing this?" she demanded, confronting him.
Up close, the rain traced sharp lines across his face, yet his expression remained unchanged. His gaze held the same unsettling calm.
"You should not be alone at night," he said quietly.
"That's not an answer."
Silence.
His eyes briefly shifted toward her apartment building — scanning, assessing — before returning to her.
"You are being watched," he said.
A chill ran through her. "By you?"
A pause.
Then, softly, "Not only by me."
Before she could respond, the distant roar of an engine shattered the moment. A motorcycle sped around the corner, its rider moving too fast, too directly toward them.
The stranger's reaction was immediate.
He pulled Myra sharply aside just as the vehicle rushed past, missing her by inches. The rider never slowed, disappearing into the rain-soaked darkness.
Her heart pounded violently.
"That wasn't an accident," she whispered.
The stranger released her arm, his expression darker than before.
"You are running out of time," he said.
"Time for what?"
But he did not answer.
Instead, he stepped back into the shadows, leaving her standing alone in the rain — shaken, confused, and filled with questions.
Later that night, as Myra reviewed her notes again, something new caught her attention.
A document she had not placed there.
A photograph.
Taken from a distance.
It showed her leaving the archive earlier that day.
On the back, written in the same precise handwriting as before:
You were warned.
Her hands trembled.
Someone had entered her apartment.
Someone had been close enough to watch her every move.
And somewhere in the city, hidden beyond her sight, forces far more dangerous than she had imagined were already deciding her fate.