Genevieve paced the length of her small apartment, the only sounds being the incessant pings from her phone and the distant hum of city traffic below. She couldn't bring herself to look at the messages flooding in—some congratulatory, some venomous, others outright threatening.
She had expected fallout from her exposé, but the sheer volume of it was overwhelming. The story had only been live for 24 hours, yet it was already being dissected by every major news outlet. Hashtags bearing her name were trending on social media. She'd become a symbol of courage to some and a target of hatred to others.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, the name on the screen made her stomach churn: Marcus.
Against her better judgment, she answered. "What do you want?"
His voice was calm, almost too calm. "You're playing with fire, Genevieve. You have no idea how many people you've pissed off."
"I'm well aware," she snapped. "If you're calling to scare me, don't waste your breath."
"I'm not trying to scare you," Marcus said. "I'm trying to warn you. There are people who won't stop until you're silenced—for good."
Before she could respond, he hung up.
Genevieve stared at her phone, her heartbeat hammering in her chest. She didn't have time to dwell on Marcus's cryptic warning because another notification popped up—an email this time. She opened it cautiously, her breath catching as she read the subject line:
"You've made your last mistake."
The body of the email was blank, but the attachment—a photo of her apartment building, taken from the street—sent a chill down her spine.
Later that evening, Genevieve found herself seated in a quiet café across from Brandstone. He had contacted her earlier, his tone clipped and urgent.
"You've stirred the hornet's nest," he said as soon as she sat down.
Genevieve rolled her eyes, though her hands trembled as she lifted her coffee cup. "You think I don't know that?"
Brandstone leaned forward, his expression dark. "This isn't a game, Genevieve. These people don't issue warnings—they issue death sentences."
She met his gaze, her defiance masking the fear bubbling inside her. "I didn't expose them to stay silent, Brandstone. I knew what I was getting into."
"No, you didn't," he countered. His voice was low, dangerous, as though he were trying to will her to understand. "You don't know what these people are capable of."
Genevieve stared at him, her mind racing. Brandstone had always been enigmatic, but there was something in his tone now—something that hinted at knowledge he wasn't sharing.
"Then tell me," she challenged.
Brandstone hesitated, his jaw tightening. "I can't," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Genevieve's frustration boiled over. "You keep telling me to stop, to back down, but you won't even give me the full picture. What am I supposed to do, Brandstone? Just roll over and let them win?"
He didn't answer, his silence speaking volumes.
That night, Genevieve couldn't sleep. She sat at her desk, poring over the documents she'd collected during her investigation. Her exposé had uncovered a fraction of the corruption she suspected, but there were still so many unanswered questions.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of glass shattering. She froze, her heart leaping into her throat.
She grabbed her phone and crept toward the sound, her hands trembling. Her living room window had been smashed, shards of glass glittering on the floor.
A brick lay in the middle of the room, a piece of paper tied around it.
With shaking hands, Genevieve untied the paper and unfolded it. The message was scrawled in bold, angry letters:
"Stay silent, or you'll wish you had."
She didn't realize she was crying until a tear splattered onto the page.
The next morning, Genevieve called Brandstone.
"I need your help," she admitted, her voice small.
He arrived at her apartment an hour later, his expression unreadable as he surveyed the damage.
"This is just the beginning," he said grimly. "You need to get out of here."
Genevieve shook her head. "I'm not running."
"This isn't about running," he snapped. "It's about staying alive."
His words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. For the first time, Genevieve felt the weight of her choices pressing down on her.
"I can protect you," Brandstone said after a moment. "But only if you trust me."
She looked at him, her resolve wavering. Trusting Brandstone meant putting her life in his hands—and she wasn't sure she could afford that.
But as she glanced at the broken glass and the threatening note, she realized she didn't have a choice.