I didn't sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, the same image replayed, Tara on the screen, crying, begging, her voice breaking as if it were glass cracking under pressure. And behind her, the quiet certainty of the person holding the camera. Not rushing. Not threatening. Just… waiting.
Morning came without warning. Pale light crept through the blinds like it was afraid of what it might find inside the room.
I sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, hands clasped together so tightly my fingers ached. My phone lay face-up beside me. Silent. That silence was worse than the messages. It felt like a countdown I couldn't see.
I kept thinking about what the woman had said.
You adapted.
The word clung to me like a stain.
I'd always believed survival was passive—that you endured, that things happened to you. But adaptation was active. It meant learning the rules fast enough not to be crushed by them. It meant changing.
And that terrified me.
My phone buzzed at exactly 9:12 a.m.
Unknown: We need to talk. In person.
My heart skipped.
Me: Where?
A pause. Longer than usual.
Unknown: Somewhere neutral. Somewhere you'll feel safe.
I almost laughed.
Me: When?
Unknown: Thirty minutes.
Another message followed immediately.
Unknown: Come alone.
I stared at the screen. My instincts screamed don't go. Every part of me that still believed in consequences, in logic, in the idea that people like me didn't survive situations like this, told me to stay exactly where I was.
But Tara's face rose in my mind again.
So I grabbed my jacket and left.
The café was small and nearly empty, one of those places people passed without noticing. Soft music. Neutral colors. No mirrors. No windows facing the street.
Strategic.
I chose a table near the back, my back to the wall. I ordered coffee I didn't want just to look normal.
My hands shook as I lifted the cup.
Five minutes passed.
Ten.
Then the chair across from me moved.
I didn't look up immediately. I knew better now.
"Thank you for coming," the woman said calmly.
I raised my eyes.
She looked the same as before, neat hair, composed expression, eyes that missed nothing. She wore a different coat this time. Darker. Less official. Like she was blending into a role instead of stepping out of one.
"You said neutral," I replied. "This doesn't feel neutral."
She smiled faintly. "Neutral enough."
I clenched my jaw. "Where is Tara?"
"Alive," she answered without hesitation. "Agitated. Regretful. Still breathing."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting today."
I leaned back, crossing my arms to stop them from shaking. "You showed me someone else. Someone I know. Someone you didn't explain."
Her gaze sharpened slightly. "You recognized them immediately."
"Yes."
"Good."
"That's not good," I snapped. "That means you're manipulating me."
She didn't deny it. "It means you're paying attention."
I took a slow breath. "What do you want?"
She folded her hands on the table. "We want to understand the network around him. Around them. And whether your involvement ends where you think it does."
"I'm not involved," I said. "I was pulled in."
Her eyes flicked briefly to my phone, then back to me. "No one stays uninvolved once they know this much."
I hated that she was right.
"You said I missed something," I said quietly. "What did I miss?"
She studied me for a moment, as if weighing how much damage a truth could do. Then she reached into her bag and slid a thin envelope across the table.
"Open it."
My pulse spiked. I hesitated, then peeled it open.
Inside was a printed photo.
I sucked in a sharp breath.
It was Tara. Younger. Standing beside him. And beside someone else.
Me.
My knees went weak.
"That's not..." I started.
"You don't remember," the woman said gently. "That's the point."
I stared at the image, my mind scrambling. I did recognize the place. A party. Years ago. Loud music. Too many people. Too much alcohol.
I remembered leaving early.
I remembered Tara insisting I stay.
I remembered nothing after that.
"What does this mean?" I whispered.
"It means," she said, "you were closer to the beginning than you thought."
My chest tightened painfully. "You're saying I was there."
"Yes."
"You're saying I knew."
"No," she corrected. "You were made to forget."
The café felt suddenly too small, too bright. "That's impossible."
"Memory is fragile," she replied. "Especially when someone wants it to be."
I pushed the photo back toward her. "I didn't do anything wrong."
"I believe you," she said.
That scared me more than accusation ever could.
"Then why show me this?" I demanded.
"Because the person you saw in the video last night?" she said calmly. "They believe you're the weak link."
My blood ran cold.
"They think if they break you," she continued, "everything else collapses."
I swallowed. "And you?"
"We're wondering if you're stronger than you think."
I stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. "I didn't agree to be part of this."
She looked up at me, unbothered. "You agreed the moment you chose not to walk away."
I shook my head. "This ends now."
She rose slowly as well. "It doesn't."
Her phone buzzed.
She glanced at it, then looked back at me, this time with something close to concern.
"They're moving sooner than expected," she said. "Which means you have a decision to make."
My voice trembled. "What decision?"
She leaned in slightly. "You can disappear. We can help with that."
"And Tara?"
She didn't answer.
"Or," she continued, "you can stay visible. Let them think you're still controllable."
"And what happens then?"
Her eyes locked onto mine. "Then you find out what they're really hiding."
A notification lit up my phone.
A message.
From a number I did recognize.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Tara: If you're reading this, it means I couldn't protect you anymore. I'm so sorry.
I looked up.
The woman was already stepping back.
"They've chosen their next move," she said quietly.
My phone buzzed again.
This time, it wasn't a message.
It was a live location request.
From inside my own apartment.