The data drive sat in Hale's palm like a loaded weapon. No name, no return address—just the weight of something dangerous and unfinished. He turned it over once, then twice. The words written in permanent black marker on the side still echoed in his head:
"It's not over."
He should've tossed it. Should've ground it under his heel and walked away. But Matthew Hale had never been good at walking away. Not from the truth. Not from ghosts. Not from the war he thought he'd finally left behind.
He powered up the old laptop tucked under a pile of dusty case files. It still booted up slow as hell, but it wasn't connected to the internet—just the way he liked it for things that smelled like trouble. He inserted the drive.
A single folder blinked open.
"PROJECT NIGHTFALL."
Inside: a mess of encrypted files, a few photos, and one video. He opened the video first.
Static. Then a flickering image—blurry at first—until it focused on a man, mid-40s, glasses, thinning hair, speaking fast and nervous into the camera.
"My name is Alan Drexler. I worked in logistics under Blackstar—what you think is a consulting firm, but it's not. It's a front. They're running deep operations—surveillance, clean-ups, asset conversions. People are being disappeared. If you're watching this, you're already on their radar."
The man looked over his shoulder. "They're going to find me. But someone needs to know. Someone who'll fight back. Look up... Operation Emberlight. Start there."
The feed cut off.
Matthew leaned back, hands steepled under his chin. Blackstar. That name again. He'd heard it in the whispers from Moretti's files—never directly, but always nearby. They'd made him an offer once. Now they were showing their teeth.
A knock shattered the silence.
Matthew's hand went to the pistol tucked under the table. He moved slow. Quiet. Then another knock—two quick taps, then a pause, then one more. A code. Someone who knew his rhythm.
He opened the door.
Standing in the hallway was a familiar face: a wiry young man in a hoodie, nose crooked from a dozen street fights, eyes darting like he was still running from something.
"Red," Hale muttered.
The kid grinned. "Told you I'd owe you one. Guess I'm paying up."
Red pushed inside without waiting for an invite, eyes scanning the room. "They're moving, Matt. Hard. Blackstar's cleaning up anything Moretti left behind. That journalist? The one trying to do a follow-up story on your takedown? He's dead. Looks like a robbery, but it ain't."
Hale tensed. "You saw the footage?"
"I pulled it before the cops could wipe it. It was a message. And they know you've got the drive."
"How?"
Red pointed at the ceiling. "Because your place is wired. You got at least three bugs and a pinhole camera in the smoke detector. Want me to fry 'em?"
Matthew nodded slowly. "Do it."
Red got to work, pulling out a pouch full of signal scramblers and tools. As he worked, Hale stared at the frozen screen on his laptop—Alan Drexler's frightened face mid-sentence.
The war wasn't over.
It was only just beginning.