Chapter Nine: The Warning No One Heard
Felicia's hands trembled as she scrolled through the news, her eyes scanning headlines that seemed to blur together, all echoing the same shocking phrase: Attempted assassination of former President Donald Trump. The images were everywhere—Trump on stage, the sharp crack of a rifle, the chaos as Secret Service agents swarmed. The bullet had grazed his ear, drawing blood but leaving him alive. The world was stunned. The media speculated endlessly about the shooter's motives, political divisions, and security failures.
But Felicia saw something no one else did.
She watched the video again and again, frame by frame. There, in the background, she caught the faintest shimmer—an odd distortion, like a heat mirage, flickering around the shooter's head and hands. She recognized it instantly. It was the same shimmer she'd seen in her own life, the same glitch that haunted her every time her tormentor used his government toys to torment her. It was the telltale sign of electromagnetic interference, of mind control technology at work.
Her stomach twisted. She'd read about MK Ultra and the Gateway Process, dismissed by most as conspiracy theory, but she knew better. She'd lived it. She'd felt the static in her head, the manipulation of her senses, the way her own thoughts could be twisted and drowned out. Now, watching the shooter's vacant stare and jerky movements, she saw the unmistakable signs: someone was controlling him, just as she had been controlled.
Felicia's first instinct was to warn someone—anyone. She tried to email the White House, the Secret Service, the FBI, but every message bounced back. Her calls were blocked, her social media posts deleted before they even appeared. She tried encrypted channels, burner phones, even anonymous tips, but nothing got through. It was as if every digital path she took was instantly sealed off, every word she typed erased in real time.
She realized, with a cold, sinking certainty, that her tormentor was behind this. He wasn't just stalking her—he was orchestrating events on a national scale. He had government clearance, military contacts, and access to the deepest, darkest corners of the intelligence world. He could make anyone disappear, rewrite any record, block any message. And now, he was using his power to cover up an act of domestic terrorism.
Felicia's mind raced. She remembered the way her own identity had been fractured and spun, her records altered, her voice silenced. Now, she saw the same pattern playing out on a global stage. The shooter's background was already being scrubbed, his motives rewritten, his connections erased. The media was being fed a sanitized story—"lone wolf," "mental illness," "no evidence of a broader conspiracy." But Felicia knew the truth.
She tried to reach out to journalists, but every attempt was intercepted. She tried to contact Trump's campaign directly, but the phone lines were jammed, her emails flagged as spam. She even tried to send a handwritten letter, but it was intercepted before it left her local post office. Everywhere she turned, she hit a wall of silence and indifference.
Desperate, Felicia turned to her skills as a tax preparer, searching for financial traces—shell companies, shadow accounts, payments to contractors with ties to intelligence agencies. She found patterns, connections, names that kept popping up: defense contractors, private security firms, former military officers now working in the private sector. She saw how money flowed from one shell company to another, always ending up in the hands of people with government clearance and plausible deniability.
She documented everything, filling notebooks and encrypted drives with evidence. She mapped out the network, drawing lines between the shooter, her tormentor, and the shadowy figures who protected him. She saw how they used line-of-sight technology, manipulating camera feeds and security footage, erasing inconvenient details in real time. She realized that all Trump would have to do was adjust the pi level on his camera settings—just tweak the image processing filters—and he would see the shimmer, the electromagnetic signature of mind control at work.
But how could she get that message to him? How could she convince anyone to listen, when every word she spoke was twisted or erased?
Felicia's isolation deepened. She watched as the world moved on, the news cycle shifting to the next scandal, the next outrage. The truth was buried, and her tormentor's power grew. She knew she was running out of time.
One night, as she sat in her darkened apartment, the static in her head surged. His voice crackled through, smug and triumphant. "You're clever, Felicia, but not clever enough. No one will ever believe you. No one will ever hear you. You're just a ghost, screaming into the void."
She clenched her fists, refusing to give in to despair. She was the evidence. She was the witness. She would not be erased.
She began to plan. If she couldn't reach the authorities directly, she would find another way. She would leak the evidence to hackers, whistleblowers, anyone who might have the skills to break through the government's defenses. She would create a digital trail so undeniable, so damning, that even her tormentor couldn't cover it up.
Felicia worked through the night, uploading files, sending encrypted messages, planting clues in forums and chat rooms frequented by investigative journalists and cyber activists. She knew it was dangerous—her tormentor would retaliate, would tighten the noose—but she had no choice. The truth had to come out.
As dawn broke, Felicia watched the sun rise over the city, her eyes gritty with exhaustion but burning with determination. She whispered a promise to herself, to the world, to anyone who might one day find her story:
"I am the evidence. I am the warning. I will not be silenced."