Rain drizzled nonstop over D.C., like a never-ending cry, turning the Capitol steps slick as glass—shiny enough to see your reflection. Droplets smacked the marble floors with a pitter-patter, spitting little splatters that soaked right back into the puddles. The air smelled like wet dirt and old stone, that thick, musty scent of history—all the wars, deals, riots, and compromises this town's seen, just sitting there in the rain.
Claire Hamilton clutched her dad's suicide note and booked it into the hearing room. Her heels clicked on the wet steps—tap-tap-tap—mixing with the rain, a nervous, hurry-up rhythm. The red folder pressed to her chest still reeked of the ME's office: that sharp, chemical smell, like death in a bottle. A constant reminder her dad was gone.
At 25, Harvard Law grad, Claire looked the part—polished, sharp. Her thick blonde hair was pulled back tight in a bun, showing off a smooth forehead and a long neck. Her eyes were that deep blue, like a lake up in Maine, but right now they were bloodshot—grief and rage all tangled up. She had on a black power suit, tailored perfect, making her look tall and tough, but her shoulders shook a little. You could tell she was barely holding it together.
She'd had a good thing going at a big law firm—fighting over contracts, poring over fine print. Busy, but safe. Then her dad dropped dead, and everything flipped. One minute she's drafting briefs, the next she's neck-deep in this political mess she never asked for.
The hearing room was packed, tense as a coiled spring. Senators in crisp suits sat stone-faced, murmuring to each other, sneaking looks her way. Reporters swarmed the back, cameras and recorders ready—like vultures, just waiting for something to go down. Their eyes were lit up, hungry.
Claire took a breath and plopped down in the witness chair. She set the red folder on the table, gripping the edge so hard her knuckles went white. She looked up at the committee chairman—old guy, white hair, face like a raisin, eyes sharp enough to cut glass. He was sizing her up, no doubt.
"Ms. Hamilton," he boomed, voice loud enough to echo, "walk us through your father's last days."
Claire nodded, trying to keep her voice steady. "My dad, Senator Alan Hamilton, started acting weird a week before he died. Quiet, just sitting in his study staring into space. And he did a 180 on the dam project."
"The dam project?" The chairman frowned. "That controversial one on the Lower Mississippi?"
"Exactly," Claire said. "He was all for it—pushed hard. But a week before he died, he told me it's a disaster. Said he was gonna blow the whistle here, today."
The room erupted. Cameras started flashing—click-click-click—like a bunch of fireflies having a rave. Senators leaned in, whispering, shocked.
The chairman banged his gavel. "Order! Ms. Hamilton, you got proof of this?"
Claire opened the red folder, pulled out a tiny recorder, and hit play. A hiss filled the room as the tape rolled, like static on a radio. Her dad's voice came through, crackly, mixed with a metallic scrape—sounded like he was in agony: "They faked the environmental report… knife to my throat… the blades have Masonic symbols…"
The room went dead quiet. You could've heard a pin drop. Every eye was on Claire—shock, doubt, straight-up fear.
Her chest felt like it was in a vice. Her dad? The straightest arrow in D.C., fought for the little guy his whole career. She couldn't wrap her head around it—him scared, tangled up in some scandal.
Then clink-clink-clink—metal hitting metal. Heads turned. Some guy in a fancy suit was standing by the witness stand. Tall, chiseled jaw, face like he just heard bad news.
He laid out a row of scalpels on the table. The blades threw shadows on the ceiling—like buzzards circling, waiting to dive. He moved slow, almost smooth, like he was putting on a show instead of threatening people in the middle of a congressional hearing.
"Wanna see that dam bill pass?" His voice was low, smooth, but cold as ice. He slid an ivory-handled letter opener over—had this creepy one-eyed symbol on it, exactly matching the stab wound in her dad's autopsy. "Price is simple: your dad's aide blows his brains out during the vote. Publicly."
Claire dug her nails into her palm till it bleed, but she didn't feel it. She knew that tie clip—pyramid with an eye, same as in her dad's book on the Freemasons. A memory hit her: the 1955 photo she found in his safe—seven guys in suits, standing in front of the half-built Hoover Dam, each holding the same knife. The guy on the far left? Her grandpa, back when he was Assistant Secretary of the Interior. On the back, in Hebrew: "Blood debts get paid." She didn't get it then. Now it made her skin crawl.
"You with the Freemasons?" Claire's voice shook, but she was mad—pissed. That secret club, supposed to run the world? Her dad always kept an eye on them, said they were bad news.
The guy laughed, sharp and mean. He hit his own recorder, and there was her voice—talking to a lobbyist last night, even her dumb comment: "Environmentalists are a bunch of idiots." "We're debt collectors," he said, pulling out a blade. The edge had faint red lines, like a river map. "Your grandpa cut a deal in 1950 to get the dam approved—three guys who opposed it 'disappeared.' Their great-grandson's in the gallery, third row. Blue suit."
Claire looked. Sure enough, third row, blue suit—guy staring at her, mad, sad, scared.
Chaos broke loose. Senators jumped up, yelling. Reporters pushed forward, cameras going nuts.
The chairman banged his gavel, but it sounded weak. "Ms. Hamilton, this is ridiculous! Security, get this guy outta here!"
But the guards froze when the guy looked at 'em. His eyes were like daggers—cold, sharp, made you wanna look away. "You wanna know the truth about the dam? You wanna keep this country running? Do what I say." His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the noise. "This is a deal. For the country's soul."
Claire's head was spinning. Her dad wanted the truth out. But at the cost of an aide's life? Could she do that? But if she didn't… more people get hurt, and the truth stays buried.
Her dad's voice popped into her head: "Do what's right for the most people." Maybe this was it—one life to save a bunch. To finish what he started.
She took a breath, steady. "Fine. I'll do it."
The guy nodded, like he knew she would. He grabbed his scalpels and recorder, and was gone—like he was never there.
The room settled down, slow. Senators sat back down, faces grim. The chairman cleared his throat. "Voting resumes."
They started voting. Red and green lights flashed. Claire's heart was racing, watching the numbers climb on the screen.
Final tally: 51-49. Bill passed.
Then bang! A gunshot.
Everyone jumped. Looked to the gallery. There lay her dad's aide, on the floor, blood everywhere. He had her dad's old Colt M1911 in his hand. His face looked… peaceful, like he was finally free.
Claire closed her eyes. Tears slipped out. She'd made her choice, and it'd haunt her forever. But it was done. The truth would come out.
Afterward, she stepped outside. Rain was still falling, like the sky was crying. Gray, heavy clouds. She didn't know what's next—what these "debt collectors" would want, what dangers were coming. But she knew there was no going back.
She squeezed the red folder tighter. Inside was her dad's legacy, her grit. She'd finish this. Expose the dam, take down the guys pulling the strings. No matter what.
In the rain, she looked small, but her eyes were on fire. She walked into the drizzle, vanished into D.C.'s streets. The Capitol's lights dimmed in the rain, like it was bracing for the storm ahead.
Rain dripped from the ends of Claire's hair, staining her black blazer with dark, spreading splotches. She wandered D.C.'s streets aimlessly, her heels sloshing through puddles with a splat-splat rhythm, as if keeping time with the weight in her chest. The buildings lining the blocks blurred behind a misty haze; the white marble columns that once screamed power and legacy now loomed like silent giants, watching her small figure with cold indifference.
She walked until the warm glow of a café cut through the rain, drawing her in. The bell above the door jingled as she pushed inside, chasing out the chill. The place was half-empty, soft jazz floating over the rich, roasted scent of coffee—just enough to ease the tightness in her shoulders.
Claire slid into a window seat, ordered a black coffee. Steam curled upward, fogging both her vision and the rainy world outside. She pulled out the red folder, prying it open carefully. Inside, alongside her father's suicide note and the recorder, were a few yellowed sheets—notes on the dam project she'd dug up in his study.
Her fingers traced the dense text and charts. Her father's handwriting was bold, purposeful, each stroke carrying the weight of his dedication. That such an honest man could meet such a brutal end… Claire's eyes stung.
"Need a sugar packet?" A soft voice asked.
Claire looked up. A waitress in a white apron stood there, holding a sugar bowl, her smile easy. "No, thanks." Her voice came out scratchy, worn thin.
The waitress lingered, sighing softly. "Saw the Capitol Hill news on TV. That aide who shot himself… real tragedy."
Claire's chest tightened. Word had spread faster than she'd thought. "What do you know about it?" she pressed, leaning in.
The waitress glanced around, then dropped her voice. "My cousin's a cop. He said the guy's death was weird—funny marks, like he wasn't in control. And there's been other accidents lately, folks tied to that dam project."
Claire's pulse kicked up. The waitress's words confirmed what she'd suspected: her father's death and the aide's suicide weren't random. Something bigger, uglier, was at play. "Do you know who's behind it?"
The waitress shook her head. "Not really. My cousin clammed up, told me to let it go—said it's too deep, too messy." With that, she headed back to the counter.
Claire sipped her coffee, the bitterness clinging to her tongue. She knew the warning: digging deeper meant danger. But she couldn't stop. Her father's last wish, the aide's sacrifice—they wouldn't let her quit.
Her phone buzzed. An unknown number popped up. She hesitated, then swiped to answer.
"Ms. Hamilton. Enjoying the quiet?" The voice was smooth, familiar—the man in the tailored suit from the hearing.
Claire stiffened, her grip on the phone tightening until her knuckles whitened. "It's you. What do you want?"
"Relax," he chuckled. "Just a tip: the dam's fake environmental report is in City Hall archives. File 731. Getting it? That's your call."
"Why tell me this?" Claire asked, suspicion coiling in her gut.
"Curious if you've got the guts to keep going." His tone turned playful. "Remember—curiosity killed the cat." The line went dead.
Claire stared at the screen, the call-ended notification glowing. She didn't trust him, not one bit, but the lead was gold. She paid her tab, grabbed the folder, and bolted back into the rain, heading for City Hall.
Rain pelted her face, cold and sharp, but she barely felt it. One thought burned: get that report, expose the dam's lies.
City Hall's archives were in the basement—dank, air thick with mildew and age. Claire flicked on a flashlight, weaving through rows of towering file cabinets, their surfaces caked in dust, like no one had touched them in years.
Finally, in a dim corner, she found the cabinet holding 731. She pulled out the file box, opened it gently. The papers inside were brittle, yellowed, threatening to crumble. She spread them out, holding the flashlight steady, and read.
The more she read, the paler she got. The report was a sham—data fudged, findings cooked. It claimed the dam would barely ruffle the ecosystem, but the truth, buried in fine print and contradictory notes, told a horror story: the structure would flood acres of forest and wetlands, wiping out endangered species. Worse, the design was flawed, with weak spots that would blow in heavy floods, putting millions downstream at risk.
"Quite a find, isn't it?" A cold voice spoke from behind her.
Claire spun, flashlight beam hitting the man's face. It was the tailored suit guy, standing silent in the shadows, twirling a small scalpel, its blade glinting faintly.
"What do you want?" Claire's voice trembled, but she clutched the report tight to her chest.
He stepped closer, a strange smile tugging at his lips. "I'm helping you. Finish what your father started."
"Helping?" Claire scoffed. "You had my father killed. Pushed his aide to suicide. Now you play hero?"
"I'm just enforcing a contract," he said flatly. "Your grandfather signed it. Debts get paid. Your father, his aide—they're just the first payments."
"What contract? What did my grandfather do?" Claire demanded.
He stopped, studying her. "You sure you want to hear this? The truth might break you."
Claire nodded, jaw set. "I need to."
He sighed. "Your grandfather cut a deal to get the dam greenlit. We cleared the way—silenced the opposition. The price? Every Hamilton generation pays for the project. Your father's death, the aide's suicide—this is just the start."
Claire's mind went blank. Her grandfather—gentle, wise in her memories—capable of that? "No. That's impossible."
"Is it?" He nodded at the report. "He faked this. Sacrificed lives for his career."
Claire looked at the signature—her grandfather's, unmistakeable. The familiar loops now felt like a betrayal, sharp as a knife in her chest. The room spun, and she stumbled.
He caught her, his hand cold and strong. "Two choices. Hand over the report, let the truth out—your grandfather's name burns, the Hamiltons are ruined, and you're next. Or burn it, forget this, go back to your life… and live with the guilt."
Claire's mind raced, torn between family and justice. Her father's voice echoed—do what's right, even when it hurts—and she thought of the aide, of the lives at stake if the dam failed, of all the lies.
She breathed deep, resolve hardening. "I'll expose it. All of it."
He raised an eyebrow, like he was surprised, then his face went neutral. "Admirable. But remember—there's no going back."
Claire said nothing. She tucked the report into the folder, turned toward the exit. Her steps were heavy, but steady.
When she emerged from City Hall, the rain had stopped. The moon peeked through clouds, casting a pale glow over the street. She knew hardship and danger waited, but she was ready.
She looked up at the moon, and for a second, she swore she saw her father's face, and the aide's, smiling. I'll make it right, she promised silently. I swear.
Claire clutched the folder tight and walked on. Her shadow stretched long in the moonlight, a lone fighter pressing through darkness, toward the faint but unyielding light of justice.