The note in the pen box still sat on Sofia's kitchen table, lit by the cold dawn filtering through her window. She hadn't slept. Her laptop hummed softly beside a stack of printed shipping logs; each document felt heavier now that she knew someone else was reading over her shoulder.
She poured herself another cup of coffee that had gone bitter and stared out across the river. Verrencia looked calm in the early light—gulls looping over the water, ferries slicing through the mist—but she could sense the machinery behind the calm. Someone owned every ship, every dock, every whisper.
Isabella called as the first drops of rain began again.
"Morning, detective," her friend said. "You sound terrible."
"Didn't sleep," Sofia admitted.
"Still on the port thing?"
"I found a connection. A company called Verrencia Imports. It's a shell for something larger."
"You think it's him?"
"I know it is," Sofia said quietly. "And I think he's trying to decide what to do with me."
"Then do what any sane person would—run."
Sofia smiled faintly. "You forget, I don't do sane."
---
That evening, miles away, Ramond adjusted his cufflinks in a room of mirrors. The meeting was held in the upper floor of the old opera house—its chandelier cracked, its balconies heavy with dust. Verrencia's political core gathered there under the guise of a charity gala: ministers, investors, the mayor himself.
Adrian handed him a slim dossier. "Your latest acquisition—Verrencia Imports. Profitable, but the port workers are nervous. They talk about a reporter."
Ramond flipped the pages without looking down. "Do they know her name?"
"Not yet. But Albrecht's men are asking questions."
Ramond looked up at the mirrored ceiling, where a dozen reflections of himself stared back. "Then we move first."
Adrian hesitated. "There are easier ways to silence her."
"I'm not interested in silence," Ramond said. "I'm interested in control."
He stepped into the light of the main hall. Applause rippled as the mayor greeted him—though most of the crowd didn't know whom they applauded. To them he was still the faceless investor, the shadow benefactor whose mask had become a legend.
When the speeches began, Ramond slipped away to a side corridor, phone in hand. He typed a single message to an encrypted number:
> Stop chasing ghosts. Meet me tomorrow—Hotel Avenir, Room 712. Alone.
He didn't sign it. He didn't have to.
---
The message arrived just after sunset.
Sofia was packing up her notes when her phone buzzed; the number had no caller ID, only the single line of text:
> Stop chasing ghosts. Meet me tomorrow—Hotel Avenir, Room 712. Alone.
She read it three times. The sensible part of her brain said delete it, take it to Marcus, or the police. The other voice—the one that whispered find out—was louder.
She spent an hour walking along the river, rain turning her coat heavy. Her mind replayed every encounter: the masked man at the gala, the warning at the docks, the pen, the photograph. If she met him, maybe she could finally understand who he really was, what he wanted, and why the city bent around his name.
By the time she returned home, she had already decided she would go.
---
Hotel Avenir sat on one of Verrencia's steepest hills, its stone façade glowing like honey under the streetlights. The lobby smelled of cedar and old money. Sofia paused at the reception desk, told herself she was there to investigate, not to be intimidated, and took the elevator to the seventh floor.
Room 712's door was slightly ajar.
"Of course," she muttered. She pushed it open.
The room was dim; curtains drawn, one lamp lit near a glass table. No sign of him. Only a folder on the table and a single glass of water.
She stepped inside, leaving the door half-open. "Mr Black?"
The door clicked shut behind her. She spun around.
He stood there, coat removed, black shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms. No mask tonight. The shadows hid enough of his face to keep the mystery intact, but not the intensity of his gaze.
"You came," he said quietly.
"Curiosity," she managed. "Journalists have that problem."
"Curiosity gets journalists killed."
"And silence gets the world darker," she shot back.
He studied her for a long moment. "You keep trying to paint me as the villain in your story."
"If you don't want to be written that way, maybe stop acting like one."
He almost smiled. "If only it were that simple."
Sofia took a step closer to the table, pointing at the folder. "What's this?"
"Information. Everything you've been chasing about the port project. Proof of who's really running it—and why your father's company is involved."
The last words hit like a slap. "My father?"
Ramond's voice stayed calm. "He doesn't know the details. He signed what they put in front of him. But you'll print the story before checking, won't you?"
She hesitated, anger and disbelief fighting inside her. "You could have told me this before sending your men to threaten me."
"They were meant to protect you."
"I didn't ask for that."
He stepped closer. "No. But you have it now."
The air between them grew tight, a mixture of challenge and something neither wanted to name. Sofia finally tore her gaze away. "I'll read the file. Then I decide what to do."
"Good." His voice softened. "But when you do, remember that every truth has a cost. Be sure you can afford it."
---
Outside, the rain began again, tapping against the hotel's tall windows like a clock counting down. Sofia clutched the folder to her chest, aware that whatever she decided next would bind her fate to his world—whether she wanted it or not.