Cindy watched the night through the window; the city below breathed like a living organism waiting to be swallowed. The lights, as always, did their part in hiding the truth. Neon signs scattered across puddles, breaking and multiplying, making everything seem brighter than it was. Cindy knew these tricks.
The truth did not shine.
The truth was silent.
The folder on her desk was like an unopened wound. Untouched, yet clearly capable of pain. It had been there for half an hour. Cindy measured time this way—not by the clock, but by how many times she nearly gave up.
She sat down. Her shoulders did not relax. A body trying to relax was unreliable; Cindy had learned that years ago. When she opened the folder, the paper made a sound far too loud. Even the room treated this name cautiously.
Jay.
One word.
Incomplete.
Intentional.
No last name. No fixed address. No photograph. A void in the digital world. Yet Cindy loved voids. Because the conscious absence of something often made more noise than its presence.
Not a man, she thought.
A structure. A hub.
She turned the computer screen toward her. Connections, indirect relationships, veiled deaths. Nothing was straightforward; everything circled Jay carefully, shifting direction without touching his name.
"You swore never to get dirty," she whispered unintentionally.
Her voice hung in the void.
The first reaction to men like this was never attraction. Cindy had tested this countless times. The first feeling was always unease. An undefined pressure. A step back.
And then curiosity.
Always curiosity.
She picked up her phone. Her editor's name lingered at the top of the screen, but she didn't call. There were stories that belonged to no one yet—stories Cindy kept to herself.
She noticed her reflection in the window. Her face looked calm. Not her eyes.
If I'm doing this, she thought, I won't do it halfway.
Just as she was about to close the folder, her phone buzzed.
The number was unknown.
The message was short and unnecessarily controlled.
💬 : That file isn't for you.
Her heartbeat shifted. Not faster, but heavier. Cindy's lips parted, but she didn't breathe. The first reflex was not fear. Nor the second.
Quick, she thought. But not quick enough.
Her fingers hovered over the screen. Responding did not mean agreeing. But silence could be confession too. Cindy had never chosen to remain silent.
I know you're watching, she thought. But you're not touching yet.
She paused before typing. This pause had preceded most of the decisions in her life. Then she wrote.
💬 : You're wrong. It's exactly for me.
When she hit send, the air in the room shifted. She had felt this many times—threats—but this was different. This was not a warning. This was an introduction.
Cindy stood. She walked to the window. Reflexively, she looked across at the neighboring building.
Third floor.
No, fourth.
Lights came on in a dark apartment. Not new. Newly noticed.
Details revealed themselves to Cindy this way.
Ridiculous, she thought. He can't see me.
Yet the thought had already taken root in her mind.
For now.
She closed the folder. The zipper sounded slower. Control hid in small things.
As she put her phone in her pocket, another message arrived.
This time, only one sentence appeared.
💬 : Curiosity kills journalists.
Something resembling a smile appeared on Cindy's face. Cold, brief, owner unknown.
"No," she said quietly.
"Curiosity is the only thing keeping me alive."
At that moment, she did not know.
But this man wasn't writing to hide the truth…
He was writing to see how far she would go.
From Jay's Perspective
The city liked to talk.
Jay Voss decided where silence began—and where it ended.
The top floor of the building belonged to him.
Not just by key, but by will.
Thousands of people moved below, but the path leading up here was limited.
Jay had designed it that way on purpose.
Power lost its meaning once it became accessible.
He stood by the window.
The rain was thin, undecided.
Neon lights shattered across wet asphalt, making everything look brighter, more innocent than it truly was.
The city knew how to sell itself.
So did people.
Jay turned back to the desk.
The phone was there.
Still.
But no longer harmless.
You're wrong. This is exactly my kind of story.
The sentence was short, understated, and far too precise.
Most people paused here—to explain themselves, to define who they were, to draw lines.
Cindy Moore hadn't done that.
She had pushed the line back.
Quietly.
"Not the wrong choice of words," he murmured to himself.
"A dangerously confident tone."
It didn't irritate him because he liked it.
It unsettled him because it was familiar.
Jay had known plenty of "brave" people in his life.
Bravery usually announced itself—loud, visible, desperate to be seen.
That kind of courage never lasted long.
Cindy's was different.
Silent.
Calculated.
Waiting.
Like mine.
He still hadn't touched the file on his desk.
He already knew everything about her career—what she'd written, the stories she'd been forced to abandon, the moments she'd chosen retreat.
Running came naturally to her.
But there was a difference between running and coming back.
Cindy Moore had come back.
Journalists liked to say they were chasing the truth.
Jay knew better.
People didn't chase the truth.
They chased the version of it that fit their own narrative.
Nothing in his life was left to chance.
Decisions were made in advance.
People were categorized the same way.
Those who stayed.
Those who left.
Those who disappeared.
Cindy Moore fit none of them.
That was rare.
He picked up the phone—but didn't unlock it.
His fingers never touched the screen.
Sometimes choosing not to act was a choice in itself.
Anyone who didn't understand that would never understand power.
She knows you're watching her, he thought.
She just doesn't know how long you've been watching.
The image of her standing by the window surfaced in his mind—looking toward the building across from hers.
He had noticed her long before she ever sensed him.
No one observed him without being seen in return.
In Jay Voss's world, everyone was visible.
The only question was whether they realized it.
Violence…
A simple tool.
A last resort.
And Jay had no fondness for last resorts.
True control was offering choices while leaving none.
Silence was the most effective way to do that.
Silence gave people space to think.
And people made their worst mistakes when they believed they were thinking clearly.
The phone vibrated.
He ignored it.
Time stretched in his favor.
Cindy Moore is pacing her apartment now, he thought.
Moving from room to window and back again.
Rereading the message.
Weighing every word.
And worst of all—
Believing she was alone.
This wasn't a threat.
Not yet.
He stood, slipped on his coat, and glanced briefly at his reflection.
His expression remained unreadable.
That was what unsettled people most—faces they couldn't decipher.
When a woman began to ask questions, most men either panicked or attacked.
Jay did neither.
Her questions were drifting into his territory.
And some dangers weren't dangerous when they fled—
They were dangerous when they came too close.
He headed for the door.
This was a meeting.
And the most dangerous kind
was the one where neither side stepped back.
Jay Voss knew one thing with certainty:
She didn't want to write the truth.
She wanted to test it.
And Jay had never been a man
who walked away from a test.