Lydia didn't sleep that night.
Her apartment smelled of stale coffee and fear. Files from Havenwood lay stacked on the table, alongside her recorder and notebook. Every shadow seemed longer, every creak of the floorboards louder. Outside, the city hummed on, oblivious, indifferent.
Her computer blinked in the dark. She hadn't planned to turn it on. She had to.
The server access she had discovered earlier still worked. The old credentials, forgotten by everyone, unlocked a door she hadn't dared to open.
Inside, the folders sprawled endlessly. Titles seemed innocuous at first: Donor Reports, HR, Travel Logs. But hidden deeper, Lydia found a folder labeled Private Affairs—encrypted, password-protected.
The thrill of discovery surged through her.
Hours passed as she worked. Each line of code, each corrupted file she decrypted, revealed more. Names, dates, locations. Meetings that never appeared on public calendars. Financial transfers to shell companies. Personal journals. Recordings.
And then—she found it: a folder titled Seabreeze - 2019.
Inside, a single video file. She hesitated, hand hovering over the mouse.
The file opened.
The first image made her stomach twist.
Seabreeze Isle. Aerial footage, slightly grainy. The camera hovered over the dock, then panned toward the main lodge. People moved in and out—mostly women, carefully groomed, faces tense. There was laughter, yes—but it felt hollow, rehearsed.
Then the camera shifted indoors.
A room she recognized immediately—the mirrored room. A single chair in the center. Shadows lingered at the edges.
A voice: quiet, trembling, whispering.
"Please…"
The figure in the chair was small, hunched. Lydia's heart seized. The movements were careful, restrained, like the person inside was balancing fear against survival.
Her eyes widened. The label on the file: Elena Rivera.
The video didn't last long. But the details were enough. She saw the careful cataloging of behavior. The monitoring devices hidden in the ceiling. Subtle manipulations—a reflection in a mirror, a door opening unexpectedly, someone entering and leaving at precise intervals. It wasn't just abuse; it was control. Complete, calculated control.
She leaned back, shivering.
And then the sound of another file opening drew her attention.
Audio Recordings - Seabreeze Sessions
One after another, voices whispered, cried, pleaded. Names she recognized from the files: Sera Blake, Elena Rivera, Mara Chen. Words cut short, sentences unfinished, the fear palpable even through the distortion of the recordings.
Lydia felt nausea rise. These weren't just reports. These were lives trapped in a system designed to erase them.
A knock at the window made her jump.
She froze. Her apartment was on the fifth floor. No one should be able to reach it.
Another knock. Then a soft scratching.
She backed away from the screen.
Unknown Number.
Text.
"They're watching. Stop now, or next is you."
Her hands shook. She considered shutting everything down, walking away, hiding.
And then she thought of Elena.
Her voice in the recordings. Her pleas.
She couldn't.
By dawn, Lydia had downloaded everything she could. Files, videos, audio—digital ghosts she would carry with her. She knew she couldn't stay in the apartment. Not tonight. Not ever, if she wanted to survive long enough to expose the truth.
She packed a bag—laptop, recorder, notebooks, and a small emergency kit.
The sun rose over Ravenport, pale and indifferent. The city stretched awake, oblivious to the horrors hidden behind polished walls, behind charming smiles, behind carefully constructed facades.
Lydia knew one thing: she couldn't do this alone.
She needed help.
But every ally she reached out to—Mark, her colleagues, even law enforcement—would only slow the predator. And Hale had predators of his own.
She paused, hand hovering over the door handle.
Her phone buzzed again. Unknown number.
A message.
"Check the lobby. Now."
Heart hammering, Lydia crept to the elevator, clutching her bag like a lifeline. Shadows seemed to stretch around her, every reflection a distorted echo of her own fear.
At the lobby, the sight that met her froze her in place.
A single envelope, sitting perfectly in the middle of the polished marble floor. No note. No name. Just an envelope.
She picked it up, trembling.
Inside: a single photograph.
Elena, smiling—but not really smiling. Eyes wide. Blank.
And on the back, written in tiny, meticulous letters:
"If you want to save them, you need to be smarter than him. He knows everything."
Lydia swallowed.
The files, the recordings, the photos—they were just the beginning.
And Hale? He was already one step ahead.