News of the break-in spread faster than I expected. They didn't say my name — they never would — but the headlines hinted at what they couldn't explain.
"Unidentified Intruder Breaches Private Lab Records."
"Whistleblower Leak Suspected in High-Security Medical Research Compound."
They were nervous.
And when powerful men get nervous, they get sloppy.
That was the plan.
I didn't need them to know where I was.
I needed them to know I was watching.
One by one.
From the shadows.
I switched locations twice in one night. Burned every file I didn't need. Changed devices, dumped the old SIM, wiped everything with fire and salt.
Remi called it "ghost protocol." The art of disappearing before they even know you were real.
But I wasn't trying to disappear.
I was setting the stage.
The next name on the list was a man named Colonel Abba Durojaiye — not a doctor this time, but one of the men who funded the experiments. Military-grade. Government-protected. Hidden behind medals and press conferences and a smokescreen of national interest.
He thought wearing a uniform made him untouchable.
He forgot the rules of the new war.
We don't fight in daylight.
We don't sign our names.
We don't give warnings.
The deeper I went, the clearer it became — this wasn't just a program. It was a network. Scientists, soldiers, investors, handlers. Each with blood on their hands. Each with something to lose.
And somewhere in that chain, someone was still pulling strings.
Someone who hadn't shown their face.
Yet.
I sat alone in the warehouse Remi had secured — my back against a crate, a cracked laptop humming softly on the floor.
Video files.
Scanned documents.
Surveillance photos.
I traced my finger along a blurry image of a little girl strapped to a table. Me. Then another. Not me.
There were more.
So many more.
The rage came like a tide, and I let it wash over me.
I wasn't just doing this for me anymore.
I was doing it for every voice they buried.
Every girl who never made it out.
Every body they called "a necessary loss."
The lights flickered.
A sound outside.
I reached for my weapon, heart calm.
Not fear.
Focus.
Remi stepped through the door, a hard look on his face.
"They're looking for you."
"Let them look," I said.
He dropped a flash drive in my hand.
"What's this?"
"Everything," he said. "Names. Faces. Coordinates."
My breath caught.
"How'd you get this?"
He gave a faint smile. "Turns out, not everyone in their system sleeps well at night."
I looked at the drive. Cold. Small. Dangerous.
A kill switch.
A warhead disguised as truth.
And in the wrong hands? Catastrophic.
But I didn't come this far to flinch.
I slid it into my pocket.
"They're not ghosts anymore," I said.
"No," Remi agreed. "But you are."