The Interrogation of Silence
The steel door of the Watchpoint locked behind him, and the adrenaline that had kept Kai moving for twenty minutes fell away, leaving cold, heavy exhaustion that made his legs weak. His heart thumped hard. In his inner jacket pockets, the cassette tape and the USB drive felt slick and heavy proof the scramble had been real.
The chauffeur, still angry about the missed deadline, marched him through a service hall and down a darker stairwell to a sub-level parking garage. It felt like a concrete tomb: stale air, dim light, and the far-off hum of the city, nothing like the polished surface of the Senator's estate.
The same matte-black, driverless car waited. Kai was shoved into the back seat. The door slammed with a sharp echo. The chauffeur took the front passenger seat, the partition barrier staying shut. The drive was slow and tense. The chauffeur said nothing, eyes fixed on the road. Kai replayed the break-in the soft whirr of the tool, the Senator's shout, the fear on Lyra Denton's face when she knew her secret was out.
I am a criminal, he thought, watching the city smear by the tinted window. I broke into a Senator's home and stole evidence. My freedom now costs a felony.
After twenty minutes weaving through Veridian's crowded streets, the car stopped in the hollow drive of an abandoned warehouse district. The car pulled into a loading bay, and the steel door dropped behind them, sealing the space in shadow. The chauffeur spoke at last, voice sharp: Out. You are entering a secure debriefing zone. Do not speak until told.
He led Kai through an unmarked door into a small office made from raw plywood and insulation panels. Spartan: a metal table, two folding chairs, and the hard glare of a cold fluorescent bulb overhead. On the table sat a high-end audio recorder, small and simple, its microphones ready.
Place the contents on the table, the chauffeur said.
Kai set down the tarnished cassette tape and the sleek USB drive. Small things with heavy weight. The chauffeur looked at them without touching.
Adrian is listening. Report everything. Start with Lyra Denton's state when you left. Do not guess. Do not add. Say only what you saw.
Kai pulled his feeling back and leaned toward the recorder.
Lyra Denton's final state: external fear. It changed from internal distress around 5:25 PM, when she noticed the Senator's briefcase caused a mark and cleaning residue on the floorboards over the hidden compartment. When the Senator returned, her fear shifted from the secret itself to the immediate risk of him finding it. She froze, staring at the exposed edge.
Silence followed, long and sharp. He could feel Adrian's attention, like a current in the room. Then a different voice came through a hidden speaker smooth, educated, calm. Not Adrian. A proxy.
Confirmed. Her main worry is timing of the Senator's exploitation, not the contents of the safe. Good observation, Elias. Now describe the lock and the exact look and size of the items.
Kai gave the details: the micro-pin tumbler lock, the disguised access panel, the fragile analog cassette, the heavy modern drive. Past and present, side by side. Another pause. The proxy again, cooler.
The cassette tape. Describe the handwriting on the label.
Thin, spidery letters, Kai said. Old. Looks like a fountain pen. Could be decades old. I can't read the words from here, but it's a feminine hand.
The proxy's voice hardened.
Do not look at it again. Do not touch it. Elias, your task is complete. The items are being collected now. Your location will be cleared within the hour.
The chauffeur moved fast, lifting the tape and drive and placing them into a temperature-controlled metal case. The danger left Kai's hands and vanished into Adrian's network. Kai waited for thanks, for reasons, for the next step. Something to explain why Adrian would shake a powerful Senator.
Adrian's voice cut through, sharp and focused:
Elias. You are exhausted. You are compromised. You are in high alert. This is useful. Do not rest. Do not go back to the Zenith. Go straight to your next task. This is how you avoid the crash.
Do not leave Veridian. Walk five blocks west from where you are. Find a diner called The Comet on 10th Street. Sit at the counter. Order the three-egg omelet with black coffee. Eat all of it, even if you don't want to.
While you eat, do two things. First, open your sketchbook and draw the diner's reflection in the coffee cup. I want distortion. Focus on people reflected, not the glass. Second and this is your true task wait for a woman wearing a single emerald ring on her right index finger. She will sit two seats down from you. She will be looking for a man like you: tired, well-dressed, sharp. Ask her, Do you know how to paint the sound of a scream? She will answer. Listen. Memorize her words. Then call me from the first payphone you find. Do not write anything down. Do not lose the rhythm of her voice. Go, Elias. Your clock starts now.
The line went dead.
Kai stared at the wall, mind spinning. He had risked everything with the break-in at a Senator's home, and now he was being sent into a riddle art, distortion, a woman with a ring. Maybe a contact. Maybe bait. Maybe a test. The secrets he'd stolen were gone, irrelevant. The new job lived in the space between words. He wasn't fighting a Senator anymore. He was fighting Adrian's grip on reality.
The chauffeur opened the door.
The path is clear for five blocks, Elias. Thirty minutes to reach The Comet. Do not fail the omelet.
Kai stood. The heat of the theft faded, replaced by a cold fear that lived in questions. He didn't know if the woman would be an ally, a messenger, or someone ready to end him. He only knew the task: find the woman with the emerald ring and ask how to paint a scream. He stepped out of the warehouse with no duffel, only a sketchbook, a narrow focus, and a question. His feet took him toward 10th Street. The city air felt like it was watching.
Outside, Veridian was a quiet machine. Street lamps threw pale circles on the pavement. Neon buzzed. A motorbike coughed somewhere. The skyline pressed down like a lid. Kai kept pace, steady. He passed shuttered shops, tagged shutters, and windows holding their light like secrets. A man smoked in a doorway. A stray cat slipped under a fence. Five blocks turned into a rhythm: left at the cracked kerb, straight past the boarded pharmacy, right at the corner that smelled faintly of bleach.
The Comet sat on 10th Street like a held breath: chrome trim, neon sign, cracked tile, door with a bell. Inside, the light was warm and too bright. Red booths, a long counter, coffee machines lined like small engines. A couple shared chips without speaking. A man in a high-vis jacket. A student with a tablet.
Kai took a stool at the counter. The waitress came with a tired smile.
Three-egg omelet and black coffee, he said.
She nodded. The coffee poured into a thick, white cup. Cutlery clattered. Plates scraped. Oil hissed. The first bitter sip steadied him.
The omelet arrived, steam rising, folded tight with onions and peppers. He ate, even when his stomach pushed back. He ate because the order was control. He opened the sketchbook and drew the reflection in the coffee cup: the curve of chrome behind the counter bending like water, faces turning into waves, the high-vis jacket becoming a streak, the student's face a soft smear of light. He drew hands as shadows, the door bell twisted by the curve, his own sleeve a dark ribbon at the edge. The lines came clean and fast.
The bell chimed. A woman walked in, the city pushing her forward. Black coat. Dark hair tucked behind one ear. On her right index finger, a single emerald ring glowed under the diner light. She sat two seats down. She glanced once, then looked at the menu. Her posture was sharp but calm. Her eyes were steady. She matched the description.
Kai folded the sketchbook and turned slightly.
Do you know how to paint the sound of a scream? he asked.
She held his gaze for a beat and spoke, voice low and steady:
You don't paint the scream. You paint the silence around it. You paint the things that do not move the chair that does not break, the window that does not shatter, the mouth that opens but never closes. You paint the shadow the scream makes. You paint the room after the air has been cut.
If you must paint the sound, you use colour the eye can't rest on. You use lines that never meet. You leave a gap where the throat should be. You make the edges hum, and you do not finish the frame. You let the paint dry in the wrong place. You let the scream live in what you refuse to correct.
He listened and held her words in his mind. He didn't write. He didn't blink more than needed. He counted the pauses like a drummer counts before the drop. He stood, left money by his cup, walked out, and found the first payphone: glass box, old handset, faint smell of rust and rain. He dialed. Adrian picked up fast. Kai repeated the woman's answer, word for word, keeping her rhythm and pauses.
Silence. Then Adrian said, cool and measured:
Good. You held it. Stay outside the box. Wait. Do not return to the Zenith. Do not speak to anyone. New instructions will follow.
The line went dead.
Kai stayed by the payphone. The street felt wider. He thought about the emerald ring, the scream, the cassette's thin handwriting, the heavy USB drive secrets now out of reach. He was tired, but the task cut a clean line through the tiredness. He leaned his head against the glass and listened to the city's low voice. He waited. The world did not explain itself. It only gave him steps: walk, eat, draw, ask, listen, repeat. He straightened, let the shape of the job settle like a good coat, turned from the phone, and blended into the night.
To Be Continued