Morning light slid through thin curtains, drawing pale lines across Sofia's kitchen table. The black pen still lay where she'd left it, gleaming faintly beside an untouched cup of coffee. She'd fallen asleep on the couch after a restless night of replaying the same question: Why her?
When her phone vibrated, she grabbed it too quickly.
"Isabella," she muttered, pressing the receiver to her ear.
"Good morning to you too," Isabella said, her voice syrupy with amusement. "Please tell me you didn't stay up staring at that pen like it's going to confess."
Sofia rubbed her forehead. "I checked every courier in the city. Nothing matches the delivery code."
"Then maybe it's from an admirer."
"I don't have admirers."
"Not yet. You've been writing about billion-dollar empires. Maybe one of them wants to buy you."
"Funny." Sofia closed the pen's box with a soft click. "I'm heading to the archives today. If I don't call by lunch, assume I've been kidnapped by accountants."
"Promise," Isabella said cheerfully, and hung up.
---
The archives smelled of paper, dust, and bureaucracy. Rows of files lined the walls like a silent army. Sofia signed in, flashed her press card, and claimed a desk near the window. She began searching for the port project's registration documents—contractors, shell companies, anything that linked to the missing cargo.
Half an hour passed. Then she found a name repeated across several invoices: Verrencia Imports Ltd. The address listed was a luxury office building downtown—one known to belong, unofficially, to Mr Black's network.
She whispered, "Of course."
At that moment, her phone buzzed again. Unknown Number.
She hesitated, then answered. "Sofia Moretti."
"Still chasing ghosts," said the same low voice.
Her fingers tightened around the phone. "You sent the pen."
"I thought a writer should have the right tools."
"You're tracking my mail now?"
"I'm making sure your curiosity doesn't kill you."
"I don't need protection."
A pause—then, almost gently: "Everyone does, Miss Moretti. The question is from whom."
The line clicked dead.
Sofia lowered the phone slowly. Around her, the archive room felt suddenly smaller, the humming fluorescent lights too loud. She forced herself to pack the papers, sign out, and walk toward the square outside.
Rain began again, light at first, then heavier. She pulled up her hood and crossed the street. A man in a gray suit was waiting near a café door, umbrella in hand. She recognized him vaguely—he'd been with Mr Black at the docks.
He stepped forward. "Miss Moretti, my employer asked me to deliver a message."
She crossed her arms. "Another gift?"
"No," he said. "A warning."
The man's umbrella tilted just enough to hide half his face from the street cameras. "He asks that you stop your investigation into the port. You're stirring water that isn't meant to be clear."
Sofia stepped closer until the rain caught her hair. "If he's that worried, he can tell me himself."
"He already did."
She gave a small, dry laugh. "Then tell him this isn't how journalism works."
He regarded her for a long moment, then sighed, lowering the umbrella. "You have nerve. I almost envy that." He slipped a thin envelope from his coat. "Inside you'll find proof that your phone and apartment are under surveillance—from people other than us. Destroy the letter after reading."
Before she could respond, he crossed the street and melted into the crowd.
Sofia ducked into the café, ordered a tea she wouldn't drink, and opened the envelope. Inside was a single photograph: a grainy still of a man outside her building, timestamped three nights ago. Not Ramond—someone else, heavy-set, face half hidden by a hood. On the back, scrawled in neat handwriting: "You have two enemies now. Choose wisely."
She stared at the words until they blurred. Around her, customers laughed over pastries, completely unaware that her world had shifted an inch toward danger.
She folded the note, slid it into her coat, and left.
---
Across town, behind the mirrored windows of a high-rise, Ramond watched the city's rain from his office. Adrian stood opposite his desk, dripping water onto the marble floor.
"You sent her the photograph?" Ramond asked.
Adrian nodded. "Yes. She didn't flinch. Impressive."
Ramond's jaw tightened. "She'll still go back to the docks."
"She's testing you."
"Let her." He turned toward the window. "Fear bends most people. I want to see if she breaks instead."
Adrian frowned. "And if she doesn't?"
"Then she learns to live in the shadows with the rest of us."
Silence hung between them, broken only by the patter of rain.
Adrian finally said, "The rival group—the men watching her building—belong to the Albrecht syndicate. They think she's your leverage."
Ramond's fingers drummed against the glass. "She isn't leverage."
"Then what is she?"
He didn't answer. The reflection in the window showed only his eyes—dark, unreadable.
---
That night, Sofia returned home to find her apartment door unlocked. Her stomach tightened. She pushed it open slowly. Everything looked untouched except for the pen box on the table—open, empty.
On the inside of the lid, a single new line had been etched in perfect script:
"Truth writes itself in blood if you insist on ink."
She stared at it, the weight of unseen eyes pressing against her back, and whispered into the quiet room, "What are you, Mr Black?"