Rain poured in sheets over the city, turning the narrow backstreets of Brooklyn into rivers of oil and broken glass. Detective Ethan Cole pulled his collar higher against the cold, the blue lights of patrol cars flickering across his rain-slicked face. The stench of blood and garbage hung thick in the air.
The body was lying behind an old bakery, half-covered by cardboard. Male, late thirties, a single gunshot wound to the head. Execution style. No wallet, no phone — just a flash drive clutched in his stiff hand.
"Any ID yet?" Ethan asked, kneeling beside the corpse. His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed exhaustion.
"None," Officer Ramirez replied, flipping through a small notebook. "Locals say they heard a shot around midnight. Cameras on this block were conveniently offline."
"Convenient," Ethan muttered. He used his pen to lift the flash drive from the victim's hand. It was marked with a single letter — R.
Ramirez frowned. "You think it's one of your informants?"
Ethan didn't answer right away. His mind was already racing. The man's shoes, his haircut, even the faint trace of cheap cologne — all familiar. Then it hit him.
He knew this guy.
Ryan Blake.
His best informant. The only one who'd promised him a way to expose the high-level corruption inside the city's justice department.
Ethan's stomach tightened. "Yeah," he said finally. "I know him."
Ramirez hesitated. "Then I'm sorry, sir."
Ethan stood, wiping his hands on a wet napkin. "Don't be. Just make sure the press doesn't touch this yet. I'll handle the report myself."
Ramirez nodded and walked off, leaving Ethan alone with the corpse.
For a moment, the world went silent — just the rain tapping on metal and glass. Ethan stared down at Ryan's pale face, the corners of his lips trembling. He'd told the man to stay low, to keep quiet until they had enough evidence. And now here he was — silenced.
Ethan slipped the flash drive into his coat pocket.
As he turned to leave, a car door slammed nearby. He looked up to see Captain Adrian Shaw, his superior, stepping out of a black SUV. Shaw's presence was like cold metal — calm, polished, and dangerous.
"Rough night, Detective," Shaw said, his umbrella steady against the wind.
"Routine case," Ethan lied.
"Routine?" Shaw's lips curved slightly. "You've been chasing ghosts lately. Conspiracies, dirty cops, politicians. You might want to take a vacation before you burn yourself out."
Ethan forced a smile. "I'll think about it, sir."
Shaw's gaze dropped briefly to Ethan's coat pocket — to the shape of the flash drive hidden inside. Then he smiled again, that same controlled, unreadable smile.
"Good. Keep me posted." He turned and walked back to his car.
Ethan watched the SUV disappear down the street before exhaling sharply. He could feel it — that cold pressure in his chest that always came before a storm.
---
The next morning, Ethan sat at his desk in the precinct, the flash drive plugged into his computer. Files opened one by one — encrypted documents, coded numbers, emails, photos of city officials, and bank transfers.
Each image carried the same logo — Apex Systems — a government contractor known for security surveillance.
Then he froze.
There was a photo of Captain Shaw shaking hands with one of Apex's CEOs — a man now under federal investigation for arms trafficking.
"Son of a bitch," Ethan whispered.
He printed a few files, slid them into an envelope, and locked them in his drawer. But before he could take a breath, his phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: You shouldn't have opened that.
Ethan's blood ran cold.
He looked around the office — everyone busy, typing, laughing, oblivious. He stood, walked calmly toward the exit, and stepped into the hallway. The phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: Ryan warned you, didn't he?
He gripped the phone tighter. "Who is this?" he demanded under his breath.
No response. Just a new message — a picture.
It was his own apartment door, taken from across the street.
Ethan's pulse spiked. He bolted out of the building, rain still falling hard. Every car engine sounded like a threat, every pedestrian's glance felt like surveillance.
By the time he reached his apartment, the door was slightly ajar.
Gun drawn, he entered carefully. The place was dark, quiet — too quiet. A faint beeping sound echoed from the kitchen. He moved toward it slowly.
It wasn't a bomb.
It was his alarm clock — unplugged, lying on the counter, still ticking.
And next to it, a folded piece of paper.
He opened it.
One sentence.
> "Stop digging, or you'll end up like him."
Underneath the note was a single bullet casing — polished, new — and the same R engraved on it.
Ethan exhaled shakily, his reflection trembling in the kitchen window. Rain streaked down the glass like tears.
Whatever Ryan had uncovered wasn't just dangerous — it was radioactive.
And now, whoever killed him knew exactly where to find Ethan Cole.
He pocketed the casing, grabbed his jacket, and left the apartment. He had only one thought in his head:
If they want me to stop digging… I must be getting close.
Outside, thunder rolled across the city skyline. Somewhere above, hidden by clouds and corruption, the truth waited — expensive, elusive, and deadly.