When everything finally slowed, relief settled into me like a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.
The monitor still glowed in the dark. Red and blue light washed over the walls of the Green Apartment, smearing reality into something distant. Police voices crackled through cheap speakers, clipped and professional, like this was just another job.
Then I saw her.
Wrapped in a towel. Shoulders hunched, shaking like the air itself hurt. An officer kept a steady hand on her back, guiding her out slowly, carefully. Like one wrong movement would shatter her.
She was alive.
That fact hit first. Clean. Sharp. My chest loosened just enough for the relief to slip in. My eyes burned.
Behind the fear, faint but unmistakable, was relief.
And something inside me clicked.
"There are more victims like her," I whispered to the empty room. "And I just dragged myself into this mess…"
My lips curled upward.
I froze.
I was smiling.
The realization came a half-second too late, cold and sobering. I lifted a hand to my face like it didn't belong to me. This wasn't right. Saving someone shouldn't feel like this. The rush. The clarity. The way my thoughts lined up neatly for once, quiet and sharp.
It felt right.
That terrified me.
I wasn't a hero. I was a kid who crossed too many lines and got lucky. Luck runs out. And when it does, it doesn't just take you with it. It takes everyone standing too close.
My family.
That's when it hit me. Not like inspiration. Like a rule.
If anyone knew it was me, this would all collapse.
Names were dangerous. Faces were dangerous. Even intentions could be traced. The only reason this worked was because I didn't exist to them. I wasn't a witness. I wasn't involved. I was just noise in the system.
Anonymous.
I turned back to the files.
This time, I didn't watch. I stripped them down.
Metadata first. Dates. Times. Device signatures. Faces that repeated across different locations. I mapped rooms from background details alone. Window bars. Paint chips. Outlet placements. I muted every clip. Sound made things personal. Personal made mistakes.
I labeled everything with numbers. Not names. Never names.
Victim-01. Location-GA13. Subject-A. Subject-B.
No identities. Just patterns.
The more I worked, the clearer it became. These people didn't think anyone was watching. They relied on silence. Shame. Fear. On victims disappearing into statistics.
They didn't plan for something faceless looking back.
Hours passed before my body forced itself into my awareness. Hunger hit hard, sharp enough to pull me away.
I stepped into the kitchen and found Mom in her usual orbit. Dishes. Lofi music. Normality looping like nothing in the world had shifted.
I hugged her from behind. Quiet. Careful.
She stiffened, then softened.
"You okay?" she asked, voice lower than usual.
I nodded.
She didn't pry. She never did when something was wrong. Instead, she handed me food. Cut fruit. Rice mixed into noodles. Eggs. Sausages. Kimchi. Pickled radish. Comfort served without questions.
I ate while she hovered nearby, pretending not to watch. Guilt crossed her face. She probably thought she'd pushed me too hard earlier.
If only she knew how small that was compared to everything else.
I stayed close longer than usual. Let the ordinary ground me. I was still just her kid. The youngest. The last one at home. My sister was gone. My brother had already escaped into adulthood. Dad was somewhere far away, playing his part in a polished world that now felt paper-thin.
Eventually, exhaustion dragged me back to my room.
I didn't shut the PC down.
The screen glowed in the dark, silent and patient.
When I lay down, one thought looped over and over in my head.
If I keep doing this, nobody can ever know who I am.
No credit. No recognition. No face to chase.
Only the work.
Tomorrow wouldn't be normal. There would be more files. More patterns. More lives intersecting with mine without ever knowing my name.
I didn't know what this would turn into.
But I knew the rule now.
If it has a name, it can be hunted.
So whatever this becomes…
It stays anonymous.