Corrupted Data

The SD card didn't open.

I shoved it into the laptop slot, my fingers trembling so hard I almost snapped the plastic. The fan whirred—a frantic, dying insect sound in the silence of my basement workshop.

*Mounting drive...*

*Scanning...*

*Error. File Corrupted.*

"No," I whispered. "No, no, no."

I ejected it. Rubbed the contacts on my robe. Shoved it back in.

*Error. File Corrupted.*

The screen blinked. Then, a dialogue box popped up. Not a system error. A chat window.

*Unknown User: I CAN SEE YOU.*

I froze.

The cursor blinked. Once. Twice.

I looked around the workshop. It was windowless. Buried deep under the foundation. The only light came from the bare bulb overhead and the blue glow of the monitor.

There were no cameras here. I knew every inch of this room. I had stripped the walls down to the stone myself.

*Unknown User: Look behind you.*

I spun around.

Nothing. Just the workbench. The stacks of salvaged doors. The shadow of the furnace.

I turned back to the screen.

A new window had opened. A video feed.

It was grainy, black and white. Night vision.

It showed a woman sitting at a desk, her back to the camera. She was wearing a white robe. Her hair was wrapped in a towel.

It was me.

Right now.

The camera angle was high. From the corner of the room.

I looked up.

There, nestled in the cobwebs between the floor joists, was a tiny red light.

A lens.

I hadn't put it there.

I grabbed a chisel from the workbench. I scrambled up onto the desk, my bare feet slipping on the blueprints. I jammed the chisel into the wood, prying at the device.

It came loose with a spray of dust.

I jumped down, holding it. It was small. Wireless. Expensive.

And it was warm.

It had been transmitting.

I looked back at the screen. The video feed was dead.

But the chat window was still active.

*Unknown User: You can't delete what I've already seen.*

The printer in the corner—an old HP laserjet I hadn't used in six months—suddenly groaned to life. The rollers spun. A piece of paper fed through.

I watched, paralyzed, as it spat out a single sheet.

I picked it up.

It was a photo.

Of me.

Sleeping.

But not in my bed.

I was curled up on the floor of the closet, clutching a pillow. It was from last week, the night after the anniversary of the attack. I had hidden there because the bed felt too exposed. I hadn't told Leo. I hadn't told anyone.

But someone had been there.

Watching.

I dropped the paper. It fluttered to the floor, landing face up.

My eyes caught the date stamp in the corner.

*November 12. 3:00 AM.*

I looked at the walls of my workshop. The stone foundation. The heavy timber beams.

I had always thought of this room as my sanctuary. The one place in the house that was truly mine.

But as I looked at the hidden spaces between the joists, the dark corners behind the furnace, the gaps between the stored doors, I realized the truth.

This wasn't a sanctuary.

It was a viewing gallery.

And I was the exhibit.

"Elena?"

The voice came from the top of the stairs. Leo.

I snatched the photo from the floor. I grabbed the chisel. I shoved them both into my deep pockets.

"Down here," I called out. My voice was surprisingly steady.

The door opened. Leo appeared on the landing, silhouetted by the hallway light.

"What are you doing?" he asked. "I thought you were resting."

"I... I needed a tool," I lied. "For the bathroom. The drain is clogged."

He walked down the stairs. The wood groaned under his weight.

He stopped at the bottom. He looked at the laptop. At the blank screen.

"You're working?" he asked. His tone was light, but his eyes were sharp.

"Just checking emails," I said. "Before the internet goes down again."

He walked over to me. He put his hands on my shoulders. His grip was firm. Possessive.

"Elena," he said softly. "You need to stop."

"Stop what?"

"Digging. Thinking. Worrying." He squeezed my shoulders. "You're making yourself sick. You're imagining things."

"Am I?" I asked. "Am I imagining the hammer? Am I imagining the code?"

"Yes," he said. "You are. It's the PTSD, El. It's lying to you."

He reached out and closed the laptop.

"Come upstairs," he said. "I made dinner. Risotto. Your favorite."

I let him lead me up the stairs.

As we walked, I felt the weight of the chisel in my pocket.

It was heavy. Sharp.

And for the first time in ten years, I felt something other than fear.

I felt dangerous.

We ate in the kitchen. The silence was thick, broken only by the scrape of forks on china.

Leo poured me a glass of wine. A rich, dark red.

"Drink," he said. "It'll help."

I took a sip. It tasted like iron.

"I called Aris again," he said casually.

I froze.

"Why?"

"He has... ideas. About your defense."

"I don't want his help."

"He thinks you might need... a break," Leo said. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at his wine glass, swirling the liquid. "In-patient care. Just for a few weeks. Until the press dies down."

"You want to commit me?"

"I want you safe," he said. "If you're in a facility, the DA can't touch you. It proves you were... unwell... when you fired."

"Unwell," I repeated.

"It's a strategy, El. A good one."

I looked at him. At his handsome, worried face. At the way he cared so much.

And I wondered if he was the one who had installed the camera in the basement.

"I'm not crazy, Leo," I said.

"I know," he said. "But the world doesn't. And right now, being 'crazy' is your best defense."

He reached across the table and took my hand.

"Trust me," he said.

I looked at his hand.

And then I saw it.

On his wrist.

His watch.

It was an Apple Watch. The screen was dark.

But as he moved his hand, the screen lit up. A notification.

*Aris Thorne: Did she find it?*

My blood turned to ice.

Leo pulled his hand back quickly, twisting his wrist so the screen faced away.

"What was that?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said. "Just a news alert."

"It said Aris," I said.

"He's asking about the... the press release."

"Did she find it?" I quoted. "Find what, Leo?"

He stared at me. The warmth drained out of his face, replaced by something cold and calculating.

"The sedative," he said.

"What?"

"I asked him if the sedative would work. If you found the bottle."

"I didn't take a sedative," I said.

"I know," he said. "That's why I put it in the wine."

The room tilted.

My glass was empty.

I looked at the bottle on the counter.

My vision blurred. The edges of the room started to swim.

"Leo," I slurred. "What did you..."

"I'm sorry, El," he said. His voice sounded far away. "But you wouldn't stop. You never stop."

He stood up. He walked around the table.

He loomed over me.

"It's for your own good," he said. "The Institute is nice. Aris will take care of you."

I tried to stand up. My legs were rubber. I fell back into the chair.

"No," I whispered.

"Shh," he said. He stroked my hair. "Just sleep."

I tried to reach for the chisel in my pocket. But my arm wouldn't move. It felt like it belonged to a mannequin.

Darkness crept in from the corners of my vision.

"He's coming to get you tonight," Leo whispered. "He's bringing the van."

I fought it. I fought the heavy, velvet weight pulling my eyelids down.

*Run.*

But I couldn't run.

I couldn't move.

The last thing I saw before the blackness took me was Leo’s face.

He wasn't smiling.

He wasn't crying.

He was checking his watch.

*Arrival in 5 minutes.*

The darkness swallowed me whole.