Ch.52: The Trojan Horse

I grabbed the burner phone Leo had scavenged, my fingers flying over the cracked screen. I didn't call the police; Julian Thorne owned the precinct. I didn't call the FBI; Senator Sterling sat on the committee that signed their paychecks. I opened a secure, encrypted messaging app and began blasting a blind lead to every investigative journalist in the city's three largest newsrooms.

"Thorne Estate. West Wing. Midnight. The greatest medical miracle of the century is a harvesting facility. Look at the archives labeled 'Project Chronos'."

I attached a single, low-resolution screenshot of the server room ledger—the one showing the names of the CEO, the Justice, and the Crown Prince. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs, each vibration a reminder of the ticking clock on the monitor.

"Come on," I whispered, staring at the empty 'Sent' folder. "Pick it up."

The chime of a notification made me jump. I swiped the screen open. It was an editor from the *Chronicle*.

*Prove it. This looks like a deep-fake smear. We need high-res physical evidence or a live source. Thorne is a saint. We won't run this without a body.*

"A body," I rasped, the word tasting like iron. "They want a body."

I looked at the next response from a national network's tip-line.

*The Thorne Estate is a private fortress, 'Anonymous'. No one gets past the gate without an invitation, including the press. If you have files, drop them at the dead-drop link. We won't risk a trespassing charge on a hunch.*

Despair surged, hot and suffocating. They wouldn't believe the word of a 'disgraced' nurse, and they wouldn't risk their careers to storm a billionaire's home. The Glass Fortress was too high, the walls too thick. They were waiting for a whistleblower to bring the truth out to them, but the truth was strapped to a table in a sub-basement.

I stared at the phone, my reflection in the dark glass looking haunted, a mother wolf backed into a corner. Then, my gaze shifted to the promotional banner Leo had pulled up on the second tab: *THORNE CHARITY GALA: AN EMERGENCY FUNDRAISER FOR RARE PEDIATRIC DISORDERS.*

Julian was hosting a follow-up event to cover the "miraculous" recovery of his wife. A victory lap while he died in the dark.

A slow, jagged plan formed in my mind, cutting through the panic. If the press wouldn't break in, I had to give them a reason to be let in. I didn't need to smuggle the evidence out. I needed to turn the entire Estate into a stage.

"They want an invitation?" I said, looking at Leo. "We’re going to give them the only one Thorne can't rescind."

I began typing a final, massive broadcast to the journalists, linking the coordinates of the service tunnel 4B bypass Aris had given us.

"Don't wait for a leak," I sent. "The Gala is the show. The lab is the reality. I'm opening the back door."

I'm not breaking in. I'm inviting the world in.