The First Warning
The gala had ended hours ago.
Yet sleep refused to come.
Ophelia stood on the balcony of her apartment, watching the city settle into silence. The cool breeze brushed against her face, but it did little to quiet her thoughts.
Professor Bennett.
Lillian Moore.
The stranger who had been watching the gala.
None of it felt like coincidence.
Her instincts, sharpened by years in the Agency, whispered the same thing.
Someone had begun moving their pieces.
The shrill ring of her encrypted phone broke the silence.
Only one person ever called that number.
She answered immediately.
"Anonymous."
"You've been busy."
"I could say the same about you."
"I saw the gala."
Ophelia frowned.
"You were there?"
A brief silence.
"I was where I needed to be."
She smiled faintly.
That was a very Anonymous answer.
"What did you find?" she asked.
"Not what."
His voice became serious.
"Who."
Ophelia straightened.
"I'm listening."
"I recognized one of the security contractors."
"What about him?"
"He isn't private security."
"Then who is he?"
Another pause.
"He used to work for a government intelligence unit."
Her expression hardened.
"Retired?"
"No."
"He disappeared from public records eight years ago."
Ophelia's pulse quickened.
"So why is he guarding a charity gala?"
"That's the question."
Anonymous continued.
"I've sent you a file."
Her laptop chimed.
A secure document had just arrived.
She opened it.
A photograph filled the screen.
A man in a black suit.
Expressionless.
Standing near one of the gala entrances.
She remembered him.
He had looked like every other security guard.
Which meant...
He had blended in perfectly.
"His name?" she asked.
"We don't have one."
"No records?"
"Nothing."
Anonymous sighed.
"He's a ghost."
Ophelia leaned back in her chair.
"A ghost watching the Ashfords."
"Or watching you."
The words lingered between them.
Finally, Anonymous spoke again.
"From this moment on, you don't go anywhere alone."
She frowned.
"I've handled worse."
"I know."
"But this isn't an order from your former partner."
"It's a request from your friend."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Anonymous rarely allowed emotion into his voice.
Tonight...
She heard it.
"I'll be careful," she said quietly.
"You'd better be."
The next morning...
Ethan arrived outside Ophelia's apartment carrying a paper bag.
She opened the door, surprised.
"What are you doing here?"
He held up the bag.
"Breakfast."
She laughed.
"You brought breakfast?"
"I remembered you saying you usually skip it."
She blinked.
"You remembered that?"
"I remember a lot of things you tell me."
For the first time in days...
The weight on her shoulders eased.
She stepped aside.
"Come in."
As Ethan placed the food on the kitchen counter, he looked around the apartment.
It was neat.
Simple.
Organized.
Almost...
Too organized.
No family photographs.
No souvenirs.
No personal clutter.
Just books, artwork, and carefully arranged furniture.
"You keep this place very tidy," he said.
"It's easier to think that way."
He nodded, though he couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing.
Not from the apartment.
From Ophelia's life.
He wanted to ask about her family.
About her past.
But something told him she wasn't ready.
So instead, he smiled.
"I hope you like croissants."
She smiled back.
"I do."
Outside the apartment building...
A black motorcycle remained parked across the street.
Its rider never removed his helmet.
He watched Ethan's car.
He watched the apartment entrance.
Then he started the engine and rode away.
Hidden beneath the seat...
Was a small envelope.
Inside it...
Another photograph of April.
And this time, the scratched-out face had begun to show.
Just enough to reveal...
The edge of a university blazer embroidered with the Ashford crest.
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