The rain fell relentlessly in Geneva.
Vivienne stood beneath the overhang of the Palais Wilson, wind tugging at her coat, the folder clutched under her arm like a life raft. The United Nations' press delegates had just cleared out—some with skeptical frowns, others with barely concealed interest. None had openly pledged help.
She had exposed everything. The names. The crimes. The trail of offshore accounts, dummy corporations, and blackmail. The Black Veil wasn't just an American disease—it was metastasizing across continents.
And yet, still, silence.
A man in a gray scarf approached. "Mrs. Hart?"
Vivienne turned, alert. "Yes?"
He extended a card. "Alain Dubois. Independent journalist. I was in the room."
She didn't reach for the card.
He lowered his voice. "They won't act. Not publicly. The Veil has roots here, too. Deep ones. But some of us believe you."
Now she took the card.
"I want to help," he added. "But we do it my way. No press. No spotlights. Just facts and careful steps."
Vivienne nodded slowly. "Fine. But I move fast. I'm not waiting for someone else to write my husband's ending."
---
Meanwhile, in New York, Julian paced in front of the estate's fireplace, now dim. Morales stood near the window, watching two unfamiliar cars idle on the street below.
"They're testing us," Morales muttered. "Waiting to see how close they can get."
Julian checked his phone. "Vivienne's secure. For now. But we're not. They're bleeding us dry—contacts withdrawing, accounts frozen, smear campaigns doubling by the hour."
He looked up. "We need a win."
Morales turned from the window. "Then we hit back. Find something explosive. Something they haven't buried deep enough."
Julian hesitated, then opened the drawer of Everett's desk.
"There might be one more file," he said.
---
In a safe beneath the floorboards, untouched for over a year, Julian found a handwritten note from Everett.
"If anything happens—find Project Sypher. It's not just politics. It's biological."
Julian paled. "Oh God."
He passed the note to Morales. "It wasn't just corruption. They were experimenting."
Back in Geneva, Vivienne and Alain moved through back alleys to avoid surveillance. His small apartment above a café had three locks on the door and blackout curtains.
"What's Sypher?" Alain asked.
Vivienne blinked. "What?"
"Julian just sent a message. Everett left a note. Project Sypher. He says it might be medical. Or military."
Vivienne's breath caught.
Everett had hinted once about a facility in upstate New York—a 'treatment center' that had nothing to do with medicine.
She grabbed her phone.
"We need to go back," she said. "Whatever they're planning... it's not just about control. It's about survival."
---
In New York, Julian pulled up a satellite map. "Facility's remote. Guarded. But Morales knows someone with access—used to be CDC before they got shut out."
Morales nodded. "They called it a 'recovery site.' No records. No public funding. But people disappeared into it."
Julian looked grim. "We need Vivienne back. Now."
---
Twenty hours later, Vivienne stepped off a red-eye flight, her eyes bloodshot but determined.
The estate felt smaller now. Tighter. Not a refuge—but a command center.
"They were testing something," she said, the moment she stepped inside. "We think it's a virus. Or a manipulation of one. Controlled outbreaks, with targeted immunity."
Morales added, "Possibly to gain leverage. Or reduce threats."
"Bioweapon?" Vivienne whispered.
Julian nodded. "And Everett knew. He wanted to leak it. They killed him before he could."
Vivienne clenched her jaw. "Then we do what he couldn't."
She turned to Morales.
"Break into the facility."
---
That night, plans were drawn.
Blueprints scanned. Routes mapped. They would infiltrate the site, pull whatever hard evidence still existed, and send it to every remaining contact left who hadn't been bought or silenced.
As Vivienne studied the map, Julian placed a trembling hand on her shoulder.
"This isn't journalism anymore. It's war."
She didn't flinch.
"Then let's win it."