January 7, 2030 – two days after the Blackridge Incident
The hospital room was quiet except for the steady beep of the heart monitor and the low hum of the television mounted on the wall.
The television glared like an open wound.
Anne Ryker barely registered the images as she lay back against the stiff hospital pillows, her body still aching from the ordeal she barely remembered., face half-lit by the screen as global news channels competed to out-outrage each other. A dozen anchors, a hundred talking heads, and one truth they couldn't quite package:
"...emergency footage leaked from what sources are calling Blackridge Containment Facility—an unacknowledged black site located in the Russian Arctic..."
"...evidence of torture, indefinite detention without trial... among the victims: journalists, whistleblowers, cyberactivists..."
"...satellite analysis confirms at least eight explosion points, indicative of coordinated military attack. Russia has not issued an official statement..."
Video clips flickered like ghosts. Concrete corridors soaked in blood. Security feeds catching glimpses of the chaos before static swallowed them. A boot crossing a threshold. A mask. A blade. Then music. Like a death anthem.
One headline blazed at the bottom of the screen:
BLACKRIDGE: MODERN GULAG EXPOSED IN WAKE OF MYSTERIOUS ATTACK.
Anne turned off the TV.
She didn't need the footage to replay it. She could still hear the music. The way it built through the walls like a pulse, announcing something—someone—unstoppable.
The sharp scent of antiseptic mingled with the faint smell of damp fabric from her hospital gown. The thin curtain beside her shifted gently with the movement of a passing nurse, but otherwise the room was still, as if holding its breath along with her.
The door opened softly, and two men entered, their faces open, expressions lined with concern rather than accusation. The taller of the two, a man in his early forties with kind eyes and a calm voice, introduced himself gently.
"Ms. Ryker, I'm Agent Kovalenko with the Federal Intelligence Service. I know this must be difficult, but we're here to help. We want to understand what happened at Blackridge, so we can make sure you're safe."
Anne's lips parted, but the words caught in her throat. Her head still felt heavy, memories swirling in a mist she couldn't pierce. She swallowed and said softly, "I'm sorry. I was unconscious... I don't remember anything."
Kovalenko nodded slowly, his expression patient and sincere. "That's understandable. You've been through a terrible ordeal. Right now, what matters most is your recovery. If anything comes back to you, no matter how small, we'll be here to listen."
A second man, quieter and more reserved, placed a gentle hand on the small table beside her bed. "We're not here to question or accuse you. You're a victim in all this. We just want to make sure you're safe and supported."
Anne's chest tightened as a tear slipped down her cheek. The trauma was still fresh, raw and unforgiving. "Thank you," she whispered.
_____________________________________________
The next morning, the city was cloaked in winter's dull light, pale and unforgiving. Anne sat behind the familiar desk in her corner office at HelixCross Logistics, the sharp contrast of polished glass and gleaming metal outside her window reminding her of the fragile normalcy she longed to reclaim.
Her assistant secretary moved quietly around her, their voices low with sympathy rather than suspicion. Marcus, her trusted operations manager, stopped by her side, eyes filled with genuine concern.
"We've got calls from a few clients," he said carefully. "They're worried, but they trust you. We're standing behind you, Anne."
She gave him a small, grateful smile. "I'm glad. I need everyone to know the truth—that I was taken against my will, suspected of things I'm not involved in."
Marcus nodded firmly. "We'll make sure that message gets through. The board's ready to support you in any statement you want to make."
The weight of that solidarity was a balm to her bruised spirit. "Thank you, Marcus. It means everything."
The clock on the office wall ticked past 3:00 pm. Outside, the late winter light filtered through the tall windows, casting long, pale shadows across the sleek conference room. Anne sat behind her desk, running through reports on her tablet, her mind still clouded by the events at Blackridge. The hum of quiet conversations and keyboards filled the office — a strange contrast to the chaos she'd survived just days before.
The office emptied slowly as the late afternoon shadows stretched across the polished floors. Anne's fingers tapped lightly against the edge of her desk, her mind still tangled in fragments of the last few days. The door to her office creaked open, and two familiar faces stepped in quietly—Jared and Lila, her closest colleagues from the operations team.
Jared, tall and pragmatic with a streak of dry humor, offered a tentative smile. "Hey, Anne. Thought we'd check in. How are you holding up?"
Anne returned the smile, grateful for the gesture. "Better than yesterday. Still trying to make sense of everything."
Lila, usually all business, softened as she pulled up a chair beside Anne's desk. "We've been fielding questions from the team. Everyone's worried, but they want you to know—we've got your back. No one believes those rumors."
Anne's eyes flickered to the tablet showing the ongoing news coverage, then back to Lila. "Thank you. That means more than I can say. I'm trying to be strong, but sometimes it feels like the walls are closing in."
Lila leaned forward, her voice low but firm. "We want to help you clear your name, Anne. If there's anything you need—contacts, documents, even just someone to listen—you say the word."
Anne felt a warm pulse of relief. The weight on her chest eased slightly. "I might take you up on that. For now, just knowing you're here... it's enough."
They sat together in the quiet office, the hum of the city outside a distant murmur, a fragile bubble of solidarity in a world unraveling around them.
A sudden knock on the door startled her. She looked up to see three men in dark suits standing at the threshold, their expressions calm but serious. One stepped forward and showed a badge with the unmistakable insignia of the Federal Intelligence Service.
"Ms. Ryker, apologies for the intrusion," the lead agent said smoothly, his voice low but firm. "We have instructions to speak with you regarding the Blackridge incident. It's important for your safety and ongoing investigations."
Anne blinked, wariness flickering in her eyes, but the agents' professionalism was undeniable. They didn't carry weapons visibly, and their manner was measured — more protective than confrontational.
"We're here to ensure you're protected," the second agent added, glancing briefly at the others before nodding. "There's concern that those responsible for the attack might target you again."
Anne blinked, weighing their calm professionalism. "Please, have a seat," she said, gesturing toward the chairs.
For a moment, the agents exchanged glances. Then the tallest one shook his head, voice cold and firm. "No. We're leaving now, and you're coming with us."
A cold prickle ran down Anne's spine. Her throat tightened. "I— I'm not going anywhere without my lawyer," she stammered, heart pounding.
The men said nothing more. The lead agent's eyes locked on hers with an unreadable intensity. The room seemed to shrink, the hum of the office dimming into silence.
Anne's hands clenched the edge of the desk as the veneer of calm slipped away. Something about their tone, their sudden refusal to sit—it didn't feel like protection anymore.
As the seconds stretched, doubt crept in alongside fear.