The night air outside the office was still, but Amaka's thoughts were anything but. She sat in her car, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly as the anonymous email echoed in her mind. Well played. But this is not over. It had no sender's name, no identifying marks, just bold black text sitting in her inbox like a threat scrawled on a wall. She had faced a boardroom filled with power-hungry executives, exposed a calculated sabotage attempt, and walked away with her head held high. But now, someone was letting her know that this was just the beginning.
She locked her car doors, not out of fear, but out of reflex. There was something dangerous about threats that smiled. Whoever had sent the message had access, not just to files and schedules, but to her mind, to her routine, to her silence. That was the part that unsettled her most. It was not the warning. It was how well it had been timed. It had arrived just after the meeting. Just after she had turned the tide in her favor. It was not a random message. It was a response. A statement. A signal that someone was watching, waiting, calculating their next move.
She started the engine and drove home, every red light feeling longer than usual, every car that turned when she did making her suspicious. She pulled into her compound and scanned her surroundings before stepping out. She was not usually paranoid, but the night felt strange. Even the crickets were quiet. Inside her apartment, she turned on all the lights, locked every door, and powered up her laptop again. She needed to see that message one more time. She needed to read between the words.
Opening her inbox, she clicked the email and scrolled slowly. There was no signature. No email trail. No code in the source header. Whoever sent it had known what they were doing. It came from a temporary server routed through several international networks. But something caught her attention. The font style. It was slightly different from the standard. Narrower. Older. And below the final line, hidden under the white space, there was a faint watermark. Her eyes widened as she leaned in.
It read, Sent via TitanNet Secure.
Only one department in the company used TitanNet Secure for internal and confidential reporting. The Internal Compliance and Risk Unit. She opened her directory file and checked the names. Only five staff were assigned to that department. Three of them had no access to executive-level files. One was currently on maternity leave. That left one name. Somadina Eze.
The name rang a distant bell. She had seen it before, not in a meeting, but on the corner of a printed report she had skimmed two weeks ago. A file that detailed audit checks on interdepartmental communications. She remembered it because the name had been typed, not signed, and yet something about the data inside had looked… intentionally vague. She stood from her desk and paced. If Somadina had access to risk logs and could hide communication trails, then he could have planted the anonymous warning. But the question remained, why?
She picked up her phone and called the only person who had a better grip on the company's secrets than anyone else. "Bola," she said when the line picked. "I need your help. But this conversation stays between us."
Bola was the company's lead IT analyst, smart, quiet, and allergic to nonsense. She had always liked Bola because he never asked stupid questions and knew how to dig without leaving holes. When Amaka explained what she had found, he let out a low whistle.
"TitanNet leaves digital fingerprints, but only if the user forgets to flush the cache," he said. "I will need ten minutes and a reason if anyone asks."
"You will not need to explain anything," Amaka replied. "Because no one will know."
She ended the call and waited. While she waited, she reviewed the board meeting records again, noting who had voted silently, who had nodded when she spoke, and who had failed to make eye contact with her at all. These were the signs people ignored. The way silence grew teeth in the mouths of those who once praised you.
Her phone buzzed again. Bola had sent a secure message with only one line. You are right. It was Somadina. But that is not the whole story. He accessed your profile three days ago. He also downloaded Chuka's meeting logs. He deleted one file entry. I am sending it.
Amaka opened the attachment. It was a surveillance log. Date. Time. Location. It showed a record from the staff parking lot, same night as the photo. Except this one had a different angle. It showed a figure standing near a car two rows away, holding something small in their hand. A phone. Possibly a camera.
The image was blurry, but the silhouette was clear enough. Short, thick build. Male. Wearing a black hoodie. It was the shadow behind the shot, the ghost who had taken the original photo. And if Somadina had access to this footage and removed it from the records, then he was not just warning her. He was covering something up.
She dialed Chuka immediately.
"It is bigger than you think," she said the moment he answered. "Your logs were tampered with. Someone watched us that night, recorded it, and sent the picture. Then deleted the evidence."
Chuka was quiet on the other end.
"I need to know everything about Somadina," she continued. "His role. His ties. Who he reports to. And more importantly, who put him there."
"I will call the legal head," Chuka said slowly. "But Amaka, be careful. If he went this far, he will not stop now."
"I am not afraid," she replied. "I am alert."
The next morning, she arrived at work before anyone else. She took the stairs instead of the elevator and made her way to the compliance floor. It was quiet, too quiet. As she stepped into the hallway, she saw a light still on at the end. She walked slowly, footsteps soft, back straight. She knocked once.
Somadina opened the door. He was younger than she expected, maybe thirty, with sharp eyes and a careful smile.
"Ms. Amaka," he said smoothly. "To what do I owe the honor?"
She stepped into the office without waiting for an invitation. "I think you already know."
He shut the door gently behind her. "If this is about internal logs, I suggest you speak to the legal team. I cannot disclose…"
"Save the script," she cut in. "I know what you did. I know what you deleted. I know what you sent."
He tilted his head. "That sounds like a serious accusation."
"It is not an accusation. It is a warning. You made your move. I made mine. Now the question is who you are working for. Because I know you did not act alone."
Somadina's smile faltered. Just a little. Barely enough to catch. But she saw it.
"You think you are smarter than the system," he said. "You think numbers and confidence will keep you safe. But you do not know the game you stepped into."
"Then enlighten me," she said.
"You were not supposed to come back. That position was already meant for someone else. Your return disrupted everything."
"Let me guess," she said, stepping closer. "Ngozi?"
He chuckled but did not confirm.
"You know what your mistake was?" Amaka asked. "Sending that last email. You wanted me to see you. You wanted credit. You wanted fear. But now I see you. And you are not half as dangerous as you think."
He stepped back slightly, but his smile returned. "Be careful how loudly you shout. The people you think are listening might already be recording."
Amaka turned and walked out without another word.
She returned to her office and found Chuka already waiting. He looked tense, eyes scanning her for signs of distress.
"You went to see him," he said.
"Yes. And he confirmed everything without saying a word."
Chuka sat down and exhaled. "We are dealing with something organized. I just spoke with legal. Somadina was placed in the company six months ago by a private consulting firm hired by one of our investors. The board member who received the photo first? His firm is on that investor's portfolio."
"So this was not just gossip," Amaka said slowly. "This was a setup."
"They wanted to discredit you quietly," Chuka said. "And when that failed, they hoped to intimidate you. But you flipped it."
"Now they are desperate," she added. "Which makes them reckless."
Chuka leaned forward. "What do you want to do?"
"I want a full audit," she said. "I want a public report of every promotion in the last year. I want transparency. And I want them to know that if they push me, I will not break. I will expose."
Chuka nodded. "You have my full backing."
She looked at him, for the first time in days, not as a former lover or complicated memory, but as an ally.
"I hope you mean that," she said. "Because what comes next will not be quiet."
That night, another email came. This one was different. No threats. Just a file. Inside was a list of names. Staff. Board members. Contractors. People tied together by more than just the company. People who had been part of the whisper network. People who wanted her gone.
The file was titled Echo Chamber.
Amaka stared at it for a long time.
Then she clicked save.