Damon was used to pressure.
Board meetings. Billion-dollar decisions. The chaos of running a name as heavy as Sinclair.
But this—
This was different.
He sat in his penthouse office, the city a blur beyond the glass wall behind him, rereading the message for the third time.
> Unknown Number:
"Still cleaning up your mess, Sinclair? We both know how this really ends. Meet me. Soon. – M"
Manson.
A former detective. A corrupt, ruthless bastard who'd helped make the evidence from that night disappear. Damon had paid him to stay quiet—and stay gone.
Why is he here now?
What is he up to now?
---
Meanwhile…
Elina stood in the garden behind her rented apartment, phone in hand, gloves still on from watering her plants.
She stared at the new message.
> He replied.
He took the bait.
She didn't smile.
This wasn't about joy. It was about justice.
She had used a burner email. Claimed to be a reporter digging into an unsolved case. She'd sent Manson the photo. Mentioned Damon Sinclair's name. That was all it took.
Like a vulture, Manson circled back—driven by greed.
Elina hadn't expected it to work so quickly.
But now… the game was changing.
---
Later that Night
Damon pulled up to a cheap bar on the Lower East Side—hood up, sunglasses on, paranoia clinging to him like sweat.
Manson was already there. Older. Thicker. Snake eyes that hadn't aged a day.
"Well, well," Manson drawled. "If it isn't the golden boy."
"You said you wanted to talk," Damon said tightly. "Talk."
Manson sipped his beer. "Ten years since that night, huh? You'd think guilt would've eaten you alive by now."
Damon's jaw clenched. "I paid you. You took it. We're done."
"Were done," Manson corrected. "But then your face shows up on gossip sites again, and I thought—huh, must be a good time to renegotiate."
He slid a USB across the table.
"Everything I have. Witness names. The suppressed report. That little girl's parents… what were their names again?"
Damon didn't touch the drive.
"$5 million," Manson said smoothly. "Or I start feeding it to the press. Bit by bit. They'll eat it up."
Damon stood. "You're insane."
Manson smirked. "I'm a businessman. Just like your father was. Just like you."
---
Back at Elina's
Elina opened her journal and wrote a single sentence:
> He met Manson tonight.
She didn't know what was on that USB.
Didn't care.
All she knew was this: Damon Sinclair was finally sweating.
And soon, she would make him bleed.