Evelyn burst through the glass doors of the Chronicle office, the fluorescent lights seeming harsher than usual. The newsroom, typically a vibrant mess of activity even late at night, was eerily quiet. It felt less like a hub of journalism and more like a waiting room for an execution.
Mark, the editor, was waiting for her, his face pale and etched with defeat. He led her not to his office, but to a vacant, small conference room—a sign that their conversation was both sensitive and likely recorded.
"It's worse than I said on the phone, Ev," Mark muttered, closing the door firmly. "Julian Thorne didn't just pull the Aethel ads. He sent a signal. Every major corporate entity associated with Aethel—pharmaceuticals, tech hardware, even the regional bank that handles our pension fund—they all pulled their ad buys within an hour. It's a coordinated financial strike."
Evelyn sank into a chair. "How much revenue did we lose?"
"Enough to put us in the red for the quarter. And that's just the start. The real leverage is the stock. Fifteen percent, Evelyn. Thorne didn't buy it himself; he used three holding companies, clean as a whistle, but the paper trail leads straight back to his financial orbit. He's now the single largest non-institutional shareholder."
"He's executing a hostile takeover of the truth," Evelyn realized, the cold fury replacing her fear. "He's bought himself a seat on the board, and he's going to use it to kill the story."
Mark ran a tired hand through his thin hair. "The publisher is frantic. He's calling an emergency meeting tomorrow morning with the board. Thorne's representative is flying in tonight. They're going to push for a 'strategic pivot'—which means gutting investigative projects and focusing on 'safe' content."
"We have to beat them to it," Evelyn insisted, leaning across the table. "I have the core of the story, Mark. I have the ledger data, I have the testimony from the silenced founder, and I have the victim—Clara Mendez, who is now Aethel's permanent source of revenue. The story is solid. We have to publish tonight."
"It won't make it to print," Mark said flatly. "The moment we hit 'send' to the printers, the Board—or rather, Thorne's proxy—will get an injunction. He's weaponized his capital, Evelyn. His money speaks directly to the Board, and they hear it loud and clear."
Evelyn stared at the wall, thinking furiously. Thorne had closed every traditional avenue of publication. Print was out. The Chronicle's website was likely being monitored.
"We need a leak, Mark. A controlled burn. We need to release the data simultaneously to multiple independent sources: an international watchdog, a handful of independent journalists, and maybe a major rival publication that hates Thorne enough to ignore the financial risk."
"Risky," Mark conceded, "but maybe the only way. If we use the Chronicle's servers, we're giving Thorne the evidence he needs to sue us for market manipulation. And that suit will crush us."
Just then, her burner phone, tucked into her bag, buzzed with an incoming encrypted message. It was Marcus.
I anticipated the shareholder move. You need untraceable bandwidth. Look under the last bench on the old West Pier. Package is waterproof. Use it now. Then run.
Evelyn showed the text to Mark. "This is Marcus. He's giving us a way out. We bypass the system."
"The West Pier? You mean the abandoned fishing pier? That's miles from here!"
"It doesn't matter," Evelyn said, standing up, the adrenaline flooding her system. "Thorne's money may speak to our corporate overlords, but it can't buy every piece of dark fiber in the city. We have to get out of this building."
Mark looked at her, his face heavy with the realization of the risk they were taking. He was about to put his thirty-year career, his pension, and the future of his newspaper on the line for a single story.
"Go, Evelyn. I'll cover for you here. I'll tell the publisher you took a 'personal day,' which, given the circumstances, is technically true," he said, managing a grim smile. He paused at the door, his hand on the knob. "But Evelyn, if you fail, if they silence this, there will be nothing left of the Chronicle but the smell of burnt paper."
Evelyn nodded, her determination hard and clear. "I understand, Mark. But I won't fail. We have the truth, and he only has money. We're going to make sure the WORDS are heard this time."
She slipped out the back exit, merging into the anonymity of the late-night streets. She had two hours to get to the West Pier, locate Marcus's package, and release a story that would trigger a global scandal. Julian Thorne had used his billions to build a wall of silence. Evelyn was about to use one single, powerful leak to bring it all crashing down.