The West Pier was a derelict stretch of wood and rusting metal, jutting out into the black, choppy water of the bay. It smelled of brine, oil, and decay—a forgotten relic far from the shimmering glass towers of Julian Thorne's empire.
Evelyn, breathless from the frantic cab ride and the adrenaline, found the location Marcus had specified: the last bench before the pier's end, marked by faded graffiti. Her fingers trembled as she felt underneath the slats. There it was—a heavy, waterproof case, duct-taped securely to the underside.
She tore it free and hurried to the relative darkness near a crumbling concrete pillar. Inside the case, she found a compact satellite modem, a pre-configured laptop, and a single, sealed envelope marked simply: 'PROTOCOL.'
The laptop was stripped of any identifying marks, running on a proprietary operating system. Evelyn didn't hesitate. She plugged in the modem, which immediately began searching for a clear, private satellite connection—a signal that bypassed all terrestrial and corporate networks.
She opened the protocol envelope. Marcus's handwriting was precise and spartan:
* TRANSFER LEDGER: Decrypt and transfer the LEGACY_LEDGER_01 onto the laptop's secure drive.
* PRE-DRAFTED RELEASE: Use the provided draft press release template. Insert three key elements: Clara Mendez's testimony (summarized, not quoted for time), Dr. Aris Thorne's confirmation of the "price," and the specific dollar amounts of the 'HUSH' fund.
* BLIND DROP: Use the pre-loaded distribution list. This list includes global financial watchdogs, a key Senate committee aide, and five major international news outlets with no financial ties to Aethel.
* TRIGGER: Press the 'COMMIT' key. The signal will broadcast instantaneously and untraceably via the satellite network. You have exactly 60 seconds to disconnect and run after transmission begins.
Evelyn worked with mechanical efficiency, her fear now distilled into cold, focused action. She used the metallic flash drive from the coffee shop to decrypt and transfer the ledger data. The raw numbers—the $2.3 billion in 'HUSH' money—were now embedded in a globally visible document.
She quickly pulled up the press release template. The headline, Marcus had perfectly anticipated, was a hammer blow:
FINANCIAL TREASON: AEHTEL CEO JULIAN THORNE SPENT $2.3 BILLION TO SUPPRESS MEDICAL CURES FOR PROFIT.
Evelyn typed in the summary of Clara Mendez's continued suffering and the confirmed, crippling penalties faced by Dr. Thorne. She ensured the links to the encrypted ledger were active and accessible by the recipients.
She paused, looking at the glowing 'COMMIT' key. One click, and she would release a firestorm that would threaten to bring down one of the world's most powerful men and, potentially, destroy her own career and her newspaper.
"Sometimes money speaks more than words," she murmured to the dark water, "but not tonight."
She slammed her finger down on the key.
The laptop screen immediately began flashing red, counting down: 60 SECONDS TO DISCONNECT.
The signal was gone, split into a hundred pieces and broadcast into the dark night sky. The modem light pulsed rapidly.
Evelyn reached to pull the cable, but a new, smaller window popped up on the laptop screen, overriding the countdown. It was a live, encrypted video feed.
The face that appeared was Julian Thorne's. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't angry. He was simply disappointed—the expression of a man who had seen an obstacle and was prepared to pay any price to remove it.
"Evelyn Reed," his voice was smooth, carrying perfectly despite the static of the satellite link. "Always doing things the hard way. I was hoping my purchase of the Chronicle stock would be sufficient warning. It appears I underestimated your personal commitment to self-destruction."
Evelyn stared, stunned that he had anticipated her movements so precisely. "You can't stop it, Thorne. The data is out. Your algorithm of greed is exposed."
"The data is out? Perhaps," he conceded, looking away for a moment, as if checking an unseen monitor. "But I offered your editor a choice, Evelyn. I offered him a settlement. And I'm now offering you a truly magnificent opportunity."
He looked back at the camera, his eyes gleaming with the dangerous confidence of absolute wealth. "You see, Miss Reed, my representatives are already moving to acquire every major news outlet on that distribution list you just used. They are all publicly traded. We can purchase influence faster than you can send an email. But I prefer to purchase loyalty."
He paused, letting the silence draw out, his gaze unwavering. "I will offer you the directorship of Aethel's new philanthropic foundation—the one dedicated to actual medical research. A salary of ten million dollars a year. A life of comfort and influence, spent doing good in my name. And a guarantee that your paper, the Chronicle, will receive a perpetual endowment. All you have to do is send one final message: a retraction, claiming the entire ledger was a sophisticated, anonymous hoax."
Evelyn felt the breath rush out of her lungs. Ten million dollars. Enough to solve every problem she or her family had ever faced. Enough to save the Chronicle entirely. It was the ultimate test. The money was speaking, and it was screaming in her ear.
"I have the human cost, Mr. Thorne," Evelyn managed, her voice shaking but firm. "I have Clara Mendez and the millions of people your company is profiting from. You can't put a price on that."
"But I already did, Miss Reed," Thorne countered, a slight, victorious curl to his lip. "I have the price of the cure, the price of the paper, and now, I have the price of the journalist. All that's left is for you to accept that my money speaks louder than your words ever will."
The countdown reached 5 SECONDS.
Evelyn grabbed the cable. Her mind flashed to the empty eyes of Dr. Aris Thorne and the weary, pain-filled face of Clara Mendez.
"No," Evelyn said, her voice a fierce whisper. "The price is too high."
She ripped the cable from the modem.
The screen immediately went black. Julian Thorne's face vanished, replaced by the deep, anonymous blackness of the dark web. Evelyn had refused the ultimate check. The story was gone, scattered to the winds.
She threw the laptop and modem into the sea, destroying the evidence of her transmission. As she turned to run, her regular phone chimed with a notification.
It was an alert from the Chronicle's corporate news feed, sent moments after her transmission. It was a single, devastating headline, not about the ledger, but about her:
BREAKING: CHRONICLE JOURNALIST EVELYN REED FIRED AMID ALLEGATIONS OF CORPORATE ESPIONAGE AND FRAUD.
Julian Thorne had bought the paper's loyalty, but he hadn't bought her silence. Now, Evelyn was alone, unemployed, and facing the full legal and financial wrath of the richest man in the world. The battle for the truth had just moved from the newsroom to the gutter.