February 13, 2030
Detective William Vexley always said the devil wasn't in the details—it was the pattern of them. At thirty-five, he carried the kind of likable charm that disarmed even the most paranoid suspects. With rolled-up sleeves, a crooked grin, and a pair of scuffed Oxford shoes, Vexley looked more like a well-read bartender than one of the nation's sharpest minds. But behind those soft eyes lay a razor's edge intellect, the kind that earned him the grudging respect of federal analysts and irritated a few judges who hated being outmaneuvered.
The colonel's name was Marcus Halvern. Decorated. Feared. Connected. Now dead.
Room 1901 still reeked of industrial linen spray and something else—something metallic and faintly bitter. Vexley stood by the windowsill, watching the crime scene techs dust for prints they wouldn't find. The coroner's report confirmed what his instincts had already whispered: no sign of struggle, no forced entry, no physical trauma. A heart that simply stopped. But people didn't die in terror by coincidence. The eyes don't lie.
"Weirdest part?" said Officer Mallory, glancing up from his pad. "Guy had his service pistol on the nightstand. Unfired. No drugs in his system. Door locked from inside."
Vexley didn't answer immediately. He moved to the desk. Picked up the white card with the single word, February.
He tilted it in the light, squinting.
"Laser-cut paper. Expensive. European. Handwritten cursive. Left-handed slant," he said, almost to himself. "Deliberate. This wasn't a threat. It was a message."
He tucked the note into an evidence sleeve.
That night, Vexley was back at his modest two-bedroom apartment, cluttered with case files, half-eaten takeout containers, and vinyl jazz records. One wall had transformed into an organized madness: photos, strings, timelines, redacted memos, and news clippings pinned with surgical precision. At the center was a circle labeled Blackridge. Around it, like satellite moons, spiraled names: The Black List. President Malenkov. Stroganov. The Annex Leak. February.
He zoomed in on a video freeze-frame—a blurry still from the Kremlin Media Annex incident. A woman in red, walking calmly away as chaos erupted behind her.
"Why leave a name? Why now?" he muttered.
His burner phone buzzed. A message from his old friend, Captain Emil Graves, now stationed in a classified military outpost.
Emil: Anything new?
Vexley: The colonel wasn't clean. I checked military archives. He ran a covert trafficking op through private contractors. Same ones flagged in the Blackridge reports. Drugs. Weapons. People.
Emil: You sure you want to keep digging? There's talk this goes way above your badge.
Vexley: I stopped doing this for the badge a long time ago.
He put the phone down. Ran his hand over his face. His eyes drifted to a map of North America. A red marker circled Northern Idaho.
Then came a sound behind him.
A whisper. A presence.
"You've been doing your homework very well."
Vexley spun, reaching instinctively for the Glock strapped under his desk drawer—but it was already in her hand.
She stepped from the shadows.
The woman in scarlet dress, now wearing black turtleneck top.
Long gloves.
Calm, poised, lethal.
February.
"Easy," she said. "I'm not here to kill you. If I were, we wouldn't be speaking."
"You left your name. That's a breadcrumb trail."
"No," she said, her voice like velvet drawn across broken glass. "That was a warning."
He narrowed his eyes. "A warning for who?"
February lowered the pistol and set it on the table. "Halvern was part of something rotting this country from the inside. He wasn't the disease. He was just one symptom."
Vexley exhaled slowly. "You're one of them. The assassins from the Kremlin breach. The O.Y.A."
A flicker of something crossed her eyes. Amusement? Pity?
"You really are good," she said. "That's why I'm here. You're close. But be careful. There's a reason the rest of the world's looking away. They want people like you silenced. Not killed. Forgotten."
"So what do you want from me?"
February turned to the board on his wall. Her gaze swept the chaos.
"You keep pulling on this thread, detective, it will unravel the entire suit. Just make sure you're ready for what's underneath."
Then she was gone.
Silent.
Like a ghost through a closed door.
Vexley sat down slowly, heart racing.
He looked at the gun.
It was unloaded.
But the message was clear:
Keep digging.
And don't miss what's right in front of you.