The folder hadn't been left on her kitchen table—it had been placed out. Dead in the middle. The clasp shut. Not a sheet of paper moved.
Ivy stared at it as if it could blow.
Her flat was small—two rooms, barely space for her books, not to mention anything else. She double-checked the door. No break-in. Smooth lock, deadbolt shot home as usual. She moved around slowly, cautiously, tracing her fingers over every drawer handle and window catch.
Nothing else was touched.
Someone had been there, though. Someone who knew what they were looking for. And worse—someone who knew her.
She did not call the police.
What would she say?
Hi, someone entered my apartment, didn't touch anything, and left me a folder full of legally dubious city zoning permits?
No. She wasn't ready for that.
Instead, she took a photo of the folder and sent it to the one person who could possibly get what it was about.
Ivy: This was here waiting for me when I got home.
She simply stared at the message for a long time. And then she sent it.
Elias didn't reply right away. She hadn't expected him to. He didn't seem like the kind of guy who stared at his phone constantly. He seemed like more of a guy who forgot birthdays and forgot his own voicemail password.
She put the folder in her bag, sat on the edge of her bed, and waited.
Her mind continued to go round and round on the same thing.
Someone needed her to know they were observing.
Not scare her. Not silence her—not yet.
Just a warning.
But it wasn't actually threatening. It was practiced. Unemotional. Like whoever did it had done this sort of thing before.
By the time Elias reacted, it was almost midnight.
Elias: You need to leave the apartment. This evening. Go to the archive. It is safer.
No questions. No hesitation.
She didn't even go so far as to pack.
The city was another place at night. As Ivy walked, she could have sworn it was holding its breath.
Ivy rushed along, coat tightly zipped, head down. The wind sniped at her, pulling on her bag and jerking at her sleeves. A few cabs passed by, and a drunk couple laughed across the street. Otherwise, the sidewalks were empty.
By the time she reached the library, the front gates already creaked open.
Elias stood just inside the gate, arms across his chest, eyes on the street behind her. He looked as if he hadn't slept in days.
She stepped inside.
He pushed the gate shut and turned the latch.
"Up or down?" she asked.
He nodded in the direction of the back stairway. "Down."
The archive was chilly at dusk, as if the walls recalled each secret ever shared between them. Old lights hummed above their heads as they threaded through lines of filing cabinets and crumpled cardboard boxes. Ivy placed her bag upon the principal worktable and retrieved the red folder.
Elias didn't move. He simply looked at it.
"Same one?" he inquired.
She nodded. "Exact same."
"And you didn't bring it to your house?"
"No. I left it in my desk drawer."
"That's what I thought."
He raked through his hair and let out a quiet, exhausted breath.
"Whoever this is," he said, "they wanted you to see this."
Ivy folded her arms. "Why?"
"To frighten you."
"It didn't work."
He looked up at her, surprised.
"Shouldn't it have?" she asked, slightly too levelly.
Elias did not answer.
Instead, he reached out to the folder and opened it. "I spent the afternoon reading over city council reports. Most of the zoning applications with these lots were pushed through using emergency procedures. No public hearings. Just rubber-stamped."
Ivy pulled over a second chair and sat beside him. "That's against the law."
He smiled halfway. "Technically it's a loophole. But yeah—functionally, it's against the law." *
Together they pored over the documents. Ivy highlighted inconsistencies. Elias jotted names in his notebook. More than half the approvals were linked to one consulting firm—Vortan Solutions, a name Ivy had never heard before.
"Shell company," Elias said. "Probably a dozen layers deep. I've seen this kind of structure before. You'd need weeks to trace it properly."
"Or a whistleblower."
He looked at her sharply. "You found one?"
She hesitated. "Not particularly. But there's a signature on one of the hidden memos. I checked it twice yesterday while leaving the office. The name is Jordan Rhys. Was an employee in municipal planning. He disappeared five years ago."
Elias froze.
"I know that name," he said, his words slow. "He was my last source. Before… everything."
Before the scandal. Before the fall.
Ivy didn't press him. She could see the heaviness weighing behind his eyes. Shame and regret. But determination too.
"If he's alive," she told him, "we have to locate him."
Elias nodded. "I think someone's already trying it," he said. "And if we're not careful, they'll get to him before us."
They labored through the night. At about 3:00 AM, Ivy slept with her head in her arms on the table, cheek against an open folder. Elias draped his jacket over her shoulders and continued working. He didn't disturb her when the floor above groaned—once, twice, then again fell silent.
By morning, the world outside remained the same. But Ivy wasn't.
Something had shifted.
She wasn't looking. She belonged. And part of her hated it—but part of her was more awake than she had been in years.
When Paul, her supervisor, walked in at 8:15 AM, sleepless and carrying a takeout coffee, he stood stock-still at the sight of them.
"Ivy?" he asked, blinking.
She stood up and fluffed out her hair from her face.
"I need to take a personal day," she said, her voice steady.
Paul scrunched up his brow, then glanced at Elias, who didn't even look up.
"Is… everything okay?" he asked.
Ivy nodded. "Just taking the day."
He shrugged. "Okay. Just punch it in."
She let him go before speaking to Elias.
"Are you ready?" she asked.
He grabbed his notebook.
"Let's go find Jordan Rhys."