Jack and Eli return to Jack's private office bunker. The city is just waking up. They don't call a press conference—they call the press directly. Jack, using an encrypted channel, leaks the files anonymously and tells the media: Anna Davis is not who you think she is.
---
The garage elevator opened with a low thunk, rising into the back corridor of Jack Serrano's private office—a place not listed on any city registry, no campaign signage, no windows. Just cement, cables, and old carpet that muffled every footstep like they were walking through a war museum.
Eli tossed his bag onto the old conference table. "We're safe. For now."
Jack didn't answer. He moved to the far wall where an old laptop waited—black case, offline, no stickers, no biometric login. Pure paranoia tech.
He powered it up.
No campaign servers. No official accounts.
This move wouldn't come from Jack Serrano, candidate for mayor.
It would come from no one.
Eli paced slowly behind him. "You're sure about this? We could hold it. Build a rollout. A narrative. Control the shape of the story."
Jack's eyes didn't leave the screen.
"I don't want to control the shape," he said. "I want to light the fuse and let them run."
He opened an encrypted browser. Routed the signal through four nodes, bouncing through New Delhi, Berlin, Johannesburg, and back to a weather station in Oregon.
Then he pulled up the anonymous tip line to WTR News.
Attached the files.
The folder title was simple:
> "SHE KNEW"
He wrote two sentences beneath it.
> "The documents speak for themselves. Anna Davis knowingly accepted campaign money through illegal shell fronts created by her father's company. Ask her about the signature on page 4."
Then he clicked "Send."
And leaned back.
Eli exhaled through his nose. "That's it?"
Jack nodded. "That's it."
No name. No credit. No press conference.
Let the wolves tear each other apart while he watched from the hill.
---
Thirty-two minutes later…
Jack's office lights were dimmed, the tablet face down, the laptop shut.
Eli poured coffee in silence.
Then both of their phones buzzed.
WTR Breaking Alert:
> "EXPLOSIVE LEAK: Documents suggest Anna Davis knowingly funneled donor funds through her father's dissolved company. Source anonymous. Link inside."
Then came the others.
Daily Ledger:
> "Anna Davis financial scandal? Mayor front-runner under fire for signed documents linking her to illegal contributions."
Capital Current:
> "If true, this ends her career."
Eli looked at Jack.
Jack looked at the news roll on the screen.
His face was calm.
His voice was quieter than usual.
"Let her sweat."
6:49 A.M.
Midtown, The Westbridge Penthouse
The room was still dark when Anna Davis's phone lit up the marble nightstand. Vibration. Then another. Then another.
The screen filled with banner notifications.
> WTR BREAKING
LEDGER ALERT
FOX LOCAL
SOCIAL TRENDING: #AnnaKnew
She opened her eyes slowly. Then sat upright.
From across the room, Veronica Lin was already moving—pad in hand, coffee in one hand, hair tied, sleeves rolled.
"You need to see this now," she said, voice clipped.
Anna didn't respond. She grabbed the phone and swiped open the first article.
And there it was.
Her name.
Her signature.
On a contract linking D.S.C. Holdings, her father's ghost company, directly to a slush fund route tied to her campaign.
Worse than the leak?
The timing.
She scrolled faster. The documents were scanned. Sharp. Untouched. Whoever had sent them had done it anonymously, but with surgical clarity.
Veronica dropped the tablet beside her. "We're fielding six calls from the Ledger, WTR, and that prick over at Current. Two donors have already paused their pledges."
Anna stared down at the signature.
Her signature.
Page 4.
"Who sent this?" she asked, almost calmly.
Veronica shook her head. "Anonymous tip line. No trace. Rerouted through international nodes. We're running server logs now."
Anna stood and walked toward the window. The skyline was clean. Empty of context. Her reflection floated in the glass—still beautiful, still composed—but cracked beneath the surface.
"It was him," she muttered.
Veronica paused. "You're sure?"
Anna nodded once. "Jack Serrano. He was too quiet after the fundraiser. And now this? No one else knew about this file."
Veronica didn't argue.
Anna turned slowly. Her voice now controlled, sharp.
"Prep a statement. Deny everything. Say the signature was forged. Say the documents were altered."
Veronica nodded. "We expected this. Damage control protocol B?"
"No," Anna said. "Not control."
Veronica tilted her head. "Then what?"
Anna smiled. Cold. Lethal.
"Retaliation."
7:03 A.M.
Westbridge Newsroom – WTR HQ
Miles, the reporter Jack had trusted with his first anonymous leak, stared at his inbox as the second message hit.
No subject.
No sender.
Just an icon: a zipped folder titled "Photographic Confirmation – AnnaDavis_Proof.zip."
He opened it.
And swore out loud.
Inside:
A full-resolution image of the original file—Anna Davis's signature on a transfer document from D.S.C. Holdings.
A shot of the entire contract spread, timestamped and GPS-logged from inside Keystone Civic's third-floor office.
Photos of folders, filing cabinets, even a matchbook from the cleaner who tried to torch the place.
One last image: a selfie of a black-gloved hand holding the evidence, rooftop antenna barely visible in the background. No face. No body. Just silence and proof.
Miles grabbed his phone and hit publish on a second follow-up piece:
> BREAKING UPDATE: PHOTOS CONFIRM AUTHENTICITY OF LEAKED DAVIS DOCUMENTS
Includes timestamped images from inside ghost office tied to her father's former company. More at 7:30.
---
7:11 A.M.
Anna's Penthouse
Veronica's phone buzzed. She checked the screen, paled slightly.
"Anna…"
Anna was fixing her collar, eyes locked on her reflection.
"What now?"
Veronica just handed her the phone.
Anna read the headline.
Then the subheader.
Then saw the image.
She froze.
For two seconds.
No movement.
No breath.
Then: the phone cracked as it hit the wall.
"He was inside," she said, softly.
Veronica nodded. "He broke into Keystone. Somehow."
Anna whispered like it was a prayer and a curse at once:
"He went to war."
---
Back at Jack's Office – 7:18 A.M.
Eli scrolled through the WTR update with a low whistle.
"You just nuked her morning."
Jack sat in his chair, eyes calm.
"She was going to lie. I gave her the chance not to."
He leaned back.
"Now I take her stage."
7:23 A.M.
Westbridge Penthouse – Private Strategy Room
The door shut with a heavy thud behind Anna as she entered.
Four people were already waiting:
Veronica Lin, her strategist, calm but visibly shaken
Ethan Harrell, lawyer, fast-talking and already sweating
Carolyn Hume, her social media advisor, too quiet
And Senator Dreyson, old guard, powerful, and visibly annoyed
Anna didn't sit.
She stood by the window, arms crossed, jaw tight.
"They have photos. They have timestamps. They have inside shots." she said coldly. "So first—I want to know how the hell he got in."
Veronica spoke first. "We're assuming it's Jack?"
Anna turned slowly. "It's him."
The room went silent.
Senator Dreyson leaned forward. "He broke into your father's old holdings, stole documents, and gave them to the press. This can be spun."
"Into what?" Anna asked, voice like a blade. "That I left my signature in a haunted office by accident?"
"No," Veronica said. "But we can reframe it. The building was abandoned. Files could have been altered post-signature. You signed that years ago."
"I signed it last year," Anna snapped. "For campaign logistics. Transfers were clean. Legal."
Ethan the lawyer lifted a hand. "Technically yes. But. If D.S.C. Holdings wasn't officially dissolved—"
"It wasn't," Anna said.
Ethan froze.
Veronica blinked.
"You mean it's still active?"
"On paper. For real estate shielding. That's it. My father managed the holdings from behind the curtain so we could protect zoning rights. Nothing criminal."
Veronica stepped in. "Then we pivot."
Anna arched a brow.
"You go vulnerable," Veronica said. "You don't fight. You don't deny. You show humanity. You say this leak is politically motivated. You call it a coordinated smear. You cry, Anna. For real, if possible."
"I don't cry," Anna said.
"You do now."
Veronica pointed at the screen. "If you try to fight fire with fire, you look guilty. If you're soft—wounded—you look hunted. Jack becomes the predator. You become the woman being stalked for her father's mistakes."
Anna turned back to the window.
After a long pause: "Fine."
Veronica stepped forward. "And then?"
Anna turned slowly.
Her voice was quieter now. But deeper.
"Then we bury him. With something real."
8:12 A.M.
The Westbridge Press Atrium – Live Broadcast
Flashes lit the podium like a firing squad.
Dozens of cameras. Two microphones. Network vans blocking both sides of the plaza.
The city watched.
Anna Davis stepped out wearing a pale gray coat, no jewelry, no makeup but the bare minimum to hide the fact that she hadn't slept. Her eyes were glassy. Not red. Not teary. Just tired.
The optics were perfect.
She didn't look powerful.
She looked... human.
Veronica stood just off camera, nodding once.
Anna approached the mic.
No paper. No teleprompter.
She breathed in.
And then—began.
---
> "Good morning. I wasn't planning on speaking today. I wasn't even planning on leaving my home. But when you wake up to strangers dissecting your life—your father's legacy, your family's pain—you don't get to stay silent."
> "Last night, documents were leaked. They're real. The signature is mine."
> Gasps. Some murmuring. She continues.
> "What I signed was part of a logistics package drawn up by a legal team tied to my father's estate. I was told it was for zoning. For compliance. I was young. I was busy running a campaign. I didn't ask questions I should've."
> She pauses. Lets it sit.
> "I made a mistake. Not of corruption. But of trust."
> "And now—one of my opponents is trying to turn that mistake into a weapon. Someone who broke into an office in the middle of the night. Took files that didn't belong to him. Violated property. Hacked servers. Sent them anonymously to the press—without telling you who he was."
> Long pause. She breathes again. Quieter now.
> "This isn't just about politics anymore. This is about fear. About how far someone will go to tear down a woman who's worked every day to rise above the scandal she was born into."
> "I won't be silent. And I won't be bullied."
---
The cameras snapped harder. Reporters shouted questions. Her team moved in fast, ushering her out before she had to say more.
But the message landed.
#AnnaKnew was trending.
Now #StandWithAnna was rising to meet it.
---
Elsewhere — Jack's Office
8:18 A.M.
Eli shut the laptop.
He didn't say anything for a moment.
Jack stood near the window again, arms crossed.
"She didn't deny it," Jack said softly.
"Nope."
"She didn't need to."
"Nope."
Jack turned. "Now I look like the stalker."
Eli didn't argue.
Jack's voice sharpened.
"Then we make her cry for real."
Jack didn't move from the window.
The city outside looked soft in the morning haze—buildings glowing gold, cars moving like polite insects. But the tension in the room was solid steel.
Anna's voice still rang in his ears. "I made a mistake. Not of corruption. But of trust."
Bullshit.
He turned slightly, eyes still locked on the skyline.
"So… any idea what the next move is, Eli?"
Eli rubbed his face like he hadn't slept in years. "Yeah," he muttered. "We take her off the chessboard."
Jack raised an eyebrow.
Eli walked over to the table and dropped a USB stick on it. "That was our nuclear strike. But she just walked through it smiling. You want her to bleed? You need something she can't reframe. Something emotional. Something ugly."
Jack didn't speak, but his eyes locked in.
Eli continued. "Every politician's got two weaknesses—money and history. We already hit the money. Now…"
He opened the laptop, pulled up a file labeled:
Davis - Personal 98–07 / Archive Scan / Restricted
Jack stepped closer.
"What is this?"
Eli clicked open the top document.
"Old legal records. Not her dad. Her. Custody hearings. Therapy transcripts. A sealed civil case from 2004."
Jack's expression hardened. "That's off-limits."
"Not if she's playing sympathy card," Eli said. "You want to paint her as manipulative? You show what she was doing back then. Who she threw under the bus to rise."
Jack didn't reply right away.
Then:
"No family. No trauma. That's the line."
Eli nodded.
"Fine. Then we dig sideways. Friends. Business partners. Staff. We pull her campaign chief's financials. We look at who actually pays for her media machine."
He pulled up another folder:
> "Veronica Lin – China PR Syndicate / PAC Connections"
Jack exhaled slowly. "That's the one?"
Eli nodded. "She's the blade behind Anna's smile."
Jack stared at the screen.
"Then we cut the blade."
Jack leaned forward slowly, eyes locked on the screen.
"Veronica Lin," he repeated. "She's not just the strategist."
"Nope," Eli said. "She's the wall. The firewall between Anna and everything dirty. You break Veronica, you don't just scare Anna—you trap her."
Jack tapped the table. "So what are we looking at?"
Eli clicked through the files. "Started digging last year when she popped up as Anna's new campaign lead. She doesn't have a long political history. But she does have a lot of strange funding movement."
Jack crossed his arms. "Like?"
"Shell firms in Taiwan and Vancouver that sent six-figure consulting fees to a company Veronica dissolved right before joining Anna's team. That company shared a PO box with a Beijing-based PR group blacklisted by two federal trade commissions."
Jack didn't flinch. "Foreign money?"
"Not directly. But close enough to make anyone nervous if we say it out loud."
Eli opened another folder. "And then there's this."
A grainy surveillance photo—Veronica Lin leaving a hotel last year. A man walked behind her. Tall. Sunglasses. Familiar.
"Who's that?"
Eli zoomed in.
"That's Terrence Moxley. Political lobbyist. Quiet fixer. He's not on payroll for Anna—but he was working with Davis & Sons before the company 'dissolved.'"
Jack's eyes narrowed.
"And now he's meeting with Veronica?"
Eli nodded. "Three times. Hotel café. No press. No records."
Jack sat back. "So we hit her on two angles—foreign financial proximity and private meetings with a lobbyist tied to a corrupt firm her boss swears she has nothing to do with."
Eli grinned. "Now you're thinking like a killer."
Jack stood. "Let's prep the leak."
Eli blinked. "We're not going to wait and build pressure?"
Jack shook his head.
"She went for the sympathy narrative. She made me the villain. We don't wait—we unmask the one holding her knife."
---
11:07 A.M. – Same Day
Inbox – WTR Investigative Desk
New tip. No sender. No subject.
Attached:
Bank transfers to shell firms linked to Veronica Lin
Two blurry surveillance stills of Moxley and Veronica
A single phrase in the message body:
> "She's not the strategist. She's the strategist and the source."
---
11:41 A.M. – Anna's Campaign HQ
Veronica's phone buzzed twice.
She glanced down, read the alert.
Froze.
Anna looked up from across the war room. "What is it?"
Veronica didn't speak right away.
Then:
"Jack just changed the target."
Anna stood.
Walked to her.
Took her phone.
Read the article:
> BREAKING: Veronica Lin Under Scrutiny for Shadow PAC Funding, Secret Meetings with Davis Fixer
Anna's hands gripped the phone tight.
"Tell me this isn't real."
Veronica didn't answer.
12:03 P.M.
Anna Davis Campaign Headquarters
Glass-Walled Inner Office
The press room outside was a low murmur of keyboards, news monitors, and interns trying not to show they were watching the walls burn.
Inside the glass, Anna slammed the door shut behind her. Veronica stood at the window, staring down at the street below.
Neither spoke at first.
Anna didn't raise her voice.
"How much of it is true?"
Veronica didn't turn around.
Her reflection blinked in the glass.
"Enough to look real," she said softly.
Anna walked to the center of the room.
"Foreign payments?"
Veronica nodded. "Consulting contracts. Legal. But traceable."
"Shell firms?"
"Yes."
Anna stepped closer.
"Terrence Moxley?"
Finally, Veronica turned around.
Her face was stone. But not afraid.
"He came to me before I joined your team. Said if I wanted to bring you all the way, I needed to understand the landscape your father left behind."
Anna's jaw clenched.
"You brought him into this campaign."
"I kept him out of it," Veronica snapped. "He never signed a check. He never filed a document. But he knew things. Things you didn't want to hear."
Anna stepped forward now—close.
"And now the whole country's hearing them."
Veronica didn't flinch.
"Because we let Jack Serrano live too long."
Anna blinked.
For a moment, just one moment, there was silence between them that wasn't anger.
It was fear.
The kind that doesn't show in the polls.
Anna turned, walked to her desk, and picked up a silver fountain pen. Her hand hovered over a red folder.
"I built everything on precision," she said. "On strategy. Not stunts. Not bribes. Control."
Veronica waited.
"And you just handed him chaos," Anna whispered.
Veronica's voice lowered.
"Then you'd better stop thinking like a Davis."
Anna turned slowly.
Veronica's tone dropped ice into the room.
"And start thinking like a killer."
---
Back at Jack's Office – 12:34 P.M.
Jack's phone buzzed.
Unknown number. Blocked.
He answered.
A voice came through—flat, female, clipped.
"She's coming. Not with PR. Not with lawyers. She's sending someone else."
Jack didn't speak.
The voice continued:
"You just stabbed the blade. Now the hilt is coming for your throat."
Click.
Silence.
Jack stared at the silent phone for two seconds after the call ended.
Then he hung up, turned around, and said flatly—
"Hey Eli. I just got info from that call. She's sending a killer after me."
Eli looked up slowly from the whiteboard.
At first, he didn't say anything.
Then:
"You're sure it was her? Not just a bluff?"
Jack walked to the window, peered at the buildings across the street. "They didn't say her name. But they didn't need to."
Eli leaned forward. "And they didn't ask for anything? No threats? No demands?"
"Nope," Jack said. "Just a warning. Cold. Quiet. Final."
Eli's face darkened.
"Shit."
Jack turned back to him.
"So."
"We prep."
Eli blinked. "Prep how, exactly?"
Jack opened a drawer in the wall, pulled out a matte black case, and dropped it on the table.
He clicked it open.
Inside:
Two burner phones
A clean tablet with no data
A stack of fake press credentials
One compact Glock with two clips
Eli stared. "I thought you didn't carry."
"I don't," Jack said. "Unless someone sends a cleaner."
Eli looked at him, jaw tight.
"You're not calling the cops?"
Jack laughed once. "And say what? 'Hi, my opponent's political strategist is sending an assassin because I posted proof she's laundering foreign money'?"
Eli rubbed his face.
Jack calmly pulled the tablet toward him and began opening a secure contact file.
Eli stood up, pacing.
"Okay. Okay. What's the move? Lock down? Disappear?"
Jack shook his head.
"We set the trap."
Eli froze.
Jack looked at him.
"We don't run. We record. If they're coming to kill me—then we catch them. And we show the world exactly how far her people are willing to go."
The black case clicked shut.
The weapon inside stayed untouched.
Jack looked up, steady as stone.
"Hey Eli."
Eli was still pacing.
Jack's voice was quiet. Final.
"You're my brain. So you escape."
Eli froze.
Turned. "The hell are you talking about?"
Jack stood now, walking to the far desk. He slid a phone across the table—burner, already encrypted, clean route to the backup servers.
"You take that. You leave. You vanish for twenty-four hours."
Eli shook his head. "No. No way. If they're coming for you, then they're coming for us."
"That's the point," Jack said. "If we're both here when they strike, it ends. They take me out, they burn the files. No witness. No strategist. No one left to carry the weight."
Eli's voice was tight. "I didn't sign up to run."
"You signed up to help me win."
Jack stepped closer, voice low, hard.
"You're the last piece of this campaign that isn't expendable."
Silence.
Eli looked at him.
Long. Dark. Furious. But he knew Jack wasn't bluffing.
"You're going to face them alone?"
Jack nodded. "And I'm going to make sure they never try it again."
Eli clenched his fists. "You're insane."
Jack smiled faintly. "You say that a lot."
Eli grabbed his bag. Paused at the door. His voice shook—not from fear, but from knowing this wasn't just strategy anymore.
"You better still be breathing when I call."
Jack didn't answer. Just turned to the lights.
Dimmed the overheads.
Checked the sightline from the main room to the outer hallway.
And waited. He goes to his home 1:42 A.M.
Jack Serrano's Apartment
Top Floor, No Security, Just Silence
The elevator opened into darkness.
Jack stepped out with the same calm he'd had all day. His jacket slung over one shoulder. No guards. No cameras. Just concrete walls and a faint mechanical whine from the city outside.
He locked the door behind him—deadbolt, chain, pressure lock beneath the floor.
Then he slid off his shoes.
And walked through the apartment slowly.
Everything was clean. Still. Minimal. A Ganesha idol on the bookshelf. A copy of The Art of War beside an old campaign photo of his father. Framed silence.
Jack set the Glock down on the nightstand.
Checked the round. Safety off. Safety on again.
He didn't place it under his pillow like some B-movie assassin.
He just laid it flat, within reach.
Then he sat on the edge of the bed, unbuttoned his shirt slowly, and turned off the light.
For a few seconds, he stared at the ceiling.
Somewhere out there, a killer was getting dressed. Loading their own weapon. Reading a dossier with his face on it. Probably right now.
And Jack?
He was already drifting to sleep.
---
No monologue.
No regrets.
No prayers.
Just one thought:
Let them come.
3:07 A.M.
Westside – One Block From Jack Serrano's Apartment
The car rolled silent down the back alley—headlights off, engine in idle crawl. A black sedan, government-issue body, aftermarket license plate. No markings.
Inside: one figure.
No name. No music.
Just a leather gloved hand on the steering wheel and a slow, rhythmic breath in the dark.
He pulled into the building's loading zone and killed the engine.
Then waited.
Three minutes.
No movement. No cameras. Just the soft whine of a rooftop HVAC unit and the flickering light above the service door.
He stepped out.
Moved fast, quiet.
The stairwell door clicked once.
He entered the building like he'd done it a hundred times.
Because he had.
---
3:13 A.M.
Floor Five – Jack Serrano's Apartment Door
He stood outside the door for 42 seconds.
No sound inside.
He pulled a small device from his coat—a pulse lock-disruptor, old CIA tech rebranded as "contractor gear" by offshore security firms. It hummed once.
The lock clicked.
The door opened one inch.
He stepped in.
Gun drawn.
Silencer already screwed tight.
---
Inside the Apartment
Stillness.
He moved slowly.
Past the bookshelves. Past the couch. Into the hall.
The bedroom door was open.
Jack was lying on his back.
Asleep.
One arm draped across the pillow.
Chest rising and falling.
The man raised his weapon.
Took a step forward.
No sound.
---
Then—
Click.
Under his boot.
The man froze.
Looked down.
Too late.
Jack's voice—low, casual—from the bed:
"You just stepped on a pressure sensor."
The killer didn't move.
Jack sat up slowly, the side of his face lit by the faint orange glow of the streetlamp outside.
No fear in his eyes.
Just focus.
"Put the gun down," Jack said, voice calm, "and we talk. Or lift your foot, and we both get famous."
The killer didn't flinch.
His gun stayed steady—pointed at Jack's chest. But his eyes shifted, flicking once to the floor beneath his foot. Then back to Jack.
The silence stretched.
Then Jack spoke—calm, dry, like he was asking about the weather.
"Hey."
Pause.
"You were sent by her. Weren't you?"
No answer.
Just slow breathing.
Jack tilted his head slightly.
"Anna Davis."
Still nothing. The killer's jaw stayed locked, emotionless.
But his grip on the gun shifted—just a fraction. Not tension. Recognition.
Jack's voice dropped lower now. Controlled. Cutting.
"You think this ends me? You kill me tonight, and she wins the next week. Maybe the next election. But the story doesn't die with me."
He nodded toward the hall.
"There are three copies of everything you're here to bury. And someone else already has the kill switch. So pull that trigger—"
He smiled faintly.
"And you bury her too."
The killer didn't move.
Didn't blink.
But his breathing changed.
Slightly faster now.
Jack leaned forward on the edge of the bed, hands still on his thighs—completely unarmed. Calm. Exposed.
But still in control.
"She sent you. Because I made her bleed."
Still silence.
Then—
The killer finally spoke. Low. Sharp. Russian accent buried under clean American vowels.
"You talk too much."
Jack's smile didn't fade.
"You hesitate too long."
The killer's finger hovered on the trigger.
Jack leaned forward slightly.
"Do it."
The man blinked.
Jack's voice stayed low. Calculated.
"But not at me. Around me. Miss. Leave your mark."
The killer hesitated.
Jack smiled. "You get paid for silence. But I pay you with noise."
The killer stepped off the sensor.
Click.
Nothing detonated.
It was a dummy pressure pad.
A bluff.
The killer's eyes flared—betrayal, realization, rage.
He raised the gun and fired—
BLAM!
A shot tore into the kitchen cabinet beside Jack's head.
BLAM!
Another ripped through the hallway mirror.
BLAM!
One slammed into the bookshelf, throwing splinters and pages across the room.
Jack moved fast—not away, but into the chaos. Staying low. Ducking past furniture as the gunfire shredded walls, plaster, and shadows.
BLAM! BLAM!
Smoke. Glass. Dust.
Then silence.
The killer stepped forward—calm now, believing he'd missed. Ready for the kill shot.
Jack was crouched behind the arm of the couch, gun already in hand.
He waited for the breath—
The lean—
The aim—
And then Jack fired once.
THWACK.
Chest shot. Center mass.
The killer stumbled back into the coffee table and crashed down. No scream. Just breath hissing out of him like air from a tire.
Jack stood. Calm again.
He walked over slowly, checking the pulse. Weak. Fading.
Alive—but barely.
Jack looked around the apartment.
Bullet holes in every direction.
Floor torn up. Mirror shattered. Wall bleeding pages from his father's books.
Perfect.
He pulled his phone.
Dialed.
"This is Jack Serrano. I need an ambulance, a unit, and press. I just survived a political assassination attempt at my residence. I've got one shooter down. Footage and casing available."
Click.
He stood over the killer and whispered—
"Say hi to her for me."
4:02 A.M.
Anna Davis Campaign HQ – Strategy War Room
The room was quiet except for the hum of two monitors and the faint buzz of a phone charging on the table.
Anna sat alone with a mug of untouched tea. Her hair was tied back. Makeup removed. Just a plain sweatshirt and eyes like sharpened glass.
Veronica entered silently.
Anna didn't turn.
"You look like hell," she said, still facing the screen.
Veronica didn't respond.
She held her phone out.
"You need to see this."
Anna finally turned. Took the phone. Tapped play.
A livestream video—already spreading.
The footage was grainy but dramatic:
> Jack Serrano's apartment front door. Bullet holes in the frame.
EMTs wheeling a body out on a stretcher. Police everywhere.
Jack, standing shirtless in the doorway, minor cuts on his arms, calmly speaking to reporters:
"They sent someone to kill me."
"They failed."
Anna's jaw clenched.
The reporter on screen turned toward the camera:
> "Sources confirm that Mr. Serrano killed the attacker after multiple shots were fired inside his home. Police are now investigating what he called a 'coordinated political assassination attempt.'"
Veronica exhaled.
"He turned the whole thing into a show."
Anna didn't speak.
She just watched.
And watched.
Until finally, she whispered—
"He's going to win, isn't he?"
Veronica didn't answer.
Because she didn't know anymore.
---
Elsewhere — Jack's Apartment
4:18 A.M.
The floor was covered in shattered glass and shell casings.
Two officers were taping off the hallway. Paramedics loaded the bleeding assassin into an ambulance—still alive.
Jack sat on the edge of the couch, wrapped in a blanket, minor graze on his shoulder, calmly sipping tea someone brought him.
A camera light clicked on.
The reporter stepped forward.
"Mr. Serrano, what do you say to the people who claim this was staged?"
Jack didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
Just looked into the lens and said:
"Ask Anna Davis why the man who tried to kill me was paid by one of her old contractors."
6:26 A.M.
Jack's Temporary Safe Office – Location Unlisted
Eli walked into the room like a man coming back from the dead.
"Two hours ago, I thought I was going to be planning your funeral."
Jack glanced up from the tablet. He had a bruise near his temple and a small white bandage on his bicep.
"I figured you'd want the day off."
Eli tossed a coffee onto the table. "Nope. We're working."
He dropped into the chair beside him and opened his own tablet.
"So. How do we bury her with this?"
Jack leaned back.
"No lawsuits. No police chases. Just... exposure."
He turned his screen toward Eli.
It displayed a scanned internal email chain—Veronica Lin, two shell company reps, and a nonprofit media group in Houston that was laundering talking points into "grassroots" campaigns. Several messages confirmed coordination.
The subject line?
> "RE: Serrano Attack Timing + Cleanup Window"
Eli blinked.
"You got this from—?"
Jack: "The killer's phone. Police missed it. I didn't."
Eli stared at the screen.
"Holy shit."
Jack nodded. "We don't even have to say she ordered it. We just show the conversation. Let people draw the lines."
Eli's voice went cold. "That means someone else knew it was coming."
Jack pointed to a name near the bottom of the thread.
L. Yao.
Director of Comms for Anna Davis's campaign.
Eli sat back.
"Okay. Okay. Then let's flip Yao. Quietly. Make it look like he leaked the files. Let Anna turn on her own."
Jack: "Divide. Disarm. Then destroy."
Eli: "Classic war."
Jack closed the tablet.
"No," he said. "This part's surgery."
9:17 A.M.
Parked Sedan – Near Franklin Square, D.C.
Jack sat alone in the back seat of a tinted black sedan, dressed down in a soft navy jacket and sunglasses. No security. No press. Just a calm presence and a leather folder across his lap.
Across from him, in the other rear seat:
Leo Yao.
Communications Director for Anna Davis's campaign.
Forty-one. Calm. Ironed to perfection. But sweating now.
Jack had requested the meeting through a mutual contact. The message was clear:
> "Come alone. One time offer. One hour."
Yao had shown up.
And now he sat in silence.
Jack opened the leather folder.
One page.
Just one.
An email chain.
Subject line:
> RE: Serrano Attack Timing + Cleanup Window
FROM: Veronica Lin
TO: L. Yao + C. Martin + L. Pierce
"If the hit is done clean, we can control the story. But I want no ties to campaign funds. Off-shore fallback only. Delete this thread after confirming."
Yao stared at the page.
Then at Jack.
Then back down.
He didn't say anything for a full ten seconds.
Jack broke the silence.
"You didn't write it. But you read it."
Yao said nothing.
Jack's voice stayed calm.
"You didn't stop it. But you can end it."
Yao finally spoke, voice dry. "You came to blackmail me?"
Jack smiled faintly.
"No, Leo. I came to save you."
Yao looked up.
"You think she's going to protect you when this drops? She's already preparing to burn someone. Guess whose name's on the bottom of that thread?"
Jack slid another document across.
A drafted legal agreement:
Witness immunity, limited testimony, whistleblower shield. Signed by two federal attorneys and a private investigator aligned with Jack's team.
Yao stared at it.
His hand didn't move.
Jack leaned in, voice barely above a whisper.
"Or you can wait until the media asks who else knew."
Pause.
"And Anna Davis acts like she doesn't remember you."
The sedan stayed quiet.
Yao's jaw tightened.
Then he reached forward.
Took the document.
Folded it.
And opened the door.
Jack watched him walk off into the morning crowd.
Didn't smile.
Didn't gloat.
He just leaned back in his seat and whispered—
"One blade down."
10:41 A.M.
Anna Davis Campaign Headquarters – Private Office
Anna stood barefoot in her office, staring at the wall. Her heels sat discarded beneath the desk. Her blazer was off. And in her hand—her phone.
The screen showed a message.
No name.
Just a notification:
> "Files were taken. Yao talked to someone. We don't know who."
Veronica entered behind her, silent.
Anna didn't turn around.
"Someone flipped."
Veronica nodded slowly. "We don't know who yet."
"Not yet."
Anna took a slow breath, then turned.
"Shut everything down."
Veronica raised an eyebrow.
"All internal servers. All donation channels. All message testing. Right now."
"Anna—if we go dark, people will start assuming—"
Anna's voice sharpened:
"They already assume. Now we deny them proof."
Veronica hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Fine. I'll tell Yao to—"
Anna's eyes locked on hers.
"Not Yao."
Silence.
The moment hung.
Then passed.
Veronica turned and left, her footsteps brisk and harder than usual.
Anna stared at the wall again.
Not moving.
Not blinking.
Then, quietly—
"Which one of you did it?"
---
Meanwhile — 11:08 A.M.
Back at Jack's Office
Eli clicked once.
The screen uploaded the full internal email thread, redacted only to protect Yao's personal information.
The source listed:
> "Anonymous whistleblower within Anna Davis campaign."
Within minutes, it was everywhere.
#ContractorKillshot
#VeronicaKnew
#YaoFlipped
#SerranoSurvived
And one new one trending across state lines:
#GameOverAnna
_____
Jack turns to Eli—not for permission, but to take the temperature. One question:
"Hey Eli… should we attack again? Or let her come for us?"
Let's pick it up exactly there—with Eli's answer.
---
Chapter 3: Bloodsport (continued)
Part 18: Holding the Blade
---
11:13 A.M.
Jack's Office – Windows Closed, News Playing Silent
Jack stood near the corner, phone in one hand, watching his own name crawl across the news ticker like a storm warning.
> "Serrano Survives Attack. Davis Camp in Crisis."
Eli sat cross-legged on the edge of the couch, scrolling through data points and trending metrics, jaw locked.
Jack looked over.
"Hey, Eli."
Eli didn't look up. "Yeah?"
"Should we attack again?" Jack asked. "Or let her come for us?"
Eli exhaled through his nose. Set the tablet down.
Looked up at him.
"You already won the last move."
Jack raised an eyebrow.
Eli stood and walked to the screen, flicking on the volume. A debate moderator was now referencing the attempted assassination, citing anonymous sources linking the shooter to "a known funder" of Anna's old network.
"And that?" Eli said, nodding at the screen, "is blood in the water."
Jack: "You didn't answer."
Eli faced him fully now.
"Let her come."
Jack arched a brow.
Eli's voice was calm. Sharp. Clean.
"Because she's not thinking anymore. She's bleeding. Paranoid. Cornered. And if we hit first, we'll look like predators."
He leaned in.
"But if she throws the next punch—"
Jack finished it.
"We break her hand."
They stood quiet for a moment. A newscaster on the screen posed the question: "Is Anna Davis still a viable mayoral candidate, or is this campaign already a corpse waiting to drop?"
Jack turned down the volume.
Eli sat again.
Jack walked to the window, fingers laced behind his back.
"Then we wait."
"And when she moves," Eli said, "we make it her last."
11:57 A.M.
Private Club – Washington D.C.
A dark wooden booth. Low lighting. No cameras. No servers. No outside noise.
Anna Davis sat across from a man wearing a charcoal three-piece suit. His silver cufflinks were engraved with a crest she didn't recognize.
He poured her a glass of red wine. She didn't touch it.
He did.
"Anna." His voice was like polished gravel. Smooth but heavy. "We've invested in your father. We invested in you. And until this week, you were giving us returns."
Anna said nothing.
He smiled thinly.
"But now, the market is… volatile."
Anna's fingers tightened slightly on the table.
"Jack Serrano isn't just a nuisance anymore."
He leaned forward.
"He's a storm."
She narrowed her eyes. "He's lucky. That's all. And I'll—"
"No."
The word cut across her like a clean blade.
The man set his glass down.
"We are not in the business of improvisation."
He took out a napkin and slowly wiped a speck of dust off the table that wasn't there.
"You will neutralize this problem quietly. Legally, if you must. Unofficially, if you can. But there will be no more blood. No more noise."
Anna's mouth twitched.
The man continued, voice like ice under velvet.
"You will destroy him before the next debate. Or we will replace you before the next commercial break."
He stood. Straightened his cuffs.
"Clean up, Anna. Or get out."
He walked away.
She sat there for a long moment.
Then finally—
Took the glass of wine.
And drank every drop.
End of Chapter 3.