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Summary:
Following the failed assassination attempt and media fallout, Jack Serrano is publicly calm—but behind the scenes, the next wave hits. His digital infrastructure is sabotaged. Donor files corrupted. Emails leaked out of context. And he knows one thing for sure:
This isn't Anna.
This is Veronica Lin.
The blade is back—and it's cutting silently.
---
11:59 A.M. – Jack Serrano's Temporary Command Office
Rain tapped gently on the windowpanes.
Jack sat at the center of the room, legs crossed, a phone in one hand and a steaming cup of black tea in the other. His shoulder was wrapped. His face calm. He'd already spoken to six press outlets, each call a surgical performance: poised, lethal, and restrained.
Outside this room, the media was building monuments to him.
Inside this room—everything was falling apart.
"Emails," Eli muttered, pacing. "Half our inboxes just hit the press. Donor records. Out of context, sliced up, no headers."
Jack's eyes narrowed. "What was leaked?"
"Enough to make you look dirty. Not guilty—dirty. A few cash requests, a line from that private donor call where you said we needed to 'break past legacy thinking.'"
Jack exhaled. "Sounds radical when you cut the rest out."
"Exactly."
Eli handed him a tablet.
On-screen:
#RadicalJack was trending.
Anonymous accounts calling him a "media construct."
Private chat logs twisted into slogans.
Jack scanned it all. Quiet. Analytical.
Then said:
"This isn't Anna."
Eli paused. "You sure?"
Jack looked up, voice steady.
"Anna fires missiles. This?" He tilted the screen. "This is scalpels."
He tapped once, opening the metadata on one of the leaked screenshots. A single line told them everything.
> File: lin_cut_004.final.jpg
Jack said the name out loud:
"Veronica Lin."
Eli's face darkened. "She's back in control."
Jack nodded once.
"And she wants to win without blood."
Eli gave a dry, bitter laugh. "Then she shouldn't have sent a knife."
Jack set the tablet down like it might burn through the desk.
His voice lowered.
"Eli. Tell me exactly what files were leaked."
---
12:08 P.M.
Eli crouched beside the desk, swiping through a live feed from their forensic team. Lines of filenames scrolled down like damage reports.
"Okay," Eli began, flipping the screen toward Jack.
"Fifteen PDFs. Eight audio clips. Fourteen screenshots. Three donor spreadsheets. One video."
Jack raised a brow.
"Just one video?"
"Looks like it. An old Zoom call. You're in it—grey kurta. It's clipped to thirty seconds. You say, 'The old model must die. We can't afford to be polite anymore.'"
Jack didn't flinch. "That call was about zoning reform."
Eli smirked. "No one's gonna care."
Jack gestured. "What else?"
Eli scrolled. "Internal memos. Campaign finances—they cherry-picked early expenditures to make you look bloated. That catering bill from the New Year's party? Front and center."
Jack tapped the screen. "The party where we fed 200 volunteers."
"Yeah. But it's listed as a luxury private event."
Jack let out a soft breath through his nose.
"And the donor records?"
Eli sighed. "They took your small donor list and blended in four unrelated corporate names. No actual ties. But it looks real. If you're not paying attention, you'll swear you're in bed with dark money."
Jack sat back, thumb on his chin.
His voice dropped, low and clear.
"Not meant to end me. Just stain me."
Eli nodded grimly. "Exactly. Not a nuclear strike—sand in the gears. Enough to make swing voters squint. To muddy your reflection."
Jack turned toward the window. The rain was falling harder now.
Then, softly—
"She's playing the long game."
Eli hesitated. "So what's the move?"
Jack didn't answer right away. He crossed the room to a cabinet, opened it, and pulled a thick folder from the back.
Stamped:
2017 – Lin Group Holdings
He tossed it on the table with a quiet thump.
"We don't fight smears with denial."
"We fight them with records."
He opened the folder and pointed to a line of names.
"Let's show the world who Veronica Lin really funds."
---
12:17 P.M. – Encrypted Server Room – Location Unknown
The air smelled like warm copper and overheated plastic. Racks of blinking servers pulsed along the walls. The hum of computation surrounded them like a slow heartbeat.
Eli stood between three monitors. Jack stood behind him, arms folded, watching like a surgeon at war.
"We start with her media," Eli said.
He opened a file tree—fifteen nearly identical articles. Different authors. Same talking points. Same framing. All traceable to a PR firm in Seattle.
Pacific Voices Media.
Eli pulled up its public site. "Empty office. No staff. No content before last year."
"Lin's ghost team," Jack said. "She writes the headlines before the reporters do."
Next screen.
Wire transfers.
Ten thousand. Twenty-five. Forty-three thousand.
All routed through a Canadian literacy nonprofit.
The sender:
V. Lin Consulting – Limited.
"On paper, she's funding education," Eli muttered. "In reality—she's buying off editorial boards in our district."
Jack stepped closer.
"Can we prove it?"
Eli opened one more file.
A voice memo.
Veronica's voice, unaware she was being recorded:
> "Let him take the podium. We don't need to beat him in the polls. We just have to make people too embarrassed to say his name in public."
Jack stared at the screen. His eyes were unreadable.
No smile.
No fury.
Just calculation.
"Send it."
---
12:41 P.M. – WTR Breaking News Blast
> "Jack Serrano's Team Releases Financial Records Linking Veronica Lin to Coordinated Foreign Media Influence Campaign."
> Includes leaked memo in which Lin outlines strategy to 'suppress the candidate's image via editorial isolation and voter shame.'
> FEC response pending. DOJ: 'Reviewing materials.'
---
1:03 P.M. – Anna Davis Campaign HQ
The war room was silent.
Veronica stood in the center, hands behind her back, staring at a screen that showed her own voice looping again and again.
> "…make people too embarrassed to say his name…"
Anna stood behind her, arms folded. Unmoving. Watching.
Veronica didn't turn.
She simply closed her eyes.
Anna didn't speak.
She didn't explode.
She just turned.
And walked out of the room.
---
2:12 P.M. – The Glass Room, 7th & Pearl
Private Members' Club – No Sign, No Cameras, No Paper Trail
The host opened the door without a word.
Anna stepped in.
Same table. Same silver cufflinks. Same man in the tailored suit.
He didn't smile.
He didn't pour the wine.
He simply said—
"Anna."
She sat down slowly, as if her spine had learned exhaustion.
"He's cutting through us like we don't matter," she said quietly.
The man lifted the wine glass but didn't drink.
"He's not cutting through you. He's cutting through your staff."
Anna's jaw tightened.
He leaned in slightly.
"You forgot rule one."
"The sword behind the smile must never leave prints."
Anna met his eyes. "She was supposed to be my shield. My weapon."
"She became your weight."
A pause.
Then, plainly:
"Do I still have your support?"
The man was silent for a moment. Then he reached into his blazer, pulled out a simple white card with a gold border, and slid it across the table.
One name:
> Thorne
Anna stared at it.
The man sipped his wine.
"He'll solve your problem."
Anna didn't blink. "How?"
The man gave the faintest smile.
"By ending it."
Anna's fingers hovered above the card.
But before she could speak, he cut in—voice lower now.
"You didn't notice, did you, Anna?"
She looked up, slower this time.
His eyes were still on the wine.
"You've been hiding behind Veronica."
"But you were never meant to hide."
He looked at her—sharp, unblinking.
"You are the sword."
Anna didn't move, but her chest rose subtly. A flicker. Like someone realizing they'd been asleep mid-battle.
He continued:
"Jack Serrano isn't a sword. He's a shield. That's why they love him. Because he doesn't ask them to attack—he protects them from fear."
Anna tilted her head. "He's not that clean."
The man smirked. "No one is."
Then the smile faded.
"But Jack isn't the mind behind this."
"He's not the one choosing when to strike."
He leaned in, folding his fingers.
"There's someone behind him."
Anna said it before he did:
"Eli."
The man nodded once.
"The planner. The ghost in the gears."
Anna leaned back. For the first time in weeks, she was silent not because she had nothing to say—but because she was finally listening.
The man lifted his glass once more.
"You've been fighting the sword."
"It's time you faced the hand that wields it."
He nodded to the card.
"Thorne will even the field."
Anna picked it up. White. Clean. One name.
For a moment, her fingers trembled—barely.
Then she whispered:
"Let's make them bleed."
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End of Chapter 4: The Sword Behind Her Smile