Chapter 5: The Hand That Wields
Summary:
After Veronica's failure and the leak that turned the tide, Anna's shadowy benefactor offers her a new weapon: Thorne. But the next strike won't go at Jack—it targets Eli, the quiet tactician. While Anna is told to focus on her campaign, Thorne begins gathering intelligence on the true nature of Jack and Eli's bond. What he discovers may be the crack that shatters the shield.
---
2:27 P.M. – The Glass Room
The white card was still warm in Anna's hand.
> Thorne
A single name. A scalpel pressed against the dark.
Across from her, the man with the silver cufflinks set down his wine. No urgency in his movements. He studied her like a slow chessboard.
"You both have campaigns," he said, voice even. "So let's not mistake ambition for distraction."
Anna blinked. "Meaning?"
"Meaning your path still runs forward. Rallies. Polls. Optics. Focus on your role."
His fingers drummed once on the table.
"I'll take care of Eli."
Anna raised an eyebrow, uncertain. "So we're not going after Jack?"
A pause. Then:
"Not directly," he said. "You attack a shield, it holds. You remove the hand holding it—"
He let the silence finish his thought.
She nodded slowly, understanding.
"But first," he said, leaning forward, "we gather."
Anna tilted her head. "Gather what?"
"Evidence," he said. "About the real dynamic. Jack and Eli. On the record, it's campaign manager and candidate. But no one burns down half a firewall at 3 a.m. just to protect staff."
He smiled without warmth.
"We find the tether," he said, "and we stretch it until it snaps."
---
3:04 P.M. – Serrano Campaign Office
It wasn't raining anymore.
The city had settled into a dull, gray glow—sun caught behind clouds like light through ash.
Eli sat at the edge of the main workspace, two laptops open, three screens blinking. Staff bustled around the room, but none approached him. Jack was still in back, giving a soft interview to a local indie podcaster—he wanted authentic voice, not national polish.
Eli's phone buzzed. An encrypted message pinged across the screen.
> [System Log Alert: Attempted Penetration – Port 32800 Blocked]
[Origin: Unknown Node // Traceback Inconclusive]
[Repeat Attempts: 3]
He frowned. Not malware. Not brute force. This was surgical. Probing.
"Alright," he muttered, standing.
He left the room with no fanfare, heading down the hallway past the conference rooms—toward the private data enclave they kept for high-level ops. Only he and Jack had codes.
As he walked, his mind started running faster than his feet.
This wasn't Veronica.
Too quiet. Too slow.
Someone new was watching.
He keyed in the access code.
The door clicked open.
---
3:06 P.M. – Private Monitoring Cell, Unknown Location
Thorne did not blink.
The screens showed Eli walking into a smaller room, completely unaware of the third-party observation layer running beneath his system. A sub-etheric passive tracer had been embedded in one of the screenshots leaked that morning—nested in metadata like a splinter behind the eye.
It had tracked Eli. Marked him. Studied his behavior patterns, keystroke rhythms, firewall resets.
Thorne didn't need to move. He simply watched.
On screen, Eli muttered something. Tilted his head. Reached for the second terminal.
> "Predictable," Thorne said under his breath.
"But not stupid."
He pulled up a separate window.
Hundreds of tags. All from years past.
Public events. Candid photos. Rare long-lens captures.
And in every one—Jack and Eli.
But not standing side by side.
Leaning.
Shoulders angled just slightly inward.
Eli was always half a step behind, but his eyes were always ahead.
Jack rarely turned to him—but when he did, his expression softened. The face behind the face.
Thorne typed a few short commands. Filtered timestamps. Parsed body language.
Then he whispered to himself:
> "Not just colleagues."
"Not just allies."
"There's history here."
He switched feeds.
A private chat record—harvested weeks ago from a wiped volunteer server. Fragmented. Scrambled. But one line recovered.
From: [J.S]
To: [E.R]
> "I trust you with my name more than I trust myself."
Thorne's smile barely moved.
> "There it is."
He opened a new dossier.
Labeled it: ELI RICHARDS – PRIMARY TARGET
Tagline:
> Hand on the Hilt
He opened voice command.
Issued a single phrase:
> "Phase 1: Disorient."
3:22 P.M. – Monitoring Cell
Thorne sat in complete silence. The only sound in the room was the faint whisper of filtered air.
He stared at the screen, unmoving, as a new cluster of files unspooled from his tap into a state-level family court database.
The surname caught his eye first:
Richards–Serrano
The file was sealed, but Thorne's system peeled it apart like silk.
> CASE #: #07-FC-4130
Minor Ward Name: Eli Richards
Adoption Finalized: July 14, 2007
Adoptive Guardians: Dr. Arun and Latha Serrano
Siblings: Jack Serrano (Legal Cohabitation)
Thorne sat very still.
He clicked into the psychological evaluation from the caseworker assigned at the time. It was old. Yellowed. Handwritten.
> "Subject is withdrawn. Brilliant but mistrustful. Strongest emotional alignment is with sibling figure Jack Serrano. Protective dynamic noted."
Another line, scribbled in pen:
> "This bond—if nourished—could become unbreakable. Or fatal if severed."
Thorne whispered it aloud.
"Fatal if severed."
He closed the file, then reopened the dossier.
Updated the label:
> ELI RICHARDS – PRIMARY TARGET
"Jack Serrano's Shield, Brother, and Blind Spot"
He tapped the side of the terminal three times.
A long pause.
Then, into a small microphone, he said:
"Anna. I have something."
---
3:39 P.M. – Anna Davis Campaign HQ (Private Line)
The phone buzzed only once before she answered.
She was alone in the campaign's internal data room, watching her lead in the polls dip by half a point.
"What is it?"
Thorne's voice was glass on glass.
"Eli Richards isn't just a strategist."
Pause.
"He's your opponent's brother."
Anna said nothing.
But her spine straightened.
Thorne continued:
"Adopted. 2007. Raised by Jack's parents. Lived with him. Trusted by him. Buried in his inner life."
Anna's voice, low:
"So what's the play?"
Thorne answered like he was reading it from scripture.
"You fracture the bond. You put a crack in the foundation. One whisper, one seed, one mirrored betrayal. That shield will splinter."
Anna leaned forward, tapping her pen on the table.
"You want to go after Eli directly?"
"No," Thorne said.
"We make Jack think Eli is breaking first."
4:22 P.M. – Jack's Apartment, Inner Office
The light was fading. Gray shadows cut across the floor from the high windows.
Jack sat at his desk, skimming a draft of his next speech. Outside the office, the city buzzed with traffic—but in here, everything was still.
Then:
Ping.
A message flashed on his personal encrypted channel.
> From: [email protected]
Subject: We Need to Rethink the Speech
"Tone feels too aggressive. I'm wondering if pulling back a little—maybe rewriting the third paragraph? The 'they fear change' part could be... problematic. We're getting soft feedback from some interns. We'll talk when you're done. –E"
Jack frowned slightly.
Eli never emailed him like this—never through that channel. And Eli never cited "intern feedback." He hated that kind of political soft-stepping.
Jack tapped the keys.
> To: [email protected]
"What interns? Whose feedback? Be specific."
No reply.
He picked up his phone. Called Eli directly.
Straight to voicemail.
---
4:25 P.M. – Elsewhere: Eli's Location
Eli stood on the campaign rooftop, talking to a donor on Bluetooth, phone in hand.
His other phone—his secure campaign phone—buzzed quietly in his bag.
He didn't hear it.
---
4:30 P.M. – Jack's Apartment
Still no response.
Jack's mind started to spin—but not in panic. Just in that controlled, analytic way he'd learned to trust.
He opened Eli's contact profile.
Looked at the email header again.
Something was... off.
Then he saw it.
The domain.
Campagin. Not campaign.
Jack's brow furrowed.
Someone had faked it.
His phone buzzed. A new email came in. This one even more bizarre.
> From: [email protected]
Subject: Statement from Richards?
"We've received a statement from someone claiming to represent Mr. Richards—suggesting internal disagreements about your leadership style. Can we get a comment?"
Jack stared.
Slowly closed his laptop.
And whispered:
"They're coming at him."
---
Meanwhile – Unknown Location
Thorne stood before a curved monitor wall, arms behind his back.
On one screen: Jack pacing, making calls, searching for a crack.
On another: Eli, completely unaware.
And in between them: a growing wedge of confusion.
Thorne smiled faintly.
"One more."
He tapped in another order.
This one would be sent to a mid-tier reporter in D.C.—a gossip-adjacent outlet with just enough reach to stir drama without feeling like an attack.
> BREAKING: Source inside Serrano campaign says strategist Eli Richards has "moral disagreements" with Jack's "rising extremism."
The moment it went live, it wouldn't be proof.
It would be friction.
4:34 P.M. – Jack's Apartment
Jack stood frozen for less than a breath.
Then he grabbed his coat.
Didn't check his phone.
Didn't draft a statement.
Didn't tell anyone.
He just moved.
Down the stairs. Past security. Into the street. The world blurred around him as he sprinted across the plaza and through the alley behind campaign headquarters.
The rain had started again. Light. Cold. Steady.
Jack didn't slow.
---
4:37 P.M. – Serrano Campaign HQ – Rooftop
Eli stood near the railing, still on the phone with a donor, voice calm.
He was mid-sentence when Jack burst onto the roof, his coat soaked, breath short but eyes sharp.
Eli blinked. "Jack—what the hell—?"
Jack didn't speak.
He crossed the distance in three long strides and grabbed Eli's phone, ending the call.
Eli's mouth opened in protest.
But Jack beat him to it.
"Don't say anything."
Eli frowned. "What's going on?"
Jack held up his own phone.
Showed him the fake email. The false headline. The press contact.
"Did you write this?"
Eli's brow furrowed instantly. "No. I—Jack, no." His voice sharpened. "Where did that come from?"
Jack studied him.
Then tossed the phone onto a nearby bench like it disgusted him.
"I knew it."
Eli stepped forward. "You thought it might be real?"
Jack shook his head. "Not for a second. But I knew someone wanted me to think it."
They both stood still.
The storm above them crackled—distant thunder, just enough to frame the silence.
Jack exhaled hard through his nose.
"They're coming after you."
Eli nodded once, slowly.
"Which means they're afraid of me."
Jack looked at him. Dead serious.
"No, Eli."
"It means they finally understand what I've always known."
"You're the one they should've feared from the beginning."
4:45 P.M. – Thorne's Remote Command Cell
The room was quiet.
Not the still kind—the wrong kind.
Screens flickered overhead: one camera showing Jack and Eli still on the rooftop, side by side in the rain. Jack's phone discarded on a bench. Eli's hand resting just slightly over Jack's shoulder—not dramatic. But real.
A support gesture. A brother's instinct.
The algorithm running facial analysis spat out a string of data:
> [JACK SERRANO – TRUST SIGNAL: 98.2%]
[ELI RICHARDS – RESPONSE: DEFENSIVE, NOT HOSTILE]
[THREAT VECTOR: NULLIFIED]
Thorne didn't blink.
Didn't scowl.
But he stood.
He walked slowly across the room to a polished steel table. On it sat a flat paper file—one of the rare analog dossiers he still trusted.
He opened it.
Inside were five names.
JACK
ELI
VERONICA
ANNA
And now, written in clean pen strokes:
THORNE
He flipped to Eli's page.
His own notes stared back at him.
> "Hyper-loyal to Jack. Devoted. Risk: High if exposed."
"Recommended strategy: Divide quietly through narrative fog."
"Avoid confrontation unless trust already broken."
Thorne tapped a line beside the word "Divide."
Drew a slash through it.
Crossed out one word in ink:
"Effective"
And wrote in a new one:
"Failed"
He shut the file slowly.
Voice barely audible, just to himself:
"I made the wrong first cut."
Then louder, into his headset:
"Phase Three. Change the target."
5:13 P.M. – Private Line (Encrypted) – Anna Davis Campaign HQ
Anna sat in the back room of her headquarters, coat still on, scarf loosely around her neck like she hadn't decided whether she was staying or leaving.
The room was dim. Just her and the light from her phone.
It buzzed once.
THORNE – CONNECTED
She answered.
His voice was flat. No preamble.
"It didn't work."
Anna was silent.
Then: "They didn't fracture?"
"They fused." A pause. "Jack ran to him. Not away."
Anna exhaled slowly, no surprise on her face.
"Then they're not allies."
"They're family," Thorne confirmed. "And now they know someone's coming."
Anna's fingers tapped on the glass desk.
"Do I need to cut you loose?"
"No," he said simply. "You need to let me escalate."
A beat of silence.
She leaned back. "How far?"
Thorne replied without pause.
"I want to turn the press. Not with leaks. With structure. Fabricate a finance error. Make it look like Eli misreported donor channels. Shift the burden to Jack. They'll spend the next three weeks trying to explain instead of lead."
Anna's voice dropped.
"If you get caught—"
"I won't," he said.
Another pause.
Anna closed her eyes briefly.
Then: "Do it."
Thorne's line went dead.
---
5:29 P.M. – Back at Serrano HQ
Eli and Jack sat across from each other, steam rising from their untouched mugs of tea.
Jack finally spoke:
"They'll try again. Smarter this time."
Eli nodded.
"Then we stay sharper."
Outside, the rain stopped.
But the clouds didn't lift.
5:37 P.M. – Serrano HQ, Operations War Room
Eli was pacing.
Not anxious. Not angry.
Just calculating.
Jack sat nearby, silent, watching. He didn't interrupt. He'd seen this look before—once when Eli reverse-engineered a congressional ambush three hours before it went public.
Now it was back.
Eli finally stopped.
"They're coming for our books."
Jack leaned forward.
"You're sure?"
Eli didn't even look up from the board.
"They can't split us. Can't smear you personally—Veronica tried that. They'll target structure. Something slow to verify. Something that looks internal."
He circled a number on the whiteboard—donor batch logs from six months ago.
"They'll forge edits. Show reclassed donations. Make it look like I misfiled PAC support as local contributions. Even if we prove it's fake, the headlines won't care."
Jack nodded once.
"How do we stop it?"
Eli smirked.
"We don't stop it."
"We bait it."
---
5:58 P.M. – Secure Internal Server – Serrano Archive Cluster
Eli typed fast, coding from scratch.
A mirror shell of the real donation ledger—a honey trap with deliberate, plausible weaknesses coded in. Not real corruption. Just... ambiguity. Missing commas. Poor formatting.
He embedded his own signature, a traceable digital fingerprint.
Then he encrypted it with a tripwire.
If someone accessed or copied it?
He'd know. Instantly.
And more importantly?
So would Jack. And the press.
---
Meanwhile – Thorne's Remote Cell
A junior signal tech flagged a new cluster: unsecured donation log, labeled "Q3_archive_mirror."
Unprotected.
Interesting.
They ran a silent copy command.
It passed clean.
Too clean.
---
6:09 P.M. – Serrano HQ
Eli's laptop blinked once.
Then a message flashed across the private alert feed:
> Access Detected. IP Masked. Packet Extracted.
Eli turned the screen toward Jack.
"They just stole the bait."
Jack's expression didn't change.
"What happens next?"
Eli smiled.
"They leak it."
"And we burn them alive for it."
7:22 P.M. – National Evening Segment – Capital Current Newsroom
BREAKING.
The red banner lit up the lower third of every screen.
The anchor—clean suit, forced concern—spoke with that polite edge reserved for early scandal coverage.
> "...leaked documents from an anonymous whistleblower appear to show discrepancies in Jack Serrano's Q3 campaign filings, potentially misclassifying tens of thousands of dollars in corporate donations as local individual contributions..."
The screen showed spreadsheets.
Disorganized. Messy. Sloppy formatting.
Exactly how Eli designed it.
> "The authenticity of these records has not been independently verified..."
The anchor's voice faded into static as the feed jumped—interrupting itself.
Now a new scene filled the screen:
Jack Serrano. Live. At the podium.
Behind him: a clean campaign backdrop. Calm lighting.
Eli stood just out of frame, arms folded.
Jack didn't smile.
He didn't open with a joke.
He opened with a kill shot.
---
7:24 P.M. – Live Press Conference – Serrano HQ
"Three hours ago," Jack began, "someone accessed a dummy file from a non-public archive—one we created as part of an internal systems test."
He paused. Cameras clicked.
"We embedded deliberate formatting inconsistencies. We built in missing commas. We even signed the file with a fingerprint."
He raised a single printed page.
"This fingerprint."
He clicked a remote.
Behind him, a screen lit up with a file signature.
> Accessed at 6:02 P.M.
IP masked, but route traced through a disguised satellite relay registered to a third-party security contractor… with known ties to the Davis campaign.
The room erupted in flashes and murmurs.
Jack's voice stayed steady.
"This wasn't a leak. It was a theft. And now it's a lie."
He looked directly into the cameras.
"We are calling on the FEC to launch a full investigation into the illegal acquisition and falsification of campaign records. We will be pressing criminal charges if a single news outlet continues to circulate a known counterfeit."
Another beat.
"Let this be clear to everyone watching: they cannot beat us with truth. So now they're trying to win with fraud."
---
Meanwhile – Thorne's Cell
The screens were all red.
Every feed was playing Jack's press conference live.
He didn't move.
Didn't speak.
But his jaw flexed once.
Hard.
He picked up the file marked Phase Three, and tore it in half.
No ceremony.
Just silence.
Part 9: The Pause Before the Knife
---
7:43 P.M. – Private Cell, Unknown Location
The light in Thorne's room had dimmed with the sun, but he didn't turn on a lamp.
The paper sat shredded in two clean halves beside him.
His screens no longer played Jack's press conference. He'd already memorized the phrasing, the timing, the facial tics.
He didn't pace. He didn't speak.
He thought.
His breathing was slow.
Jack Serrano had won again.
Not with money. Not with might.
But by predicting the shape of an unseen attack—and building a trap inside it.
It meant one thing:
He underestimated Eli. Again.
Thorne turned his chair and faced the wall—not to avoid the data, but to feel the silence.
Let Anna rage. Let the press spin. He wasn't ready to strike again. Not yet.
He needed information.
He needed intimacy.
And he needed precision.
He whispered to himself, eyes closed:
"I'll find the place between them where the bond isn't loyalty—but guilt."
Then:
"That's where I'll cut next."
He stood.
Reached for the next file.
Not Eli's.
Not Jack's.
But a slim red folder marked simply:
> "MOTHER."
7:51 P.M. – Private Cell, Unknown Location
Thorne opened the red folder labeled MOTHER.
Inside: a dossier of Latha Serrano.
She wasn't smiling in the photo. She never did in public. Her eyes said everything—sharp, direct, unreadable.
The summary line beneath her image was short:
> "CEO – Orialis Conglomerate | Net Worth: $358.7 Billion | 11 Nations, 3 Industries, No Known Weaknesses"
Thorne flipped the page.
Contracts. Defense. Biopharma.
Government names. Silent shareholders. Ghost companies.
He turned to the next.
A picture: Latha Serrano shaking hands with a head of state.
The caption:
> "Five-year infrastructure accord. Negotiated in 36 hours. No leaks. No backdoor lobbying."
He turned another page.
And another.
And stopped.
A letter. Handwritten.
Dated five years ago. In Tamil, then translated below.
> "My son may speak gently, but he was raised among lions. He understands mercy—but he was fed by war."
Thorne paused.
He shut the folder.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Then reached for the one marked FATHER.
> Dr. Arun Reddy
There was less paper here, but more land.
Maps. Titles. Farms. Underground bunkers. Export routes from South India to Europe and East Africa.
A short summary:
> "Estimated land: 3,024 acres. Net Worth: Undisclosed. Backchannel alliances with at least three intelligence services."
One underlined phrase near the bottom caught Thorne's attention:
> "Has private militia, though officially labeled as 'rural protection units.'"
Thorne exhaled through his nose.
"So that's where he got it."
He didn't mean the money.
He meant the calm. The poise. The eyes.
He shut this folder too.
For the first time in months—he admitted defeat on a front.
"Not the parents," he muttered. "Too much power. Too much protection."
Then, calmly, he walked to a separate drawer and pulled one file. Slimmer. Dirtier.
Marked only:
> "ELI."
"We break the blade first," he said to himself.
"Then we bend the shield."
8:04 P.M. – Anna Davis Campaign HQ (Private Office)
Anna stood alone at the window, arms crossed, watching the city lights burn across the skyline like a waiting audience. Her reflection stared back—hard eyes, slightly smudged eyeliner, and a jaw that hadn't unclenched in three hours.
Her phone buzzed once.
THORNE — DIRECT
She answered.
No greeting. Just breath.
Then Thorne's voice—steady as always.
"I opened the family file."
Anna turned from the window.
"And?"
A pause.
"We don't touch them. Not the mother. Not the father."
Anna narrowed her eyes. "Why? I thought the father was just—"
"He's not just anything."
"They're a separate empire. Outside our reach. Outside yours."
She exhaled slowly. "So what now?"
"We go back to the strategist."
Anna didn't say anything.
Thorne continued.
"But not through reputation. Not through fraud. Not even through Jack."
She tilted her head.
"Then what?"
Another pause.
Then Thorne's voice, lower now. More surgical.
"We attack him like he's never been attacked before."
Anna raised an eyebrow. "You're going to hurt him?"
"No."
"We'll make him hurt himself."
She blinked. "How?"
Thorne said two words like scripture.
"Exposure therapy."
Anna stared.
Thorne explained.
"We take Eli somewhere he's never returned. Somewhere Jack wouldn't follow. Somewhere full of ghosts."
Pause.
"We dig up Eli's past."
Anna was quiet.
Then asked, slowly:
"You think that'll break him?"
Thorne's answer came like stone.
"No."
"I think it'll unmake him."
8:27 P.M. – Thorne's Private Cell
The lights were dimmed now, except for the single reading lamp at his desk.
Thorne set the ELI folder down.
Everything so far had failed—not because his tactics were wrong, but because Jack and Eli weren't two men. They were one machine.
He pulled up the surveillance matrix.
The apartment feed.
Jack and Eli, both on the couch. Jack in a dark tee, reading. Eli across from him with a laptop in his lap, watching something muted. There were blankets in a pile. Takeout boxes.
A quiet, shared life.
Two lives, but one rhythm.
Thorne whispered to himself:
"They even sleep in the same room…"
He paused.
Then smiled.
"Good."
Because now he knew the next cut.
Not on Eli.
Not on Jack.
But on the space between them.
He didn't need to pull Eli away by force.
He just needed to whisper something so painful, so personal, that Eli would leave on his own.
To protect Jack.
To disappear.
To keep whatever secret he thought Jack couldn't handle.
And then—Thorne would have him.
---
8:33 P.M. – Unknown Location – Secure Line Activated
Thorne picked up a satellite phone. No screens. No trace. One button.
He waited three rings.
Then a voice—raspy, cautious.
"...you told me never to call again."
Thorne smiled faintly.
"This isn't a call."
"Then what the hell is it?"
Thorne leaned back, his voice quiet.
"You knew Eli Richards. Before the name. Before the adoption."
Silence.
Then a quiet, bitter breath.
"What do you want?"
"A truth," Thorne said, "that would make him run."
8:36 P.M. – Satellite Line, Still Live
The voice on the other end hadn't said anything in nearly a minute.
Thorne waited patiently.
Then: a sigh.
"You want the records?" the voice said, resigned.
"Fine. But don't come crawling back if this makes things worse."
Thorne smiled like a vulture at a forecast.
"I'm counting on worse."
The voice gave him what he needed.
A name. A date. A clinic file that had been destroyed in every database except one—a hand-written copy stored off-grid.
It wasn't criminal.
It wasn't violent.
But it was damaging.
And it was real.
Something Eli had buried. Something Jack had never asked about.
Not because Jack didn't care—
—but because Eli never let him.
Thorne hung up without a word.
Then opened a new folder.
He began composing the message.
It would arrive in Eli's inbox at 3:04 a.m.
A subject line with one word.
> "Before."
Inside:
A scanned page.
A photo from 2005.
A single sentence written in bold text:
> "DOES HE KNOW WHAT YOU DID TO SURVIVE?"
No signature.
Just the past.
Whispered into the present.
Part 1: 3:04 A.M.
---
3:04 A.M. – Serrano Apartment – Shared Living Room
The room was dark.
A single red light blinked from the router. The rain had stopped hours ago. Somewhere outside, tires hissed along wet concrete.
Eli was still awake.
He hadn't moved in twenty minutes.
He sat on the edge of the couch in his worn hoodie, elbows on his knees, laptop balanced on the coffee table. The blue glow lit his face. His eyes didn't blink.
On the screen:
> From: [email protected]
Subject: Before
DOES HE KNOW WHAT YOU DID TO SURVIVE?
(Attachment: clinic_scan_2005.png)
Eli hadn't clicked it yet.
Not because he didn't recognize it.
But because he did.
His hands were still. But his stomach felt like it was made of cold air.
Behind him, a soft sound.
Jack. Barefoot. Quiet. Sleep-mussed. His voice was low.
"You okay?"
Eli didn't turn.
"Yeah." His voice wasn't convincing.
Jack stepped closer.
Looked down.
Saw the message.
Said nothing.
Just waited.
Finally, Eli clicked the file.
The scanned image opened.
An intake form from a backwater clinic in New Mexico.
His birth name—half-scratched out. Age: 10.
Status: "Unaccompanied minor. Possible trafficking victim. History unclear."
Jack exhaled through his nose. Not surprise.
Just... sadness.
Eli finally looked at him.
"They found me outside a laundromat."
Jack sat beside him.
Said nothing.
Let Eli keep going.
"I was with someone. He made me beg. Steal. Talk sweet to strangers. I got away when he passed out in a car. I walked two miles and collapsed in front of the dryers."
Silence.
Then Jack asked, softly:
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Eli's voice cracked, just barely.
"Because it didn't matter. You gave me a name. A home. I didn't want to bring that rot into it."
Jack was quiet.
Then, gently:
"You were never the rot, Eli. You were the seed."
Eli swallowed hard.
His fingers hovered over the laptop.
"They're gonna use this. Twist it."
Jack leaned forward. Touched his wrist.
"Then we twist back.
3:19 A.M. – Serrano Apartment
Jack leaned back slowly, the blue glow from Eli's laptop still painting the side of his face.
He wasn't blinking.
He wasn't speaking.
He was remembering.
His fingers tapped softly on the edge of the couch, like they were touching something long faded but still burning.
"Hey Eli…"
Eli looked up.
Jack's voice was quieter now. Rougher.
"You remember that night?"
"When I found you."
Eli hesitated.
Then nodded. "Yeah."
Jack stared ahead.
"You were curled under a loading dock. Your lip was split. You kept whispering someone else's name."
Eli's voice went tight. "I didn't know where I was."
Jack nodded slowly.
"I followed the trail back. There was a car. Some guy passed out in the seat. Booze. Grease under his nails."
Eli went still.
Jack's voice dropped further.
"I opened the door. I think I asked him something. I don't remember what. He grabbed my wrist."
He paused.
Eli didn't breathe.
Jack turned to him now.
"Do you remember what happened next?"
Eli didn't move for a long moment.
Then:
"No."
Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"I do."
Silence.
"I hit him. Once. Twice."
"I kept hitting."
Eli blinked, barely.
Jack's voice cracked—just a thread.
"When I stopped, he wasn't breathing."
He looked at Eli now. Fully.
"I dragged you out of there. Took you home. Called Dad. Told him I found someone who needed a bed."
Eli's voice was just a whisper now.
"You never told me."
Jack shook his head.
"Because I didn't want that part of me to live in you."
A long silence settled between them.
Eli leaned back in his chair.
"So I guess we saved each other."
Jack smiled faintly.
"No. I saved you once. You've been saving me ever since."
3:28 A.M. – Serrano Apartment – Living Room
Eli sat still, stunned—processing Jack's confession, the weight of the past suddenly fresh again.
Jack stood.
Held out his hand.
"Give me the phone."
Eli looked up.
Didn't move.
Jack's voice was firmer now.
"Eli. Give it to me."
Eli hesitated, then reached into the couch cushion and passed the device up.
Jack didn't wait.
He dropped into the chair, unlocked the screen, opened the same anonymous email chain that had haunted them for the last thirty minutes.
The photo. The scan. The words:
> "DOES HE KNOW WHAT YOU DID TO SURVIVE?"
Jack's eyes didn't blink.
He started typing.
---
From: [email protected]
Subject: You Want a Confession?
> Do you have proof?
> If you're going to come for me, then send it.
> Send the photo of the man who made me beg.
> If you have it—
I'll admit my past.
> I won't run from it.
> But if you don't?
> You just told the world who you are.
He hit SEND.
Then tossed the phone on the table like it had insulted him.
Eli looked at him, voice low.
"What if they do have it?"
Jack's voice was colder now.
"Then I'll know his face before I destroy his name."
:36 A.M. – Serrano Apartment – Living Room
The phone buzzed on the table.
One new message.
Jack picked it up without flinching.
Opened the reply.
No subject.
No words.
Just an image.
Grainy. Old. A mugshot, maybe—late 30s, sunburned skin, scruff on his jaw, bruise on his cheek.
Eyes dead even while alive.
Jack stared at it.
Then slowly—
smiled.
Not triumph.
Not cruelty.
Something colder.
Recognition.
He turned the phone around and showed Eli.
"It's him."
Eli's face tightened.
Jack leaned back in the chair. Calm now. Voice even.
"That's the guy. The one I pulled you away from."
A pause.
"The one I left bleeding in the front seat of his car."
Eli said nothing.
Jack studied the image again.
"He must've crawled out. Got found later. Arrested. Whatever. I don't care."
He looked at Eli now.
Voice firm.
"I already beat him. Years ago."
Eli sat back, breath shallow, eyes flickering.
"You're sure?"
Jack held up the phone.
"I don't forget faces. Especially ones I broke."
He tossed the phone aside.
Silence settled over the room again.
But this time—it didn't feel like fear.
It felt like relief.
Jack exhaled, slow and quiet.
"Let them send ghosts, Eli."
"I've already buried them."
3:40 A.M. – Serrano Apartment – Living Room
The phone was still lit.
Jack picked it back up, thumb steady over the glass.
No hesitation.
He hit "Reply."
And typed.
---
From: [email protected]
Subject: You Chose the Wrong Ghost
> Hey idiot—
> The man in that photo?
> I already know who he is.
> I'm the one who found Eli.
> I'm the one who pulled him out of that car.
> And I'm the one who beat that piece of garbage until he stopped breathing.
> So next time you try digging up ghosts, make sure they're not already buried.
> This isn't Eli writing you back.
> It's Jack Serrano.
> And you just sent the wrong man a message.
> Tick-tock.
---
Jack hit SEND without flinching.
He stood up. His jaw tight, but calm.
Eli sat back on the couch, watching him—not shaken, but steadied now. Grounded in something deeper than strategy.
Jack set the phone on the kitchen counter like a blade on a butcher's block.
"They wanted to twist the past," he said.
"Now we're going to use it to sharpen the future."
Eli looked at him.
"What's the move?"
Jack smiled—no humor, no warmth. Just clarity.
"We give them one last warning."
"Then we set the fire."
3:46 A.M. – Serrano Apartment – Living Room
The room was quiet again.
No phones buzzing.
No headlines.
Just the sound of a heater kicking on somewhere down the hall.
Jack turned toward Eli.
Eli sat still, shoulders tight—not from fear anymore, but the weight of finally being seen.
Not judged.
Not pitied.
Understood.
Jack stepped closer.
Then pulled him into a hug.
Not fast. Not dramatic.
Just firm.
Final.
Unshakeable.
"You're my little brother, Eli."
Eli didn't speak.
But his fingers curled into Jack's hoodie.
Like he was holding on to the only part of the world that had never let him go.
3:49 A.M. – Thorne's Private Cell
The message sat open on Thorne's screen.
No encryption.
No bluff.
Just Jack Serrano's voice, typed like a war drum.
> "I'm the one who pulled him out."
"I'm the one who beat that piece of garbage."
"You just sent the wrong man a message."
Tick-tock.
Thorne didn't move.
He read it again.
And again.
He leaned back, staring at the words.
It was the first reply he'd received in years that didn't dodge, beg, or pretend.
It was a confession.
It was a threat.
It was a warning.
He tapped the side of the desk once.
Then twice.
Then finally whispered to himself:
"You shouldn't be running for mayor."
"You should be running the war."
He opened a new file.
Labeled it:
> JACK SERRANO – PHASE NULL
Below it, he typed:
> Target displays unpredictable loyalty behavior.
Prior trauma channeling into structured moral violence.
Threat level: now equivalent to Eli Richards.
Adjustment required: simultaneous separation required.
New objective: break both at once.
He set his coffee aside.
Then dialed a secure voice relay.
Anna answered on the first ring.
"Did it work?"
Thorne's voice was low.
"No. It evolved."
Pause.
"We'll need a new plan."
---