When fiction blurs into reality, all that remains is the storm. And

this storm begins with rain—merciless, unrelenting, and

unforgiving. The rain battered the city like a curse, hammering

windows until even glass seemed ready to break; it was as though the

sky had cracked open.

I stood by the window, the kind of window meant for diplomats

and secrets and not for men like me, men who knew too much and

slept too little. My watch ticked with the kind of tension you feel in

hospital waiting rooms. And there, in the middle of it all, stood like

a statue of defiance carved from grief, was Emily.

She wasn't just standing in the rain; she was challenging it. Water

streamed down her trench coat like it was trying to wash away

whatever weight she carried, but Emily… Emily didn't budge. Her

eyes locked on something, or someone, out there, like she was

reading a silent confession only she could hear.

You don't meet people like Emily often. When I was told to keep

an eye on her, the only information I was given was that she was in

the midst of whatever was going down. So, yes. I made it a point to

get to know as much as I could about her. And it didn't take long for

me to realize that she had that rare mix of brilliance and beautiful

dysfunction. Tenacity? That was her baseline. But tonight,

something deeper had taken hold of her. Something that made

obsession look like a vacation.

And from my observation, it wasn't just determination in her face;

it was darkness. The kind that creeps in when you realize the truth

you've spent your whole life avoiding has finally pulled up a chair

and offered you a drink.

Around us, the place was swarming with so many government

acronyms. FBI jackets brushed shoulders with CIA operatives

disguised as FBI and Secret Service agents. Homeland Security, all

moving in that slow, synchronized way that suggested they also had

no idea what was coming. Everyone was here for the same purpose:

to manage the chaos. But let's be clear: our reasons weren't the same.

They were here to clean the blood off the floor and paste it into a

report. While I was there to confirm an intel, something only a few

knew.

Yes, I know; not doing a dame thing about it clearly makes me a

bitch, but hey, I was only following a lead, given that what was about

to go down wasn't just blatantly diabolical. It was a message.

So, I checked my watch. Again. The second hand ticked toward 7

PM like a countdown to the apocalypse.

And then, silence.

Not the kind of silence you enjoy. No, not the peaceful kind.

Rather, the kind that grips your lungs and makes the hairs on the

back of your neck stand. The kind that makes your ears ring and your

skin prickle, like the universe itself, had just hit mute on reality.

That's when they revealed it.

The body.

Lying on the crimson carpet of a podium that had once hosted

some of the most powerful voices in the country. A place where

promises were made, and lies dressed up in patriotism were sold like

hot dogs on the Fourth of July. But now, this hallowed stage is

cradled with a crime so calculated, so intimate in its brutality that it

brings the nation to its knees.

Lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling, at that massive, golden

chandelier, still swaying like it knew it had witnessed too much. The

air smelled like fear and betrayal. The blood wasn't just blood. It was

a statement, pooling dark and thick, the kind of red that made you

think of expensive wine and bad decisions. It looked almost elegant,

if death could ever be described that way.

By morning, the entire nation had heard about it.

Some called it a murder. Others, more dramatic and maybe more

accurate, called it an assassination. But no one could deny it—

someone had just shaken the foundations of power, and the tremors

were only beginning.

TV anchors leaned into their microphones like they were

narrating the end of the world. "Capitol on lockdown," they said.

"Federal agencies everywhere." They didn't mention the part about

trust disintegrating faster than a cheap umbrella in this same storm.

Rumors flew like startled birds. Who was behind it? Why? What

did they know? And who else had to die?

Colleagues began watching each other the way one-eyed cats

watch dogs. Loyalty was now a luxury; everyone suddenly had a

poker face they didn't know they owned. Friends, real ones, not the

handshakes-and-smiles kind, started to cancel dinners, ignore texts,

and vanish behind "security clearances."

But this story, this real story, it didn't begin here, at the Capitol,

with blood and blinking red lights. No, its seed was planted weeks

before. Long before, Emily found herself frozen in the rain. Before

federal agents started treating each other like potential threats.

Before, the world tilted, and trust fell off the edge.

So, let's take a step back.

Let's rewind to the part where everything still looked normal, at

least on the surface,

Because that's how all tragedies begin quietly. Click Here to get the book