Knock, Knock
There’s a kind of quiet that feels like your ribs are waiting to snap.
That’s what the drive did to me.
Red Eden wasn’t taunting. He wasn’t challenging.
He was inviting.
Like a wolf laying out the carpet for the lamb pretending it ain’t made of skin.
And I wasn’t pretending either.
I wasn’t the lamb.
I was the storm.
The coordinates dropped us into Mire Island, a sliver of hell 200 miles off the Caribbean, legally owned by no one and whispered about like a ghost town for billionaires.
There was no government. No rules. No flights in or out.
Only boats.
Private ones.
And we had a choice: go loud or go smart.
I went with smart.
But packed for loud just in case smart got boring.
Rina stayed behind. Watching from a satellite proxy and monitoring every electronic fart within twenty miles.
Gideon? He was on deck, literally.
Sniper post on a rented freighter five clicks offshore. His scope could count the sweat on Eden’s nose.
Me?
I was walking into the lion’s mouth with a small pistol tucked against my lower back, a blade in my boot, and a recorder embedded in my watch.
I wore black.
Not because it was tactical.
But because this was a funeral.
And I wasn’t sure whose.
The meeting point was a villa at the edge of a cliff.
No guards. No dogs.
Just one man waiting at a table beneath a red umbrella, like we were here for drinks and not world-bending chaos.
Red Eden.
He was younger than I expected.
Late thirties. Blonde. Pretty in the way that screamed dangerous. A kind of face you’d see running a hedge fund or directing a cult.
He smiled as I approached.
“Nia Morgan.”
“Red Eden.”
He poured wine into a second glass and slid it across the table toward me.
I didn’t touch it.
“Wise,” he said. “You’re not predictable. They didn’t lie.”
I sat, slowly.
“I didn’t come here to make friends.”
“Good,” he said. “I hate small talk.”
We stared at each other for a long beat.
Two sharks. No water.
Then he leaned back.
“I watched your Westwood drop. Clever. Almost elegant. But sloppy at the end. You got emotional. You left traces.”
“That wasn’t sloppiness,” I said.
He tilted his head. “No?”
“That was bait.”
He grinned. “For me?”
“No,” I said. “For whoever’s stupid enough to think they can manipulate the world without getting their fingers broken.”
“Ah,” he said. “You’re an idealist. Cute.”
“I’m an anvil, Eden. Keep hammering and see what breaks first.”
He chuckled and sipped his wine.
"You think the Vault is the enemy," he said. "You think Black Echo is rebellion."
"It is."
"No," he said calmly. "It’s a mirror. One we’ve all seen before. You just polished it better."
“You scared?”
“Not of you,” he said. “But I am cautious of what you could become. You think the people you're exposing will fall?”
“They already are.”
“No, Nia,” he said, swirling the wine like it was blood. “They’re pivoting.”
I frowned. “Explain.”
He leaned forward.
“You don’t kill monsters by dragging them into the light. You just make them change their teeth.”
That hit me harder than I wanted to admit.
Because he was right.
The world wasn't watching these men burn.
They were watching them evolve.
But I wasn’t here for philosophy.
I was here to gut the beast.
And Eden?
He had claws too.
"You want me to stop?" I asked. "That it?"
He smirked. “If I wanted you to stop, you wouldn’t be breathing.”
"Then why call me here?"
"Because I’m offering you a better target.”
Now that got my attention.
He slid a file across the table.
Hardcopy. Black folder. Wax seal. Old school.
I opened it.
Photos. Bank transfers. CIA liaisons. Death squads. Pediatric research foundations used to fund weaponized psychological experiments on refugee children.
And at the top of it all?
Senator Lyle Trevors.
Public saint. Private devil.
“You ever wonder why Westwood had immunity for so long?” Eden said.
“Trevors ran his protection?”
“He built it.”
I stared at the evidence.
This wasn’t just a man in the machine.
He was the machine.
And Eden knew it.
“You’ve been holding this?” I asked, voice flat.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to see if you’d get far enough to deserve it.”
"And if I hadn’t?"
He smiled again.
“Then I’d have buried you with the others.”
I stood.
"This doesn't make us allies," I said.
"It makes us necessary."
"You’re still a monster."
"And you're still useful."
We stared at each other again.
No lies. No flinch.
Just war disguised as civility.
As I walked back to the dock, my phone buzzed.
Encrypted ping.
From Rina.
"Vault server just came back online. One new directive. It’s labeled 'Contain Morgan.'
I stopped.
Stared back toward the cliff.
Red Eden was still seated. Still smiling.
Like he'd already read the message.
I whispered to myself.
"Knock, knock."