Chapter 6: The Journalist (Nate POV)
Couldn’t take my apartment anymore. Walls were squeezing in, choking the air outta me. All morning, I’d been glued to my phone, waiting for it to buzz—nothing. Dead silence was loud as hell, crushing me under everything going to shit. That text—“This isn’t just about you. Walk away”—kept spinning in my head, digging in deeper every time it looped. Felt like I was teetering on something big, something I couldn’t even name.
Snatched my coat, yanked it on without a thought, and bolted outta there. No clue where I was going—just had to move, get free of that damn box that felt like a cage. Head was a mess, thoughts tangling up too fast to grab. Ended up at this coffee spot a few blocks away, one Liam and I used to crash at after work. Dumb as hell with everything imploding, but I needed air, space, anything that wasn’t my place or that damn office.
Joint was half-empty—just a few folks pecking at laptops or sipping cups. Quiet was heavy, pressing down. Slid into a corner booth, wood jabbing my back as I tried to settle. Coffee smell hit me, but it didn’t do jack to calm me like it used to. Nothing felt right. Ordered a black coffee, hoping the bite would ground me, but my hands stayed locked tight around the mug, staring at it while my brain ran wild. Phone sat there on the table, dead quiet.
Texted Liam an hour back—“Hey, can we talk? I need you”—and got zilch. No dots, no reply, nothing. That blank space gutted me, sharp and deep. Chest kept tightening every minute it stayed silent. Felt ditched, and that stung worse than all the other crap piling up.
Door jingled, and my eyes snapped up. This woman walked in—short hair, leather jacket, same one I’d caught snapping pics outside ZenithTech yesterday. She swept the room, zeroed in on me like a hawk. Gut dropped hard. Heart started thumping as she came straight over, steps too sure, sliding into the seat across from me like she owned the damn place.
“You’re Nate Carter, right?” she said, voice low but steady, not really asking. Didn’t wait for me to nod. “Zoe. Journalist. Been poking around ZenithTech.”
Coffee stalled halfway to my mouth. Froze, staring at her, air getting thick. What the hell was this?
“What do you want?” I got out, keeping it flat, but my head was racing. Reporter? Spy? Didn’t know, didn’t care—I wasn’t in the mood for games.
She didn’t blink. “Heard about your shitstorm—suspended, breach, feds circling. Sounds like a nightmare.” Leaned in, eyes cutting through me. “I think you’re getting screwed. I can help you figure out who’s pulling the strings.”
Screwed. That’s what I’d been gnawing on—felt like I’d stumbled into someone’s trap, no clue how it worked. Harper’s icy stare popped up, last thing I saw before they dragged me out. But Zoe? Didn’t know her from a hole in the wall. Could be fishing for a scoop, or something worse. “Don’t need help,” I said, slamming the mug down too hard. Sound rang out, but I didn’t care. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” she fired back, not fazed. “I’ve seen this play—big dogs pinning crap on the little guy to cover their tracks. I’ve got people, ways to dig. Let me look.”
“No,” I snapped, too loud, too fast. Guy at the next table flicked a glance, and I reeled it in, voice dropping. “Not talking. It’ll just make it worse.”
Zoe tilted her head, eyeing me like I was a puzzle she could crack. “Keeping quiet won’t fix this. Whoever’s doing it, they’re not stopping. I can get proof—just let me in.”
Fists clenched under the table, frustration boiling up. Last thing I needed was some random chick stirring up this shitstorm more. “I said no,” I growled. “Don’t trust you. Don’t know you. Leave me alone.”
She didn’t twitch, just sat there a sec, then nodded. “Alright. Your call.” Slid a plain white card over—name, number, black ink. “Change your mind, I’m around.” Then she was gone, door jingling as she bailed.
Stared at that card, chest tight as a drum. Wanted to grab it, holler her back, dump it all—the logs, Harper, that damn email, the breach. But what if she twisted it? What if talking sank me deeper? Staying shut felt safer, at least now. Shoved the card in my pocket anyway—no idea why. Maybe I’d need it. Maybe I was kidding myself.
Checked my phone again—still nothing from Liam. Couldn’t stop myself, sent another text—“Please, just let me know you’re there”—and stared, waiting. No dots. Thumb hovered over his name, itching to call, hear him, but what if he didn’t pick up? What if he bought the lies? That shaky “I’ll try to help” from yesterday kept looping—weak as hell. The Liam I knew would’ve fought for me, no hesitation. Now? No clue who he was.
Paid up, stuffed my phone in my pocket, and stepped out. Cold hit me hard, stinging my face. Street was buzzing—cars, people rushing—but I felt like a damn shadow, cut off from it all. Started trudging home, head down, hands buried deep. Zoe’s words stuck—“They’re not done.” What if she was right? What if this was just the warm-up? Didn’t know who to trust—her, Liam, anybody. Felt like a web, and I was stuck dead center.
Then I saw it—black car, half a block down, engine humming low. Wasn’t there when I left. Tinted windows, dark as night, just sitting there. Stopped cold, breath catching. My street’s quiet—cars don’t just chill like that. Took a step closer, squinting, but it didn’t budge. Was it for me? That text slammed back—“This isn’t just about you.” Skin crawled, and I backed off fast, spinning toward my building. Didn’t look back, but I felt it—something watching, close and heavy.