CHAPTER XLV
The box was heavier than it looked.
Metal casing.No label.Just a small sticker in the corner that read:
Red ArchiveRestrictedDo not duplicate
Elara held it like a relic.
She did not know what it contained yet.
But something in her bones saidThis is it
NUMA cleared space on the table.Carefully slid the reel into the reader.Fatima connected a splitter to broadcast it on the backup monitors.Khalid kept his eyes on the hallway.
They did not speak.
Only the sound of the reel clicking into place.
ThenThe screen came alive.
First came the timestamp.
October seventeenTwo thousand and sixteenTwenty two fifteen
Then came the footage.
A conference room.
Simple.Bare walls.One long table.
Five men.Two women.One camera in the corner.
They were not smiling.They were not arguing.
They were deciding.
A voice spoke first.Firm.Calm.
It was her father.
Ibrahim Bello.
The journalist cannot be allowed to continue.
She has too much.She is building something.
And worse, she is involving my daughter.
Elara's breath caught.
NUMA whispered, It is Amara.They are talking about Amara.
Another man spoke.
We have options.Discredit.Diagnose.Disappear.
A woman's voice answered.
Diagnosis will take time.Discrediting will fail.
Disappearance is cleaner.
One night.Quiet.Grief can be managed.
Khalid turned away from the screen.Hands clenched.
Fatima's face stayed stone still.
NUMA did not blink.
And Elara?
She stepped closer to the monitor.
Eyes locked.
Watching her sister's death be written like a policy memo.
Then came the final moment.
Her father leaned forward.His voice colder.
If it must be doneDo not fail
She cannot surviveThe story dies with her
The screen cut to static.
Nothing followed.
Just a long silence.Too long.
Until NUMA finally spoke.
That is it.
That is the proof.
Khalid exhaled sharply.
Fatima whispered, You have your fire.
Elara stood still.
Motionless.
Her thoughts screamed.
But her body remained quiet.
Then she reached for the external drive.
We leak it.
NUMA raised an eyebrow.
All of it?
Elara nodded.
Every second.
No edits.
No voiceover.
Let them hear him say it.
That night, the footage was uploaded to every platform.
No caption.
No explanation.
Just the title:
This Is What Silence Sounds Like
By morning, the country was awake.
Every news station tried to spin it.
But the video was raw.
The voices were real.
The words too sharp to twist.
She cannot surviveThe story dies with her
Protestors surrounded the national courthouse.
Universities shut down.
A motion passed in the legislative hall to investigate all seven people in the recording.
For the first time since it began
The Council bled in public.
Khalid stared at the screen.
We did it.
NUMA corrected him.
We opened the wound.
It is not clean yet.
Elara sat with her back against the wall.
Head resting on her knees.
She did not cry.
She did not speak.
Not until the monitor chimed again.
A direct message.
No name.
Just a sentence.
The story does not die with herIt dies with you
Khalid read it.Eyes narrowing.
A threat?
NUMA nodded.
A warning.
Fatima leaned in.
It means they have nothing left to lose.
Elara stood.
Good.
Then they will fight without masks.
And when they doThe people will see them
For what they are.
Later that night, Elara walked to the roof alone.
She played the tape again.
Just one line.
She cannot surviveThe story dies with her
And she whispered into the wind:
She survived in me.