Threading the Needle

Lilith didn't open the café the next day.

She told herself it was exhaustion, that she just needed a moment to breathe. But the truth sat heavier than that—clinging to her like the silence that had followed Isabella's visit.

No word from Arnold.

No knock at her door.

No phone call to say he believed her—or that he didn't.

She sat on the floor of her apartment, arms wrapped around her knees, as the early morning light crept through the curtains. The city moved on outside, but inside, she was suspended in place. Trapped in the echo of a stranger's voice saying, "Enjoy your little café. While it lasts."

Her stomach twisted at the thought of Isabella's eyes, gleaming with cold certainty. Lilith didn't even know what hurt more—that Arnold had let that woman get close enough to know everything about her, or that he might have sent her.

She reached for her phone more than once.

Typed half a message.

Deleted it.

She didn't know what she wanted from him. Forgiveness? Reassurance? Or just to know if he still saw her as a possibility—or already as a threat.

She finally tossed the phone aside and let herself feel it—grief, humiliation, fear.

And then, a flicker of something else.

Resolve.

They were coming for her. That much was clear.

So she'd better be ready.

—

Across the city, Isabella walked briskly through the sleek corridors of Blaze Enterprises, a file tucked under her arm and a plan already forming in her mind.

Arnold's office door was closed, but the moment she knocked, his voice called out.

"Come in."

She entered to find him at his desk, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled, jaw tight. The skyline glittered behind him, but his focus was sharp as a blade.

"I assume you've already started," he said without looking up.

Isabella's heart lifted slightly. So he had decided.

"I have," she said smoothly, taking a seat across from him. "Discreetly."

"Good. I want full access to anything that's ever touched her name. Background, aliases, any flagged connections to Sterling Industries—Harold, not just Victor."

She offered a professional nod, pretending not to feel the heat of satisfaction behind her ribs. He was trusting her. More than that—he was relying on her.

"Understood," she said. "Anything I should prioritize?"

"Anything she left out," Arnold said. "She told me about the group she used to work for. That she was forced to disappear."

Isabella blinked. "She told you?"

He looked up now, eyes cold. "She told me enough. Not everything."

"I'll get you the rest," Isabella promised, setting the file down. "Some of her records are clean because someone wanted them to be. We're dealing with partial erasure—fake charities, defunct shell companies, layers of redirection."

"And you're sure she's connected to Harold?"

Isabella's mouth tightened. "His name is buried in the donations list for one of the organizations tied to her last known alias. It's circumstantial. But it fits."

Arnold nodded, jaw clenched. "Good. Keep going."

She stood to leave but paused at the door.

"Arnold... are you sure you still want her involved in the proposal?"

He didn't answer immediately.

When he did, his voice was flat. "I want to know who I'm dealing with. Then I'll decide."

—

That night, Lilith stood by her window, arms folded tightly across her chest.

She hadn't gone outside all day.

Every passing shadow made her flinch. Every knock on a neighbor's door sent her heart into her throat.

She wasn't imagining it anymore.

Someone was watching.

And if she could feel it… it meant they wanted her to know.

A silent warning.

She finally closed the curtains, forcing herself to move. Poured a glass of water. Sat at her kitchen table like the world wasn't unraveling around her.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

She stared at it for a long time, then answered.

No words.

Just static.

Then a man's voice, calm and clean, but utterly devoid of emotion:

"Tell Arnold Blaze to stop digging."

Her blood ran cold.

"Who is this?"

But the line had already gone dead.

—

From his hotel suite, Specter watched the city lights flicker like signals. His laptop glowed in the dark, frame frozen on a recording of Arnold Blaze stepping into his car earlier that evening.

The man was still unshaken. Still composed. But not for long.

Specter scribbled in his notebook.

"Blaze's movements: consistent."

"Lilith: destabilized."

"Isabella: dangerous, emotionally invested."

A perfect triangle.

The fun kind.

He closed the laptop and picked up his phone. The encrypted number blinked once, then connected.

"Update," Victor Sterling's voice snapped through the speaker.

"She's nervous. Jumping at shadows. Message delivered."

Victor exhaled. "Good. What about Blaze?"

"Suspicious. But focused on the wrong things—for now."

"Let him keep chasing smoke," Victor said. "Just make sure the fire catches when I say so."

Specter's smile was invisible in the dark.

"As you wish."