Dusk settled over Harborline Market in a thick orange hue, staining the rows of stalls so that their shadows stretched long and slanted across the cement. Vendors were closing up, the scattered noise fading and giving way to the heavy quiet of a neighborhood trying to keep its secrets submerged in darkness.
Maya stood beside Omar's stall, watching him lock the door once, then a second time, a third. By the fifth, he finally stopped, eyes scanning the area like a man being hunted.
"Follow me," Omar whispered, his voice barely escaping his throat. "No one can see."
Maya moved behind him into the back of the stall. The narrow path leading to the storage room was wide enough for only two people to walk single file. Old paint coated the walls, and the streetlight filtered through a crack, carving thin slashes of brightness across the tiles like blades. As they stepped through the wooden door, Omar closed it immediately and twisted the lock tight, as if a single second of delay might allow someone to force the door open from behind.
The small room held only one flickering yellow bulb dangling from the ceiling, its trembling glow making the space look fogged with thick mist. A scratched wooden table sat pressed against the wall; several pairs of shoes waiting for repair lay inside a box; and in the corner rested an old wooden chest. Omar approached it with caution that suggested whatever lay inside could ignite the entire city.
He sat down, placing both hands on the lid. His breath fractured slightly. Then he opened it slowly, gently, as though lifting the lid of a soul kept buried for months. When it finally creaked open, Maya saw a small silver USB drive nestled among layers of old wrapping paper, as if Omar had been shielding it from light and from human eyes.
He picked it up, his hand trembling visibly. "I have kept this for a long time," he said, his voice roughened. "More than half a year. I never dared to watch it again. But you should." He looked at Maya with deep, haunted eyes—the eyes of a man who had witnessed something too massive, too dangerous to hold alone. "That night, my camera caught more than anyone thinks."
Maya accepted the USB with both hands, the cold metal sticking to her skin. She opened her encrypted laptop and inserted the drive. The screen flickered once, then the footage appeared. Maya's expression tightened. Omar stood behind her, gripping the edge of the table as though it were the only thing keeping him standing.
The first frame showed Brooks: he stood near the corner wall of the market, a bag of goods in hand. The dim light blurred the footage, but his face was still visible—tense, eyes wide in startled confusion. Opposite him, Marcus Hale entered the frame, his shadow blocking half the row of lights behind him. Hale said something lost beneath the wind, but Brooks shook his head and raised both hands.
A second later, Hale grabbed Brooks by the collar and slammed him against the wall. The impact sounded crisp, as though a microphone lay inches from the hit. Omar's knuckles turned white as he clutched the chair. Maya felt her pulse pounding hard at her temples.