Brooks tried to speak, but Hale struck him again. His head hit the wall, and the image blurred for a moment. Maya's hand curled into a fist when the third blow landed: this time, Brooks's entire body slid down the wall as though his nerves had been cut.
Hale remained still for several seconds, staring down at him. Then he turned away from the camera and issued a command, low but audible: "Clean it up."
Maya paused the footage. The air tightened. Even though the room held only two people, Omar exhaled a long breath he had likely been holding since the video began.
"I kept that like keeping a death sentence," he said. "They searched for my camera three times, tore apart my stall, this whole room, but they never found the USB. I hid it in my father's wooden box."
Maya studied him, measuring the depth of fear inside a man who had fought quietly for survival in the shadows. "From now on, you will be protected," she said, her voice low but certain. "I will report this tonight. The USB will not stay here."
Omar nodded, lips pressed together as though afraid any sound from him might break the fragile safety he felt. He placed a hand over his chest, then briefly on Maya's shoulder—a thank-you he could not form into words.
Maya closed the laptop, tucked the USB into her inner jacket pocket, stood, and opened the door. The door creaked as usual, but when the outside light spilled in, Maya noticed a detail that sent a chill down her spine: a fresh scratch marked the lock from the outside. The metal had been scraped recently, less than an hour old.
She looked back at Omar, his eyes widening in fear.
"Someone touched this lock," Maya said.
Omar staggered a step, hand pressed to his chest as though steadying a heart beating too hard. "Not me. I locked it from the inside." His voice trembled, fear now taking a sharp, unmistakable shape.