Opposite Worlds

After the event at Thorne Tower, days blended into each other. It was as if Anya were looking at a familiar snapshot that had been slightly blurred. Patrol routes, paperwork, the low-level murmur of crime, and bureaucracy were all still part of the everyday. However, beneath the surface, she felt an unsettling current tugging at her. Each shadow appeared to be longer, possibly hiding a figure moving with unfathomable grace. She looked at every rooftop silhouette.

The succinct, objective phrases in her incident report on the Thorne Tower breach felt glaringly inadequate and outrageously false, and she found herself reading it again. Due to an insurmountable impediment, the pursuit was terminated. The words made fun of her. Six levels below that "insurmountable obstacle," she had nearly turned into a red stain on the sidewalk. The untruth settled down in her stomach like a tangible burden. It was unimaginable to change the report since doing so would require her to acknowledge that she had failed, that she had put herself in danger, and even worse, that she owed her life to the same criminal she was hunting. Her career would be destroyed. But the quiet was toxic.

Marcus saw that she was preoccupied. During a stakeout, he had muttered, "Earth to Petrova," quietly snapping his fingers close to her ear. Since the Thorne job, you've come a long way. Are you still mad at the Ghost for escaping?

Anya gritted her teeth and smiled. Marcus, something along such lines. Simply put, I'm frustrated.

With a sigh, he turned back to observe the street and said, "Join the club." Vapor from the guy. makes the department appear to be incompetent.

Later, Anya was lured to the cold case files and old reports that mentioned "The Ghost" while she was bored at the precinct. Sightings were infrequent, irregular, and frequently written off as urban legend. His purported targets were always the untouchables in the city: slumlords, predatory financiers, and dishonest authorities. No small-time theft, no random violence. His techniques were exact, hygienic, and nearly surgical. Minimal collateral damage and no casualties. The emerging profile was contradictory and complicated. And unsettlingly compatible with a man who may, for some reason, save a falling police officer. It made the situation more complex and increased her sense of dissonance, but it didn't make his crimes any less serious.

She reflected once more on the rooftop, the rain, and the impossibility of the gap. She reflected on the fleeting, startling moment of connection with his eyes. Was it her imagination? Because he hadn't allowed her to die, was she projecting humanity onto a phantom? The questions kept coming up, providing little solace but just increasing the uncertainty.

Rhys was in forced convalescence during the days after the Thorne job. Normally a center of careful preparation and quiet scrutiny, his flat felt claustrophobic. A deep, lingering ache throbbed in his left shoulder, a continual reminder of his impetuous action. Frustrated by the unfamiliar weakness, he tested the limitations of the injury by practicing simple movements. This restriction irritated him because he was accustomed to depending on his body's complete reactivity.

Jax meticulously decrypted the stolen Thorne data in the main chamber. A labyrinth of offshore accounts was used to transfer pension funds, and first results were promising, revealing significant abnormalities. With his eyes fixed on the tumbling lines of code on his computer, Jax whispered, "Rhys, this is dynamite." "If it falls into the right hands, it will be sufficient to bury Thorne."

Distracted, Rhys nodded. He ought to have been concentrating on the data and organizing the next step, which would have involved successfully and anonymously leaking it and making sure it sparked inquiries that Thorne was unable to stop. That was the goal. That was the idea. Rather, his thoughts kept returning to the rooftop, the ledge covered in rain, and Officer Anya Petrova's big, frightened eyes.

He discovered that he examined her with the same level of detail that he examined security systems. Her perseverance, the way she had pushed herself during the pursuit beyond what was reasonable. Her attempt at a jump was an act of sheer, reckless daring, or possibly desperation. She had a passion and a dedication that matched his own, even if they were on different sides of the law. She wasn't just a uniform obeying orders. He remembered seeing her from a distance a few weeks before to the chase. She had been dealing with an aggressive alcoholic who was harassing an elderly street seller. Not only had she made the arrest, but she had also given the trembling vendor a gentle, comforting voice following, a fleeting moment of sincere empathy that had been felt even at that moment.

He had saved her, but why? Now the tactical arguments seemed flimsy. Steer clear of issues. Heat is drawn to dead police officers. True, but not enough. He wouldn't have thought twice about allowing a different type of police officer—one who is notorious for being crooked or violent—to go down. However, her The circularity of his ideas irritated him, so he ran a hand through his hair. It was an instinctive, unplanned, and unanalyzed moment. An oddity that is harmful.

Jax noticed Rhys's distracted expression as he looked up. "Isn't there something about that night that still bothers you? Beyond the shoulder.

With a seamless deflection, Rhys said, "Just analyzing variables." "The security response happened sooner than expected. Future planning must be modified.

Jax arched an eyebrow in skepticism but didn't pursue. "All right. variables. Rhys knew the question hung in the air between them, but he turned back to the TV. His unusual actions had not gone overlooked.

Rhys felt a nagging restlessness. He felt an odd instinct take root, confined, wounded, and abnormally contemplative. It was rash, nonsensical, and could have been disastrous. However, something had to be acknowledged because of the recall of her gaze and the unsolved tension of their encounter. Never make direct contact. However, it can send a ripple back over the sea. An examination.

He reflected on the assault case she had been working on shortly before the Thorne incident, which was dropped on a technicality and included a well-connected criminal. Rhys had access to information that the police didn't always find thanks to his own networks that worked in the shadowy parts of the city. He was aware that the expensive attorney had not merely discovered a technicality; rather, he had paid someone to falsify the logs in the evidence locker, causing the disparity that resulted in the dismissal.

Rhys wrote a brief, cryptic letter using a burner email account that had been set up months before for just such anonymous communications and a secure, multi-layered routing method. No sign-off, no greeting. There was only one name—the low-level clerk with gambling debts—a date, a time stamp that was slightly changed, and a sequence number that matched the evidence locker. Untraceable. Unquestionable. Only data. He sent it to the official department email of Anya Petrova. All it was was a breadcrumb. information that she may disregard or use. a prod in the direction of the justice she seems to cherish. And maybe a method to check if the woman he'd mysteriously spared, the one who had chased him with such ferocity, was paying attention. He pressed submit, causing another wave to disturb the motionless waters while the click continued to echo throughout the peaceful apartment.

With fatigue weighing her down, Anya was getting ready to finally go home back at the precinct. She glanced over her inbox one last time. Spam, department memos, bills, etc. and one peculiarity. An e-mail from a random string of characters for an address. There was nothing in the subject line. There are only three lines of text inside:

Evidence Log Reference: AS-7714, Locker 3B
Entry Timestamp Difference: 18 March, 22:40 vs. 23:15 Clerk: Henderson

Anya gazed at it. AS-7714. The assault that had left her so irritated just a few nights prior had that case number. Henderson The evidence clerk on the night shift, Dave Henderson, is constantly griping about money. The times and dates A difference? Interfering?

Her heart started beating slowly and purposefully. This wasn't a coincidence. This information was overly focused and specific. From where might it have originated? Something like this, sent so anonymously and in such a mysterious manner, would never come from a reliable source. From the darkness, it sounded like a whisper. As if a piece of forbidden information had fallen right into her lap.

She surveyed the bullpen as it was emptying. Unseen possibilities suddenly energized the familiar surroundings. Was this a test? A snare? Or... something else? In that moment between life and death, her thoughts returned to the rooftop and the dark eyes that met hers. Was he able to send this? The Ghost? Why?

Anya erased the server copy of the email by deleting it from her inbox after saving it to a safe personal drive. Her hand shook a little. She couldn't trust the information because she didn't know where it came from. It was illegal to follow up on it after receiving an anonymous, illegal tip; if it went wrong, it might have been career suicide. However, the idea of the victim of assault being denied justice... the possibility that Henderson was involved... the potential that a key was contained in this cryptic letter She was being drawn by a current away from the security of protocol and toward an uncharted and perilous area. She had been hit by the ripple. What would she do now, she wondered?