Neutral Ground

For two days, Anya couldn't get the mysterious email out of her head. Locker #3B Time stamp Inconsistency Henderson. A discordant note that broke the artificial regularity of her routine, it was an itch she couldn't ignore. She acted against her better judgment because she was driven by a persistent curiosity and the picture of the assault victim who had been denied justice. She was granted access to the evidence management system during a quiet late shift, claiming that she needed to cross-reference an outdated inventory list. Her heart pounded a nervous tattoo against her ribs as her fingers slid across the keyboard. She retrieved the AS-7714 logs, focusing on the chain of custody during the email's specified date.

It was there. A glaring disparity. Henderson signed the evidence kit out at 22:40, ostensibly for normal cataloging verification, and returned it less than 10 minutes later, according to the record. However, a seldom examined secondary system backup revealed that the equipment was returned at 23:15. A half-hour lapse. Enough time for manipulation, trade, and the establishment of the "reasonable doubt" that had allowed the offender to escape punishment. Henderson. debts from gambling. With a horrible surety, things clicked into place.

The anonymous tip was right. It's chillingly accurate.

The information weighed heavily on her. Since it was based on an anonymous digital whisper, reporting it formally now would expose her to attention she couldn't afford. How was she aware? She was gazing, but why? Questions regarding the Ghost and the Thorne Tower event would unavoidably come up. However, doing nothing came across as complicity, which is a much more serious betrayal than simply leaving out information from a report.

Back at her workstation, staring blankly at police car footage while she struggled with this problem, she received another email. same sender, who is anonymous. The topic line is still blank. It was colder and shorter.

Antiquities Archive, West Wing, City Library.
Midnight. This evening.
Come by yourself.

Anya gasped for air. This was a summons, not a breadcrumb. Every regulation and every instinct shouted danger. Off the books, meeting an unknown acquaintance, probably a well-known fugitive, by yourself? It was possibly actual suicide as well as career suicide. Maybe he's laying a trap. He might have any plans.

However, the Henderson tip's accuracy demonstrated that he possessed information—possibly useful information. A strong wave of interest tugged at her beneath the anxiety. She had to comprehend. Why would you want to save her? What's the point of sending the tip? Who was this ghostly specter that roamed her city, redressing perceived wrongs and disobeying the rules she had vowed to enforce? She couldn't find the answers to the queries in any official documents.

She informed Marcus that she was meeting with a longtime source regarding a cold case; this individual was known for being neurotic and demanding unusual meeting locations. He complained about safety procedures, but he was aware that Anya occasionally broke the rules in order to obtain trustworthy information. She made sure her service weapon was hidden under her civilian clothing and that it was safe. It was only vaguely comforting because of its familiar weight. She felt completely out of her element tonight.

The City Library was a completely different place at midnight than it was during the day. Thick and oppressive silence prevailed, broken only by the faint rustle of settling dust and the hum of invisible equipment. Long, skeletal shadows were formed across countless rows of books by the slanting moonlight coming through lofty arched windows. The fragrance of old paper, binding glue, and untold tales filled the air. The marble halls echoed, and Anya walked carefully, her footsteps sounding strangely loud.

The oldest part of the structure, which was little seen, was the Antiquities Archive, which was packed with glass cases that held faded scrolls and pottery fragments. Narrow, dark canyons were formed by tall shelves filled with leather-bound folios and obscure histories. It was like entering a century that had been forgotten. Her senses alert, she arrived at the assigned location, a little alcove between shelves devoted to Mesopotamian artifacts, and waited. Silence closed in. Was I wrong? Had she stepped into a trap?

She was not aware of his approach. The room in front of her was suddenly empty, save for the shifting shadows. Subsequently, he appeared, rising soundlessly from the little opening between two tall bookcases, seemingly forming from the shadows themselves.

Rhys.

The all-black tactical gear from the rooftop chase was not on him. Rather, a worn Henley underneath a black jacket and basic dark jeans. He appeared... unremarkable. Aside from the eyes. They were as intense as she recalled, perceptive and critical, absorbing her. Although she could see a small favoring of his left shoulder, a faint stiffness that hadn't been present during the chase, he moved with a quiet grace. the wound sustained during the rescue.

They were separated by an uncomfortable, tense quiet. Finally, they were in front of each other as two people occupying a perilous and impossible place, rather than as hunter and hunted.

Despite the shaking in her hands, Anya was the first to find her voice and maintain it calm and low. The Henderson email. Was that you?

Without openly confirming or denying, he cocked his head slightly. “Officer Petrova, was the information helpful?” She couldn't quite make out the undertone in his quiet, serene speech.

"It confirmed," she said, observing him intently. "Why send it? What are you looking for?

Rhys kept a cautious distance, leaning lightly against a bookshelf. Maybe I think some scales need to be balanced. even if formal channels don't work. He looked her in the eye. "What are you going to do with the information?"

The challenge, the insinuation, made Anya tense a little. "I enforce the law."

He tilted his head and whispered softly, "Do you?" Or do you enforce the law? They aren't always interchangeable. Did you not include certain important details in your report on the Thorne Tower incident?

Her breath caught. He was aware. He knew, of course. "You put me in a precarious situation."

"I did," Without humor, a shadow of a smile appeared on his lips. It was you who chased after them. It was a risk you took. You jumped.

"What prevented me from falling?" The question came out blunt and unvarnished.

In the faint light, his countenance was unreadable as he watched her for a long time. His final response felt vague and unfinished: "Let's call it... professional courtesy." "A deceased officer makes an escape plan more difficult. attracts needless attention.

Anya didn't believe it. She recalled the momentary choice and the expression in his eyes. There was more to it than calculating coldly. In a low voice, she whispered, "I don't believe you."

He just kept her stare without arguing. Unspoken words and the unmistakable, terrifying pull that had been there since that moment on the ledge crackled in the air. Their bond felt both ancient and perilously new here, in the dusty hush of the library, encircled by the ghosts of the past. Despite being on opposing sides of everything, they were united by a common secret and a shared life-or-death experience.

"Why take the chance of meeting me?" Returning attention to her, Rhys inquired. Curiousity? Obligation? Appreciation?

"I must comprehend," Anya candidly acknowledged. "Who are you?"

In a cryptic reply, he said, "I am the one who notices the decay beneath the gilt." "The person who periodically corrects the scales when they tilt excessively." He pushed the bookshelf away. "But trying to understand, Officer, can be risky."

In the distance, a faint siren's cries served as a reminder of the world beyond these quiet walls, where their positions were set in stone. Rhys's stance changed, and he became immediately vigilant. "It's time to leave."

"Are you going to..." Uncertain of what she was even asking, Anya began. Will you provide further details? Will we cross paths again?

"Officer Petrova, take caution," he interrupted quietly. "There are repercussions for the lines you're thinking about crossing."

Then, as quietly as he had come, he vanished, vanishing once more between the tall shelves, leaving behind only the lingering intensity of his gaze and the subtle smell of night air.