Chapter 11 - The Phantom Dossier
Master Vance closed the heavy oak door of his office, shutting out the rest of the gym. The blinds were drawn, leaving the room bathed in the amber glow of a single desk lamp. He pulled open the bottom drawer of his metal filing cabinet and dropped a thick, weathered yellow manila folder onto the mahogany desk.
Maya paused just inside the room, her hand resting on the back of the leather visitor's chair. ""What is that?""
""Marcus was a fool,"" Vance said, leaning his hands heavily on the desk. ""He acted on arrogance and pettiness. But the contact who fed him your sealed file didn't find it by accident, Maya.""
Maya frowned, taking a step closer. She looked down at the faded folder on the desk. The label had been scraped off, but on the corner was an inked stamp she recognized with an instant chill: Blackwood Logistics, Sector 4.
""Where did you get this?"" Maya demanded, her voice losing its calm composure.
""I’ve had it for ten years,"" Vance said quietly. ""Long before Marcus ever walked into this gym. Long before you went into the state tactical unit.""
Maya stared at the old master. Her past wasn't just a matter of whistleblower drama; years before her state service, her older brother, Aaron Thorne, had disappeared while working security for Blackwood—a shadowy private defense syndicate that had tentacles in both municipal law enforcement and underground combat circuits. Maya had spent her entire twenties fighting to survive in the very systems Blackwood had corrupted.
""Marcus didn't find a random hacker,"" Vance murmured, meeting her eyes with painful honesty. ""He reached out to a scout from the Red Sands Circuit. They were looking for an excuse to pull you out into the open, Maya. They know Aaron left something behind.""
Maya felt the air in her chest turn to ice. ""Aaron is dead, Vance. He died in the fire at the logistics depot seven years ago.""
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Vance reached into the manila folder and pulled out a single photograph taken less than forty-eight hours ago. It showed the shadowy silhouette of a man walking into a private airfield in Nevada, his right hand bearing a distinct, jagged scar across the knuckles.
""Aaron isn't dead,"" Vance whispered. ""And now they know you're here.""
