Chapter 2 Two

Cassie:

The morning sun slipped through the cracked blinds, painting narrow gold lines across the dusty hardwood floor. I stirred under the thin blanket draped over the couch, one leg dangling off the edge, and blinked up at the ceiling like it might give me a reason to move.

Another day. Another lecture. Another four-hour shift at the bookstore across campus.

I sat up slowly, groaning at the stiffness in my neck. I really needed to start sleeping in my bed again, no matter how tempting it was to crash after studying.

The tiny studio I called home was quiet, save for the ticking wall clock and the low hum of the fridge. It wasn't much-just enough space to trip over things-but it was mine. It smelled like burnt coffee and vanilla-scented air freshener. I liked it that way. Simple. Predictable.

I dragged myself to the counter and switched on the kettle, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. My phone lit up nearby with a couple of notifications, but I ignored them.

She'd probably texted again. My mom. She always did. Short, warm reminders to eat, sleep, dress warm-like I was still sixteen and not in the thick of a barely-survivable adult life. It used to annoy me. Now I kind of clung to it.

But I couldn't bring myself to reply yet. I didn't want to lie, and I didn't want her to worry either.

She didn't know I'd spent half the week sleeping on the couch, living on noodles, or stressing over late bills and creeping deadlines. She didn't know how heavy the silence felt sometimes.

The kettle whistled. I poured boiling water into a chipped mug and stirred in instant coffee. Bitter, but effective. I took a long sip and leaned against the counter.

I thought about calling her later. Just to hear her voice. She never said it out loud, but I could tell she was lonely now that it was just her. I hated the way grief had settled into our lives like fog-quiet, clinging, always there.

Dad's death had changed everything. One moment he was laughing too loud at some sitcom, and the next, gone. A heart attack. Fast. Final.

I was eighteen when it happened. Now, five years later, the ache still hit me at random-like this morning. The scent of his old aftershave lingered in my memory, sharp and nostalgic.

But I had no time to spiral.

At my desk, I pushed aside unfolded laundry and opened my planner-a mess of sticky notes and scribbled reminders. The page for today was full.

I pulled on a heavy sweater, grabbed my bag, and headed for the door.

Then I saw it.

An envelope, thick and white, sitting just outside.

No return address. No postage.

Just my name-Cassie Reed-scrawled in bold block letters across the front.

My pulse ticked up.

I looked down the hallway. Empty.

Back inside, I shut the door and stared at the envelope. Something about it felt... off. Not dangerous, not at first. Just wrong. Out of place. Like it didn't belong in my world of coffee-stained textbooks and missed buses.

Still, I opened it.

Inside was a single item: a small black flash drive.

No note. No instructions.

I stood there for a long minute, staring at the thing.

My stomach twisted. I had no enemies. No drama. I was boring, careful, broke. Who would send me this?

The smart thing would be to toss it.

But instead, I shoved it into the drawer under my socks, slammed it shut, and grabbed my keys.

The walk to campus helped clear my head a little. Same streets, same smell of sugar from the bakery, same guy handing out flyers no one wanted. I tried to pretend everything was normal.

"Cassie!" Professor Belly waved me over when I arrived at the lecture hall.

"Morning," I managed.

"You're still helping with the event this Friday?"

"Yep. Wouldn't miss it."

"Good. We need your organizational magic."

I gave her a polite smile and headed to my seat. It was easier to focus on assignments than the thudding in my chest.

But the flash drive kept clawing at the edges of my mind.

And Dad.

He used to work in finance. Late nights. Long calls. Always traveling. I never asked questions, and he never volunteered answers. I figured it was just numbers and stress.

Now, I wasn't so sure.

By the time I got home, I'd spent hours bouncing between worry and denial. My curiosity finally won.

I pulled open the drawer and took out the flash drive with shaky fingers.

Plugged it into my laptop.

A folder opened. Dozens of files. All password-protected. Except one.

A single video.

I clicked it.

A man's voice, deep and unfamiliar, filled the room. Italian accent. Low and sharp.

"If you are watching this, it means your father is dead."

I froze.

"You don't know us, but we know who you are. And there are others who want what your father left behind. Be careful who you trust, Cassie Reed. They will come for you."

The screen went black.

The silence afterward was deafening.

My hands were still on the keyboard, but I couldn't move. My heart hammered so loud I could hear it.

What the hell had I just watched?

What had my father been involved in?

Why was I suddenly part of it?

Whatever this was. It was scary.

I sat back slowly, breath shallow, feeling like the floor beneath my life had started to crack.

And deep down I knew,

This wasn't the end.

It was only the beginning.