Delaney sat in her apartment, an ice pack pressed against her swollen face, the cold numbing the pain but not the memories. The police report lay scattered across the coffee table, a chaotic testament to the night's horrors. The detective's card was prominently placed on top, its simple message haunting her: Call if you remember anything else.
But she remembered everything. The alley. Elena's hand gripping her collar. The unforgiving wall pressing against her back. The fists that had struck with brutal precision. Each detail replayed in her mind like a twisted loop, a reminder of the danger that lurked too close for comfort.
Her laptop glowed in the dim room, its screen illuminating the darkness like a beacon of possibility. It was open to a blank document titled "Investigation Team - Candidates." The cursor blinked, waiting, much like the air around her—a palpable tension, a sense of urgency. She couldn't do this alone anymore. Not after what had unfolded. Elena Volkov had proven a crucial lesson: you get too close, you get hurt.
Yet Delaney wasn't going to stop. She was simply going to be smarter this time. She would delegate, distribute, control from a distance. The stakes were too high, and the consequences of failure too dire.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating for just a moment before she began to type. The words poured forth, driven by a mix of desperation and determination:
Hungry (financially desperate or career-desperate)
Isolated (few connections, weak support systems)
Compromised (something to leverage if needed)
Obedient (proven track record of following orders)
Each criterion felt like a battle cry, a manifesto for her new journey into the murky depths of investigative journalism. She opened the company directory, scrolling through junior staffers, freelancers, and interns—individuals who were little more than names to Ms. Vargas, people who wouldn't be missed if they burned out or quit.
With fervor, she grabbed a notepad and began to jot down names, each one a potential pawn in her game of strategy:
She needed six. Maybe eight. A small army of desperate nobodies who'd do the dirty work while she orchestrated from the safety of her own distance.
This is professional journalism, she told herself, adjusting the ice pack that was beginning to drip onto her collar. Investigation requires a team. Resources. Coordination.
Not obsession. Research.
Not stalking. Newsgathering.
Not revenge. Justice.
Her reflection stared back at her from the darkened window, half of her face swollen and bruised, her eye barely open. She looked like a monster, and that thought pleased her. Good. Let them see what The Fighter's circle was capable of. Let them understand what happened to journalists who dared to ask hard questions.
With newfound resolve, she pulled up her draft email:
Selected team members,
You've been chosen for a high-profile investigative project that could define your career. Discretion is essential. Compensation above standard rates. First meeting: Conference Room B, Tuesday 9 AM.
Come prepared to commit.
DS
Her finger hovered over the "send" button, a moment of hesitation before she steeled herself. Somewhere across the city, Elena Volkov was likely in a holding cell, her knuckles still raw from their encounter. The Champion—The Fighter—was probably scrambling to control the narrative, protect his broken sister.
Delaney smiled, despite the split lip that throbbed with pain. They thought they'd won. They believed that beating her would make her stop. They had no idea what they had actually done.
With a decisive click, she sent the emails into the void, little hooks cast into desperate waters. By tomorrow, she'd have her team. By next week, they would have eyes on The Fighter 24/7. By next month...
Delaney closed her laptop and leaned back, the ice pack soaking her collar. She'd been part of something like this before, a long time ago when she was younger, and someone else had been the one giving orders, demanding loyalty, punishing doubt. The memories flooded back—how it worked, the structure, the hierarchy, the fear disguised as purpose.
This is different, she told herself, an internal mantra. This is journalism.
Yet, the methods... the methods were the same. And they worked.
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the memories wash over her. The thrill of the chase, the adrenaline of uncovering a story, the satisfaction of holding power accountable. But this time, she wouldn't be under someone else's thumb. She would be the one pulling the strings, the one in control.
As she plotted her next move, a fleeting thought crossed her mind—was she really prepared for what lay ahead? The risks? The ethical dilemmas? Or had her quest for justice already begun to blur the lines between right and wrong?
But those thoughts faded away as determination surged within her. She wouldn't let fear consume her. Not again. Delaney was ready to embrace the darkness if it meant uncovering the truth.
With a deep breath, she opened her eyes, ready to face whatever came next. The game was on, and she was determined to win.