6. Rowan
ROWAN
“That article you wrote has gone viral,” Flo informs me, grinning like he just discovered fire.
Florencio. Flo, for short. I have no idea what his parents were thinking when they named him, but however you slice it, he never stood a chance.
He’s all elbows and enthusiasm, pacing the cramped space like this is his Pulitzer moment, like the building is about to collapse under the weight of the attention we’re getting.
My stomach clenches.
“How viral?” I ask.
He holds up his phone. Refreshes the page. The numbers jump again.
I don’t let my face change. On the inside, everything tightens and sharpens, instinct snapping to attention. I hadn’t accounted for this—hadn’t planned for the noise, the amplification, the way a few carefully chosen words could detonate like this.
All I wanted was to write. To lay the facts bare. To raise awareness and let the truth speak for itself. One more stepping stone to getting what I want.
Instead, my story is bleeding across every news channel I turn to. Panel after panel dissecting it, speculating, circling. I may as well be a walking, talking advertisement—my face missing, but my voice plastered everywhere like a warning label on a milk carton.
“Do you have any idea how many calls I’ve taken today?” he squeals. Not exaggerating—he actually squeals. He’s really taking this to a whole new, deeply unhinged level.
“Other student papers. Two national blogs. Someone from a cable panel wants a comment. And—” He waves a hand toward the phones shrieking on every available surface. “They all want to know who Anonymous is.”
Of course they do.
People don’t know what to do with the truth when it arrives on their doorstep. They can’t argue with it. They can’t dismiss it. So they go hunting—less for facts, more for the mouth it crawled out of.
I move closer to his desk, lowering my voice. “You didn’t tell anyone.”
Flo looks offended. “Of course not. I’m not stupid.”
Good answer, though not reassuring.
“I told them what we agreed on,” he continues. “That Anonymous doesn’t give interviews. That the work stands on its own.”
My pulse finally ticks up. “And?”
“And they hate it,” he says, delighted. “Which is exactly why it’s working.”
I exhale slowly, careful not to let it sound like relief. My hands curl at my sides, nails biting into my skin.
“They’re going to dig,” I say. “Harder than before.”
Flo nods, suddenly serious. “Let them.”
I look at him then. Really look. Past the enthusiasm, past the ego. There’s something sharp there. Ambition, yes—but also instinct.
“There’s more leverage in not knowing who you are. Mystery keeps them focused on the message instead of the messenger. The second they can put a face to it, they’ll lose interest. It’s all about perception, baby.”
I wince at the endearment, the word landing wrong. Then I swallow, my throat suddenly too tight.
Because I know he’s right. And because he doesn’t know how literal that danger is. But I know enough to know that Flo would protect my identity to the death. Because more than my editor, he’s my closest friend.
“They’ll call you a coward,” he adds. “They already are, you know.”
“I know. That’s fine,” I say.
It is. Cowardice implies fear of consequences. I’m not afraid of being hated. I’m afraid of being seen.
Flo watches me for a beat, then smiles again, softer this time. “You did good work, Ro. Whatever Anonymous is trying to say—it landed where it was meant to.”
I nod once. Thanks feels unnecessary, because I’ve learnt that gratitude is a liability.
Another phone rings. Then another. Someone shouts my editor’s name from down the hall. The noise swells, restless and hungry.
I turn away from it. Viral doesn’t mean I’m safe. It just means people are finally paying attention.
When I get home, I drop my bag by the door and go straight to the bathroom. I don’t stop and I don’t take any detours. I turn on the tap and wash my hands. Once. Twice. A third time.
The water is hot enough to sting. It keeps me here in the moment. Keeps me grounded and reminds me I’m alive. The ritual gives me order. Control. The certainty that nothing from the outside world gets to taint me.
There’s nothing like hygiene. Although I wish I could give the ugliness of the world a good rinse.
I dry my hands carefully, hang the towel back where it belongs, and finally look at myself in the mirror. I don’t know what I see. I look the same, and yet I’m so different. My eyes are tired. The color in my face is drained. Time has not been kind to me, I think.
I walk back into the living room and sink into the armchair by the window, my body folding in on itself like it’s finally run out of instructions. The sun cuts through the room at a crooked angle, throwing a shard of half-light across the floor. It doesn’t warm so much as expose.
I draw in a slow breath. Hold it. Let it go.
This is my home. My sanctuary.
The moment I moved to the city, I took an apartment off campus.
I always knew the university grounds weren’t for me—too many people, too much noise, too many shared walls and borrowed lives.
I didn’t want to share my space. Didn’t want to negotiate my silences or explain my habits. I’ve gotten used to being alone.
I like it that way.
Home. Outside the window, the city hums—traffic snarling, voices rising and falling, life moving forward the way it’s supposed to. Mine moves too, technically. Classes. Articles. Days stacking neatly on top of each other.
But underneath it all, I’m standing still.
I will never have the life I want until I put my demons in the ground and make sure they stay there.
There’s still so much to do.
I open my bag and take out the envelope. I’ve looked at it a thousand times or more. It’s worn at the edges, soft from handling. I smooth it flat on the table.
Three names stare back at me.
William Scott-Evans.
Marcus Delaney.
Unknown.
I read them slowly, deliberately. Let them settle into me. The first two carry weight—history, faces, records I can trace. The third is different. A gap. A deliberate absence where someone should be.
I know there was another man there that day.
I can feel it in the inconsistencies, the silences stitched into the record, the way the story collapses if you look at it too closely.
Someone else shaped what happened. Someone who didn’t stand in the light long enough to be named. Someone they protected. But who?
I’ve chased him through documents, transcripts, sealed filings. I’ve followed every thread I can reach, only to have it disappear in my hands. He’s not hiding—he’s been removed.
The first two are monsters I can see. The third is the one who made them possible.
I fold the envelope and slide it back into my bag, my movements slow and deliberate. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes.
I see them as they were. I see them as they are. And then I see them as they’ll be—exposed, dismantled, remembered for exactly what they did.
I’m going to dismantle their lives piece by piece. Their careers. Their families. Their legacies. I’ll make sure their names corrode long before their bodies do.
And when there’s nothing left—when they’re empty and terrified and begging for a mercy I’ll never offer them-then I’ll deliver the final blow.
This won’t be quick, because it was never meant to be.