Page 127 of Fractured Allegiance
Just wrong.
A photo paperclipped to my hardcopy field notes, the kind I never keep here. The kind no one should know about.
It’s an overhead shot of Lydia’s building.
Zoomed in on her bedroom window.
Different angle.
Higher than mine.
Someone’s watching from above.
The rooftops across the block are higher by one story. I never posted up there because the angles were blocked by HVAC towers. But now I realize: they only blocked my sight.
Not theirs.
I unclip the photo.
Underneath is a note.
Printed. Block letters. Ink slightly smudged like it was folded too fast.
You’re not the only one watching her.
No signature.
Just the truth.
I stare at the words, and something tightens in the center of my chest like a trap closing too late.
The rules were always clear.
No attachments.
No deviations.
No bleeding heart under the uniform.
I turn the photo over.
There’s something faint on the back. Embossed, not written.
A logo. A mark.
At first, I think it’s Bureau.
But it’s not.
It’s a crest. An old one. European.
Obscure.
Blood-order level obscure.
I pull out the archive laptop and run a scan, but I already know it won’t hit on anything in the official database. This is deeper. Off-record.
One of the ghosts.
