Page 58 of Infamous
Mason meets my eyes and says the thing we all know but never say in the light: “Then we put everything out there. If we’re going to erase him, we make the world read why. Investigation closed.”
Scar’s hand flattens on the manifest. He’s already moving through supply chains in his head. “Assemble a team. Jayson and Lucky take logistics. Mason, you and Kanyan handle hits inside the network. Jude, you stay on the hospital. Watch Kellerman. Do it quietly. Give us a permanent solution to dismantle this organisation.”
My stomach tightens on the work ahead as I look at them. It won’t be clean. It’ll be necessary and ugly and it will leave us all smelling of blood.
“If we do this right,” Mason says. “There’ll be no trail leading back to us. But we need to find this buyer. And we need to destroy him.”
Scar nods once. Slow, lethal. “Do what you have to. I want this city breathing clean air again.”
36
NADIA
Kellerman’s been unusually polished ever since I flat-out refused to attend that dinner with the senator. He’s too polished, as though overcompensating for something. Then, as if by magic, the senator somehow ends up with my number. I don’t need a memo to know where he got it. Kellerman’s fingerprints are all over this.
It’s not the first time he’s crossed a line, but it’s the last straw. Whatever trust was left between us just died quietly in the corner. This little act of betrayal is the final curtain on an already strained relationship with my boss.
The first few calls are easy enough to ignore. I let them ring out, hoping he’ll get the message. But the man’s got persistence down to an art form.
Soon he’s leaving voicemails — smooth, deliberate, like he’s trying to reel me in by voice alone.
By the fifth one, my patience has bled dry. Frustration curdles into something sharper, and I decide it’s time to stop dodging and face this head-on.
When I finally call him back, he answers on the first ring, as though he’s been waiting, phone in hand, savoring the moment.
“Nadia,” he says, his voice smooth as silk. Every syllable is polished to a politician’s shine. “I was beginning to think you didn’t like me much.”
“You need to stop calling me,” I say. My voice is flat, clipped as I exercise every ounce of restraint.
He hums a laugh, low and knowing. “You’re making this unnecessarily difficult, Nadia. You should know, I don’t take rejection personally. But I do take it seriously.”
The arrogance in his tone crawls across my skin. He’s not listening - just talking, circling, trying to stake a claim where he doesn’t belong.
“Please stop calling me,” I repeat. My patience is fraying, one thin thread away from snapping.
His voice sharpens, the veneer slipping. “Be careful, Doctor. I can make your life as difficult for you as you’re making this for me.”
That’s when I stop listening. My pulse is in my ears, a steady, furious drum. I hang up mid-sentence and block the number without hesitation.
But he’s resourceful. By the time I leave the hospital Friday evening, my phone’s vibrating nonstop in my coat pocket - different numbers, same voice behind them. I don’t even bother looking anymore, hoping he’ll just get bored and go away. I just want to get home, wash the day off, and crawl into a silence that doesn’t breathe down my neck.
My breath ghosts in front of me as I climb the steps to my building, fingers stiff and numb while I dig for my keys. The hallway is half-lit, a stretch of peeling paint and humming fluorescents, the kind of place where even silence feels watched.
That’s when I feel it - the air shift, faint but undeniable. The prickle low in my spine, that primal warning that someone’s eyes are on me.
I turn.
The corridor stares back - empty, still, pretending innocence. Just the hum of the elevator motor far down the hall, and the exit sign flickering in and out like a dying pulse.
My hand tightens around the key. I tell myself it’s nothing. Just nerves, just the residue of too many late nights and too many calls from the wrong man. I force the key into the lock, twist until it catches, and push the door open.
The smell of my apartment greets me - clean linen, stale coffee, the faint scent of my perfume still clinging to the air. I step inside, close the door behind me, start to breathe.
Then - a voice cuts through the dark. Low. Familiar. Too close.
“Evening, Doctor.”
Michael.
