Page 4 of Dark Soul (Tainted #1)

The light hits my face before the alarm does.

It’s pale and watery through the linen curtains, streaked by the edge of the skyline. Manhattan never sleeps, but it does blink slowly sometimes, like it’s remembering something it shouldn’t.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I don’t check it immediately.

Instead, I stretch slowly and deliberately. One leg out, the other drawn in. Ankles tight and spine protesting. My muscles are a chorus of exhaustion from yesterday’s performance.

When I finally reach for the phone, the screen floods with congratulations.

You’re trending again. Watchdog Queen.

Hell of a takedown. Drinks tonight?

Reuters quoted you by name. Front page.

Call me, Vera. I’m proud of you.

That last one is from my foster mother.

I let it go to voicemail, then delete the voicemail without listening. She only calls when someone important says my name out loud.

I swing my legs over the bed and plant my feet on cold hardwood. The apartment smells like sleep and bergamot. A half-sleeved Miles Davis record I forgot to put away leans against the bookshelf. My robe is draped over the back of a chair.

I tie it around my waist and walk barefoot toward the kitchen.

The envelope catches my eye. It’s still on the counter, and it might as well be breathing. I stop in the doorway.

The image inside is already burned into me.

That photo of me walking home with a faint smile. It reflects a softness I didn’t know I still had.

Someone saw it and wanted me to see me like that. And then they circled it. Like a signature.

I stare for exactly twelve seconds.

Then I open the cabinet, take the trash bin out from under the sink, and lift the lid. The envelope slides in without resistance. I don’t crumple it. That would mean something. I drop it like it’s spoiled paper.

Then I wash my hands once. Then again.

The second time is slower. It’s not panic or fear.

It’s recalibration. The ritual of being fine.

***

By the time I’m out the door, I’ve changed into slate leggings and a black sports bra layered under a zip-up. My hair is slicked into a high ponytail. I don’t wear makeup or earrings.

At the gym, I don’t check in at the front desk. The staff know me. They nod politely, eyes flicking to the tablet where my name lights up under keycard access.

I like it here. It’s quiet. Expensive enough to filter out noise and private enough that no one asks questions.

I start with the rowing machine. I use it for six minutes at a moderate pace. One breath for every four strokes.

There’s a rhythm in pain. I’ve always believed that. You can’t reason with it, but you can match it. You can shape your thinking around it.

I count reps instead of thoughts.

At minute eight, a man approaches from the far side of the weight section. Daniel, I think his name is. He’s tried to strike up conversations before. Something about hedge funds and juicing and being “in awe” of my brain.

I don’t break rhythm as he gets closer.

“Vera, right?” he says, leaning in too casually. “Saw you on the news yesterday. Nice kill.”

Kill. Like it was a game or I wore a trophy to the deposition.

I glance at him. “It wasn’t a kill. It was an autopsy.”

His smile falters. “That’s…dark.”

I don’t respond and keep rowing. After ten seconds, he walks away.

I finish with legs. Bulgarian split squats, hamstring curls, and deadlifts.

A man in a charcoal tank top watches me from the corner of the stretching area. He doesn’t approach me. I don’t know him, but I recognize the type, the silent and invasive type, who wear curiosity like a second skin.

I ignore him.

Twenty minutes later, I’m in the steam room, wrapped in a towel, with my eyes closed as I breathe deeply. Somewhere, under the surface of my skin, that photo is still pulsing like a fingerprint pressed into a bruise.

***

The elevator opens on the 42nd floor, and something’s wrong before I even cross the threshold.

The hallway smells too clean, like citrus scrubbed over a crime scene.

The receptionist, Maya, waves too enthusiastically.

“Morning, Ms. Calloway! Coffee’s waiting on your desk.”

I nod but don’t smile.

I don’t do small talk on Mondays. Or any day, really. Everyone here knows that.

Inside my office, the blinds are drawn half-closed. I didn’t leave them that way.

There’s a slight temperature difference, too. It’s barely noticeable but off. The kind of thing you don’t register until your body tightens before your brain does.

I don’t stop moving. I place my bag on the credenza. Check the coffee. It’s my usual order of half-caf, oat milk, and one cinnamon sprinkle, but it’s too hot to have been here more than two minutes.

Emery knocks gently before stepping in. Her tablet is in her hand, and her hair is immaculate. Her mouth’s already moving before I register the words.

“Senator Wardwell’s office moved their call to ten. Drummond’s counsel wants to settle quietly unofficially. I also added the photo op briefing for this Thursday, but I can reschedule if—”

“You’re chipper,” I interrupt.

She freezes, then laughs awkwardly. “Sorry. It’s just that this is a big week. You crushed it. You’re getting calls from D.C. I thought that was good news.”

It is. Technically. I wave her off. “Thanks, Emery. I’ll catch up after ten.”

She nods, her mouth tight, and slips out.

The silence settles the moment the door clicks shut.

I step behind my desk and breathe in slowly.

This is my space. It’s carved from glass, power, and restraint.

Everything in it reflects me: the sharp leather chair, built-in espresso bar no one else uses, the photograph of a coastline I’ve never visited with jagged cliffs and cold wind captured mid-roar.

But now…something vibrates beneath the surface.

The walls feel like they’re listening.

I sit down and flip through a file, pretending to read. When I lean down to retrieve a backup binder from the lowest cabinet, my hand slips under the desk.

My fingertips brush something unnatural. It’s metal instead of wood. A small, cold edge taped to wood.

I freeze. Everything slows as my breath stills. My muscles lock, and the room tilts imperceptibly. I ease forward, curl my nails, and pry gently.

It comes off with a whisper of adhesive.

It’s a tiny black microphone. I stare at it in my palm for a long time.

The microphone is not a phone tap or a bug planted by amateurs. This is professional-grade.

I don’t scream, call security, or alert Legal. I sit back in the chair like nothing happened. The mic rests on my open palm like a coin I’ve yet to flip.

I think of the envelope with the photo and the smile I didn’t know I gave. I think of the gym and the man who watched me. The receptionist who jolted too fast when I walked in.

I think of my mother’s voicemail and of Emery. And I don’t know who to trust.

Eventually, I open my top drawer and set the mic inside. I close the drawer and turn the key.

If someone’s listening, they’ll hear nothing but silence. Which is fine. Because silence is where I’ve always kept the worst parts of myself.