Page 56 of The Arbiter
She screams, and the raw agony in her voice freezes me in place.
MADELINE:"Don't you dare come here. Don't call anyone. He’s... he’s everywhere, Lucy. He sees everything. If you move against him, I won't be able to protect you."
The line goes dead.
I stare at the screen of my phone, my breath coming in short, panicked bursts. Protect me? She’s the one in the middle of a forest or a dark parking lot, half-broken and terrified, and she’s talking about protecting me?
She didn't sound like a victim who wanted to be rescued. She sounded like someone who had just looked into the sun and realized they were already blind.
I look back at my laptop, at the blurred image of the man with the white strand of hair. I have my hand on the gear shift, ready to floor it toward the mortuary, but my foot lingers on the brake.
Mali’s scream, that raw, visceral plea for me to stay away is echoing in my ears. But as the initial shock wears off, the fear starts to turn into a familiar spark of anger.
If you move against him, I won't be able to protect you.
"The hell you won't, Mali," I hiss to the empty car.
If she thinks I'm just going to go home, tuck myself into bed, and wait for her to be the next 'art piece' on a cold table, she clearly doesn't know me as well as I thought.
I turn the car around and drive home, but I’m not running. I’m strategizing. I spend the entire drive watching my mirrors, not out of fear, but to see if I can spot him. I want to see if he's as good as the cases say.
By the time I get into my apartment, I’ve locked the bolts, but I don't hide in the dark. I flip on every single light. I want him to see me. I want him to know I’m wide awake and looking for him.
I grab my laptop and set it down on the kitchen table. My intuition isn't just screaming; it's demanding blood. I start digging. I don't just search "The Arbiter.” I start cross-referencing encrypted police frequencies and back-channel medical logs.
The name is a ghost, a myth of a "cleaner" or a vigilante for the city’s untouchables. There are no photos, just descriptions of a man with eyes like a void and a streak of white hair.
I’m halfway through a lead on a syndicate hit when the cursor suddenly moves on its own. I don't freeze. I scowl. I grab the mouse, trying to fight for control, but the trackpad is dead. Thecursor slides across the screen, closing my open tabs one by one. It’s an arrogant display of power.
"Is that the best you've got?" I mutter, even as my heart hammers against my ribs.
A single window pops up in the center of the screen. A chat box.
UNKNOWN:“Curiosity is a terminal illness, Lucy. Most people die from it.”
"Then I guess I'm already terminal," I whisper, staring at the screen with a stubborn set to my jaw.
I don't back away. I lean in.
UNKNOWN:“Don’t bother calling her anymore. She’s occupied. And you... you’re overstepping.”
The webcam light on my laptop flickers on. That tiny, steady green eye. He’s watching me. I know I should be scared, I am scared, but the audacity of him invading my home makes my blood boil. I look directly into the camera lens and raise my middle finger. I won't let him have the satisfaction of seeing me tremble.
UNKNOWN:“Madeline is trying very hard to keep you breathing. It would be a shame if her efforts were wasted because you couldn’t stay in your lane.”
A final file downloads onto my desktop. A photo. I double-click it. It’s a shot of me from the street, taken through my window just minutes ago. I look small, sitting there with my laptop, but I don't look broken.
UNKNOWN:“Go to sleep. And stay out of my way. This is your only warning.”
The screen goes black. The laptop is dead.
I sit in the silence of my bright apartment, my hands are shaking, but my mind is clearer than ever. He thinks a black screen and a digital threat will make me a coward? He thinks he can just "warn" me away from the only person who matters to me?
He might be The Arbiter. But I’m a paramedic. I deal with life and death every single day. And if he thinks I’m going to leave Mali in his hands without a fight, he’s about to find out exactly how stubborn I can be.
I pull open my bedside drawer and reach into the very back, my fingers brushing against the cold plastic of an old phone I keep for emergencies. It’s disconnected from my main accounts, a clean slate in a world that feels increasingly watched.
As the screen flickers to life, a sharp, familiar ache blooms in my chest.
