The police station smelled like metal and old coffee.
Maya sat alone in a narrow room with a buzzing fluorescent light overhead. Her fingers fidgeted in her lap. The officer across the table wore a practiced expression—professional, but cold.
He slid a folder toward her.
"Your name came up in an investigation related to cyberstalking and attempted defamation," he said. "Would you like to explain?"
Maya blinked. "Excuse me?"
The officer opened the folder. "A man connected to you—Jordan Chisom—hacked into several protected databases. The claim is that you used the stolen data to try and damage your father's career."
Maya's heart sank.
So this was it.
Not just intimidation—they were trying to criminalize her.
"I didn't do that," she said firmly. "I didn't ask anyone to hack anything."
He looked at her without blinking. "And yet, you're writing a public piece accusing him of abuse, arson cover-up, and intentional memory suppression. You're aware those are serious allegations?"
Maya leaned forward, her voice steady. "Not allegations. Facts."
The officer paused. "Do you have proof?"
"I'm building it."
He smirked slightly. "Then I'd advise you stop publishing anything else. There are powerful people watching, Miss Adedeji. People who won't hesitate to make you disappear again—legally."
She felt it then—not fear, but something else.
Resolve.
"Is that a threat?" she asked.
He didn't answer. Just stood up and left the room.
---
Outside the station, Jordan was waiting. The moment she stepped out, she collapsed into his arms—not in weakness, but exhaustion. The weight of being believed, then attacked, then silenced again—it crushed something in her chest.
"You okay?" he asked, wrapping her coat tighter around her shoulders.
"No," she whispered. "But I will be."
---
That night, she wrote again.
This time, she didn't write to heal. She wrote to expose. With Jordan's help, she compiled transcripts, screenshots, photographs—even fragments of memory she'd journaled for years.
She called the piece: "They Said I Was Crazy. Here's What Really Happened."
She posted it online anonymously. Within hours, it went viral.
Her story was raw. Bloody. Real.
It caught fire.
People who had been silenced came forward. Women. Men. Foster kids. Former employees of her father's firm. Survivors. Witnesses.
The walls her father had built began to shake.
But with visibility came danger.
At 2:13 a.m., her phone buzzed with an anonymous message.
> You should've stayed quiet.
Another one came seconds later.
> You'll regret this. Just like your brother did.
Maya stared at the screen, her pulse racing.
Then she typed back one word:
> Watch.