Two days later, Evelyn sat at her desk in her downtown law office, the morning sun streaming through the high arched windows and illuminating the stacks of legal briefs piled neatly across the wooden surface. Her phone had been ringing continuously since eight in the morning—calls from national news outlets, civil rights organizations, and frantic families seeking legal representation for loved ones trapped in the legal system. On the wall behind her, a large corkboard was pinned with dozens of red strings connecting precinct numbers, case files, and court dates, the visual map of a systemic corruption case that was now expanding across the entire judicial district.
Her assistant knocked gently on the open door and stepped inside, holding a small, unmarked courier envelope. "This just arrived by special delivery, Evelyn. A courier dropped it off at the front desk ten minutes ago. No return address." Evelyn looked at the envelope for a long moment, a familiar, cold prickle running down the back of her neck. She nodded, took the envelope, and pulled out a small silver flash drive attached to a slip of white paper. On the paper, written in a neat, precise script she had never seen before, were six simple words: This was just the beginning. Look.
Evelyn picked up the silver flash drive, holding it up to the morning light. She didn't hesitate, nor did she feel the paralyzing fear that had stalked her through the dark parking garage three months ago. She plugged the drive into her secure, offline computer terminal, her fingers moving across the keyboard with practiced, rhythmic skill. A single window popped up on the screen, opening a directory containing hundreds of digitized documents, financial ledgers, and audio recordings bearing the official seal of the State Department of Corrections. Evelyn leaned forward, her eyes scanning the top document as a quiet, cold smile touched her lips. She picked up her pen, opened a fresh yellow notepad, and began to write.