Chapter 16: Downfall of Our Dearest Governor
The hum woke me at dawn—sharp, restless, like a fuse sparking in my chest.
Norwegick's gray haze choked the streets, but today, it would burn.
The governor's conference was only hours away, and my anonymous tip—bank records exposing Governor Hale's dirty money trail through his fake "charity" fund—was already in the hands of Channel 7's sharpest reporter. I could already picture Hale's smug grin crumbling on live TV. The Female King was about to gut this town's biggest crook.
I slipped on my black hoodie, Dad's knife snug in my sleeve. His old notebook lay open beside me. Marcus's name stared up, crossed out in Dad's familiar scrawl. Eight years ago, Marcus and his family died in Liriwick—the same day Dad bled out on the floor, the same day the masked man tried to erase us both. That wasn't coincidence.
The hum inside me pulsed—like piano chords wrapped in chains. The Silent Noise. It always came before chaos. Hale might not be linked to Mystery M, but he was part of Norwegick's rot. And tearing him down might just flush the bastard out of hiding.
The conference hall was a circus—suits, cameras, reporters, all buzzing around Hale like flies on a corpse. I blended in with the crowd: cap low, fake glasses reflecting fluorescent lights. A ghost in plain sight.
On stage, Hale droned on about "progress," his voice slick with rehearsed charm. But his smile hid a fortune in laundered cash. I spotted the reporter in the red blazer, clutching my tip like a grenade.
Then it hit.
She stood up mid-sentence, her voice cutting through Hale's lies like a blade:
"Governor Hale, care to explain these offshore accounts?"
The projector behind him flickered. My evidence flashed across the screen—dates, wire transfers, fake charities. All of it. The room froze. Cameras whirred.
Hale's face went pale. "This is... this is a fabrication," he stammered, sweat beading on his brow.
A man in a suit hurled a pen at the stage. "Thief!" he shouted.
I leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, smirking.
"Choke on it, asshole," I whispered.
Chaos erupted. Reporters yelled. Security flailed. Protesters outside roared, "Resign!" Sirens wailed. The scandal cracked Norwegick's polished surface like glass.
My letters from yesterday—exposing cops on the take, shopkeepers cooking books, Dr. Carter's affair—had already weakened the foundation. This was the collapse.
The Female King ruled. And Norwegick was ablaze.
I slipped into an alley. Denis waited, scar still visible from our last run-in when he'd tried to corner me. I'd spared him then. Turned out he could be useful.
"They're gone," he rasped, eyes darting. "Mystery M's dogs. Whatever you pulled—your letters, this stunt—they pulled back. His eyes are off Norwegick now."
I shook his hand. Firm. Cold.
"Didn't make a mistake sparing you after all," I said. "You got the job done."
He gave a nervous chuckle. I didn't.
"I still need to strike," I muttered, more to myself. "But I'll do it when they least expect it. Norwegick's not clean yet. And I'm not done digging."
The hum buzzed in agreement, low and violent. Mystery M was still out there—tied to the pact, to Dad's blood. I'd raze every corner of this town if I had to.
From my pocket, I pulled a thick wad of cash—payment from a news outlet that broke the Hale story first. Thousands. Enough to keep me moving.
I peeled off a small stack and tossed it to Denis.
"For your trouble."
The rest? Already slipped into Mom's purse last night. She'd find it soon and think it was some kind of miracle. I chuckled, imagining her face.
"Goodbye," I said, turning. "I never even got your name."
"Denis," he replied softly.
"Well then, Denis. Goodbye for now."
I crossed the street and slid into a booth at the diner. The TV behind the counter blared live footage of the chaos. Protesters swarmed the building. A shopkeeper slammed his door shut. Norwegick burned.
The hum whispered in my ear—fierce and soft:
Be strong, my female king.
I bit into a burger, eyes on the screen. The knife was still heavy in my sleeve.
Mystery M thought he could hide. Not for long.
Norwegick was my battlefield. And I'd make it bleed until every secret spilled.