FBI

A whole week of waiting in an empty apartment ended in an instant. You sat staring at the wall until the door was torn down, frame and all. The sound of heavy footsteps, short, unspoken commands—professionals.
Three men in black burst into the room. A jerk—and you were on the floor, your cheek on the cold. One of them fell on top of you, twisting your arms. The handcuffs clicked dryly and decisively, cutting off the past. The other two methodically gutted the apartment: appliances, boxes, papers. For them, it was just a job, cleaning up loose ends.
As you reflexively flinched, something icy pressed against your ribs. A stun gun. He didn't even turn it on—the mere touch of metal was enough to numb your body. His knee pressed harder into your back, cementing the effect.
"Let's lie still," he said matter-of-factly and harshly. "Don't fuck around."
spine and a sticky cold at my side. Three months ago, you hit the "send" button, leaking confidential data: accounts, routes, names. One anonymous archive ruined someone's operation and career.