CHAPTER 6

Inside the Walls

(Andra’s POV)

The newsroom felt colder that morning. Not because of the AC, but because of the silence—the kind that sits heavy, like everyone knew something was about to explode.

The coffee machine sputtered in the background, printers hummed softly, and the faint click of keyboards echoed through The Daily Truth’s open floor. But for the first time since I joined the publication, I felt watched.

Paranoid, maybe pero hindi ako ganito dati.

Leo arrived minutes later, dark circles under his eyes, laptop bag slung loosely over his shoulder. “Didn’t sleep?” he asked.

“Barely,” I admitted. “I kept replaying the dock recording. May narinig akong pangalan ko sa dulo.”

He froze mid-step. “As in, literal— ‘Andra Enriquez, stop digging’?”

I nodded. “Barely audible, pero malinaw.”

Leo exhaled sharply. “Then we move fast before whoever that was realizes we still have the file.”

Inside the glass-walled office, our editor, Ms. Valerio, was waiting. She was in her early fifties—calm, sharp, the kind of woman who could stare down politicians and make them stutter.

She gestured for us to sit. “I read your preliminary report. Andra, this audio—let me hear it.”

I connected my phone to her desktop speakers. The hum of the dock filled the room: waves, machinery, faint chatter. Then came the voice:

“…board wants everything moved before the audit. Lucero’s orders.”

Followed by that chilling whisper.

Ms. Valerio leaned back slowly. “You’re sure this came from San Pascual?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Yesterday, at JSS Logistics. Leo got the timestamp and GPS data to match.”

Leo nodded. “But here’s where it gets strange. I cross-checked Lucero’s offshore records. There’s a payment trail linked to a shell company registered in Zurich. The intermediary? A marketing firm listed under Montenegro Communications.”

Ms. Valerio’s brow furrowed. “You’re telling me the Montenegros’ PR subsidiary is laundering their logistics funding?”

“Possibly,” Leo said. “Or at least hiding transactions.”

Silence stretched between us.

“Upload the raw audio to the secure drive,” Ms. Valerio ordered. “We’ll run forensic cleaning. No third-party software. I’ll have IT patch it through the internal server.”

Leo raised an eyebrow. “Internal? You sure about that?”

Her gaze flicked to him. “Are you suggesting we have a mole in our own network?”

“Just saying,” Leo replied carefully, “someone knew Andra’s name. That means our movement’s being tracked—either at the site or from inside the paper.”

I felt my stomach tighten. “Could someone has accessed our drafts? Maybe the encrypted folder?”

Ms. Valerio’s fingers paused mid-typing. “Only the senior editorial staff have access to those. And me.”

“Then someone else might’ve copied it before encryption,” Leo muttered.

She looked between us. “You’re not wrong. But we can’t assume betrayal yet. For now, let’s keep this contained to three people—us.”

We moved to the adjacent tech room; a dimly lit space lined with monitors and cables. The faint hum of servers filled the air. A forensic analyst, Tomas, sat hunched over his desk, sipping instant coffee.

“Got something for me?” he asked, eyes not leaving his screen.

Ms. Valerio handed him a flash drive. “Audio file. Clean it up. I want every background detail—voices, frequencies, anything unusual.”

Tomas nodded, plugging it in. “Give me two hours.”

While he worked, Leo opened his laptop beside me, tracing digital breadcrumbs through bank reports. I watched the numbers blur across his screen—account transfers, timestamps, aliases.

Then something caught his eye. “Andra, look at this. The Zurich account received multiple deposits—same day the Montenegro press conference happened.”

I blinked. “As in the same day I confronted Zayne?”

“Exactly. It’s like someone rewarded the timing.”

Ms. Valerio returned after taking a brief call, her tone crisp. “I’ve requested IT to monitor all outgoing data packets. If someone’s leaking info, we’ll see it.”

Leo frowned. “That’s risky. Whoever’s doing it will know they’re being watched.”

“Good,” she replied. “Let them feel cornered.”

I met her gaze. “What about the Montenegro statement? The company’s been silent since the conference.”

She gave a tight smile. “They won’t stay quiet for long. The question is—who speaks first? Us or them?”

Two hours later, Tomas waved us over. “You’ll want to hear this.”

He played the enhanced version of the recording. The dock noises were clearer now—waves sharper, metallic clangs distinct. Then came the conversation:

“…board wants everything moved before the audit. Lucero’s orders.”

“…copy that. What about the files?”

“Send them too central. HQ wants discretion.”

Then, faintly—barely audible, but undeniable— “Andra Enriquez… stop digging.”

My heart skipped. Hearing it clear made my skin crawl. Tomas glanced up. “You’re sure you didn’t have your name tagged in the recorder metadata?”

“No,” I whispered. “It was completely offline.”

Leo rubbed his temple. “So, someone said her name while the recorder was running.”

Ms. Valerio folded her arms. “Either coincidence… or deliberate intimidation.”

The office lights flickered briefly—just enough to make everyone glance up.

Tomas frowned. “Power fluctuation?”

Leo checked his phone. “Network dropped for a second.”

I felt a prickle at the back of my neck. “Someone’s inside the system.”

Ms. Valerio moved fast. “Disconnect from the mainline. Now.”

Tomas yanked the cable. The screen froze mid-frame, the waveform of the audio hanging in static blue.

Leo’s laptop beeped. “Unauthorized data ping. Someone tried accessing the same file remotely.”

“How?” I demanded.

He typed rapidly. “Internal IP.”

Ms. Valerio’s face hardened. “Find out who.”

Leo’s voice dropped. “It’s coming from… the sub-editor’s workstation.”

For a second, none of us spoke. Then she said quietly, “Lock down the server. No one leaves until I talk to them.”

I stood still, pulse hammering in my throat. The newsroom outside hummed as if nothing happened—reporters chatting, screens glowing, the usual chaos of deadlines. But inside this glass room, the air was different.

Someone among us wasn’t just leaking information. They were listening and whoever it was, they already knew my name.

The moment Ms. Valerio said “Lock down the server,” the newsroom shifted. A few seconds of silence—then quiet murmurs, restless eyes, and the uneasy weight of suspicion.

Tomas had already pulled the main data line. Leo stood beside him, his laptop humming with lines of code. I could hear the faint stutter of his typing, deliberate and tense.

“Sub-editor’s workstation, right?” Ms. Valerio asked again, her voice even but colder this time.

Leo nodded. “Confirmed. IP matched. It pinged the secure audio file five seconds before we disconnected.”

Ms. Valerio’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes hardened. “Who’s assigned to that desk right now?”

Tomas glanced through the glass wall. “That’s… Marco’s unit, ma’am.”

I froze. Marco Dela Vega—senior sub-editor, seven years with The Daily Truth. Quiet, efficient, barely spoke during meetings. He wasn’t the type to chase stories, but he was trusted. Until now.

Ms. Valerio walked out of the glass office, heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. The noise drew attention—heads turned, whispers followed. She stopped by Marco’s cubicle.

“Mr. Dela Vega, can I speak with you inside for a moment?”

His expression flickered, somewhere between confusion and wariness. “Of course, ma’am.”

He followed her in, closing the door behind him.

Leo leaned toward me. “You think he, did it?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “Palaging low-profile si Marco. Never even joined our field meetings.”

“Exactly,” Leo said quietly. “Na ginagawang mas mahirap mapansin kapag siya ay kasangkot sa isang bagay.”

The interrogation wasn’t loud. Ms. Valerio didn’t raise her voice; she didn’t need to. Every sentence was measured, deliberate, like a lawyer cross-examining a witness.

“Marco, your terminal just attempted to access a restricted file,” she began.

He blinked. “That’s impossible. I wasn’t even connected to the drive.”

“IT traced the activity to your credentials,” she said calmly. “Explain.”

“I—” He hesitated. “Sinusuri ko ang upload queue bago nag-lag ang system. Marahil ay na-trigger ito ng background sync?”

Tomas crossed his arms. “Hindi ganoon kung paano gumagana ang ating internal setup works. Kinakailangan ang manu-manong pagpapatotoo upang maabot ang secure na folder.”

Marco’s jaw tensed. “Then someone spoofed my access. Check the logs.”

I studied his face—steady, defensive, not panicked. Ngunit may kung ano sa kanyang tono... kontrolado, na para bang alam niya kung ano mismo ang maaari naming patunayan o hindi.

Ms. Valerio’s gaze narrowed. “We will check the logs. In the meantime, surrender your access card and phone.”

He hesitated just long enough to make everyone notice before sliding them across the desk. When he finally left the office, escorted by Tomas, the air felt heavier.

Leo exhaled. “If he’s clean, we’ll know soon enough. But if he’s not…”

“Then may mga mata ang mga Montenegro sa loob ng The Daily Truth,” I finished for him.

Ms. Valerio nodded once, slowly. “I’ve suspected corporate infiltration for months. But this—this confirms it.”

Her tone dropped, sharp with decision. “No one outside this room mentions the leak. We proceed as planned. Andra, I want you off internal comms. All future communications—face-to-face only.”

“Understood,” I replied.

Leo frowned. “That’s risky. What if they’re monitoring her movement next?”

Ms. Valerio gave him a tight smile. “Then let them watch. It’ll keep their attention off what we’re actually doing.”

Hours passed in a blur of investigation. Tomas returned later, holding a printed log report.

“Ma’am, I found something.”

He placed the sheet on the table. Lines of code. Date stamps. User IDs.

“There were two simultaneous logins under Marco’s account,” Tomas said. “Isa mula sa kanyang workstation... at isa pa mula sa isang external VPN routed through Montenegro Communications’ subnet.”

Leo’s eyes widened. “So, he wasn’t lying entirely. Someone did spoof his credentials.”

“Or someone inside their PR division cloned his access,” I added quietly.

Ms. Valerio pressed her fingers together. “Sa alinmang paraan, hindi ito isang random na paglabag. Ito ay isang sinadyang paglusot.”

The realization hit like a punch to the chest. The Montenegros didn’t just want to silence the story. They wanted to control the narrative from inside our walls.

By late afternoon, the newsroom returned to its uneasy routine. Phones rang, papers shuffled, deadlines loomed—but beneath it all, everyone moved differently. Quiet. Guarded.

Leo packed his laptop, glancing at me. “Uuwi ka na?”

“Hindi pa. Gusto kong tingnan ang archive room. May kakaiba sa mga dock file—hindi align ang mga timestamp.”

He frowned. “You sure you want to do that alone?”

“I’ll be fine,” I said, grabbing my notebook. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Right,” he muttered, half-smiling. “But text me if something feels wrong. Seriously.”

“Promise,” I said, though even I wasn’t sure if I meant it.

The archive room was colder than the rest of the building—dim lights, shelves stacked with old binders and flash drives. I found the folder labeled San Pascual: Initial Reports.

Inside were printed memos, shipment receipts, and photographs. One stood out: a grainy image of a man at the dock, blurred under the floodlights. He wasn’t part of the crew. No uniform, no ID. But his face was familiar.

Gray suit. Clean stance. The same man from the press conference—the one standing near the Montenegro stage, pretending to be part of security.

My pulse quickened. If he was at both locations, that meant he wasn’t just a guard. He was a link. I was halfway through scanning the image when my phone vibrated. A message from an unknown number:

Unknown Number: Stop tracing the dock, Ms. Enriquez. You’re already late.

A chill ran down my spine. I looked toward the hallway—empty, quiet, lights flickering faintly.

For the first time, I realized how deep this went. This wasn’t just about corporate secrets anymore. It was about control, and someone, somewhere inside The Daily Truth, was helping them do it.

The glow from my phone screen faded, leaving me in half-darkness. For a moment, I stood frozen—breathing slow, shallow. The message lingered in my head like a whisper I couldn’t unhear.

Stop tracing the dock, Ms. Enriquez. You’re already late.

Late for what? I tried to convince myself it was just another anonymous threat —ang mga uri ng reporters na natatanggap kapag sila ay sumundot ng masyadong malakas. Ngunit ang timing-ang eksaktong sandali na natagpuan ko ang larawang iyon-ay hindi isang pagkakataon.

I shoved the printed photo into my notebook, scanned the shelves again, and caught a faint reflection on the metallic cabinet door.

Movement.

Someone had passed by the glass partition. I quietly turned off my phone flashlight and crouched behind one of the metal shelves. My pulse drummed against my ears. The hum of the building’s old air-conditioning filled the silence.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

Then—

Click.

Namatay ang pangunahing ilaw. Ang silid ay lumubog sa halos kabuuang kadiliman, maliban sa dim orange na glow mula sa emergency exit sign.

Napabuntong hininga ako. Huminto ang mga yabag ilang metro lang ang layo.

I slowly reached into my bag for my recorder—it wasn’t much of a weapon, but the built-in mic light could flash bright enough to disorient someone for half a second.

“Sino’ng nandiyan?” I called softly, voice steady but low.

No answer. Just the sound of faint breathing. Close.

Pinindot ko ang button. Kumikislap ang maliit na pulang ilaw, at itinuro ko ito sa ingay.

Sinalo ng sinag ang isang silhouette—balikat ng isang lalaki, mabilis na tumalikod. Tumakbo siya patungo sa pinto.

“Hey!” I shouted, chasing after him.

He shoved the door open and disappeared into the stairwell. I followed, the sound of my heels echoing down the concrete steps. But by the time I reached the second floor, the exit door was already swinging shut.

Gone.

I leaned against the wall, catching my breath. My phone buzzed again—this time it was Leo.

Leo: Where are you? Power just cut out on the east wing.

Me: Archive room. Someone’s here—just left through the stairwell.

Leo: Stay there. I’m on my way.

The building’s emergency lights flickered weakly. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a generator hum back to life. When I returned to the archive room, I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. The drawer where I’d found the San Pascual folder was slightly ajar. Someone had gone through it—fast, and the printed copy of the Montenegro port memo?

Gone.

Leo arrived a few minutes later, flashlight in hand. “Andra, you, okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said, though my voice trembled more than I wanted it to. “He was here. He knew exactly what to take.”

Leo scanned the floor. “Maintenance said the blackout was triggered manually from the east panel. Someone killed the lights just for this section.”

“Then whoever it was knows the building layout.”

He nodded grimly. “And probably has access.”

We both stared at the empty drawer.

“This isn’t just about the Montenegros anymore,” Leo said. “It’s about whoever’s feeding them our data.”

I took a deep breath, my mind racing. “The man at the dock. The one in gray. He’s in that missing photo.”

Leo’s eyes sharpened. “You still have the digital scan?”

“I saved it earlier,” I said, pulling out my camera and showing him the preview screen. “It’s grainy, but enough to enhance.”

He leaned closer. “That face… he’s not part of the security detail. I’ve seen him before—in a press ID list from two years ago. Different name, though.”

“Fake credentials?”

“Most likely.”

We both turned when the office lights flickered back to full power. Ms. Valerio appeared at the doorway, calm as ever, but her tone carried weight.

“Both of you, upstairs. Now.”

Her office was already dimly lit by the time we entered. Tomas stood by her desk, a flash drive plugged into the monitor.

“What you’re about to see,” Ms. Valerio said quietly, “was captured by the building’s CCTV fifteen minutes ago.”

The video showed the east wing hallway—the very one outside the archive room.

A tall man in a gray coat, cap pulled low, is entering the restricted area.

My stomach tightened. It was him.

He moved with precision—no hesitation, no confusion about where to go. He went straight to the archive door, disabled the keypad with a swipe, and slipped inside.

The clip ended there.

“That’s the same man from the dock,” I whispered. “And from the press conference.”

Ms. Valerio nodded. “And now, he’s inside The Daily Truth.”

For the first time, her professional calm cracked—just slightly. “We’ve changed security protocols and notified building management. But Andra, from now on, you’re not leaving the premises alone.”

“I can handle myself,” I started, but she cut me off.

“This isn’t about courage. It’s about strategy.”

Leo spoke up. “If they’re willing to break in, they’re desperate. The exposé’s close to hitting something big.”

“Exactly,” Ms. Valerio said. “Which means we tighten everything. No digital files, no external calls. Analog only. If we keep it old-school, we keep it clean.”

When the meeting ended, Leo and I stepped into the empty hallway.

He looked at me, eyes heavy but resolute. “You still think this is just another corporate corruption case?”

“No,” I admitted. “This is something else.”

He half-smiled, tired but certain. “Then let’s find out who the hell that man in gray really is before he decides to visit again.”

I nodded. The weight of the missing memo pressed against my chest like a stone.

Whoever that man was, he knew exactly what we were chasing—and how close we were to uncovering it.

And as I stared at the flickering light above the corridor, one thought burned in my mind. Someone inside The Daily Truth had already opened the door for him.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚