COLLATERAL HEAT

POV: SASHA • First-person, present tense

I don’t scream when I see it. That would give it power.

Instead, I squat down, pick up the black envelope from the floor like it’s just mail, and carry it into the kitchen. No return address. No markings. Just my name scribbled in heavy black ink.

The envelope is matte black. No markings. No handwriting. Just a clean slice of silence left under my door.

My first instinct is to kick it across the room. Pretend I didn’t see it. But I don’t. I kneel. I pick it up.

Inside, a flash drive. No label. No explanation. My chest tightens. The second I plug it into my laptop, I already know I’ll regret it.

But I do it anyway.

The video loads in seconds. It’s grainy, handheld. Surveillance-style. The timestamp reads three days ago. It’s me, leaving the private lounge at Mercer, heels clicking, phone to my ear. Behind me, about a car length back, is Rourke. Subtle. Calculated.

My stomach turns.

The footage keeps rolling. A different day. A different dress. I