Blackwood’s Echo

Isabella’s apartment felt like a different universe from her office—no soft neutrals, no therapeutic calm. Here, shadows clung to the walls. The amber lighting spilled low and uneven, as if trying—and failing—to soften the jagged edges of the space.

This was where the mask came off.

The desk in front of her was a battlefield. Documents layered over one another. Photos pinned with sharp tacks. Strings connecting names, dates, and scandals no one wanted spoken out loud. Headlines scribbled in black ink. Notes scribbled in red. The Lantern wasn’t just a blog. It was her war journal.

Barefoot, she paced across creaking floors, every sound louder than it should’ve been. The hum of the fridge. The faint rattle in the heating pipes. And underneath it all, a single memory looped on repeat: "Prepare for a darkness unlike any you’ve confronted."

Her eyes landed on her closed laptop. She hadn’t touched it since that call. It sat quietly now, too quietly. She stared for a long second, then walked over and flipped it open.

The screen glowed to life, casting her face in the blue light that had become so familiar, it felt ritualistic. Her encrypted email still sat open.

Marcus Langford is a symptom. The disease is deeper. Blackwood is the key.

Adrian Blackwood.

Even the name sounded fictional. A billionaire recluse. Whispers in Parliament. Donations to mental health causes. No scandals. No leaks. No profile. Just a curated myth of wealth and control.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

This wasn’t a G****e job. She launched her encrypted browser and typed in "Rehabilitation Society."

Dead links. Old threads. Wiped pages.

Then—something.

A forum tucked inside a forgotten corner of the dark web: Echoes of Control.

She clicked.

At the top of a buried thread was a blurry photograph—Adrian Blackwood, unmistakably tall and sharply dressed, surrounded by others in formal wear. The caption made her stomach twist:

Rehabilitation Society Retreat. Cornwall. No one leaves unchanged.

Her pulse kicked harder. She scrolled.

Confessions followed, scattered like torn journal pages. One line repeated itself in various forms: They strip you down. Rebuild you.

And then she saw it.

Echo Protocol. Don’t forget that term. That’s where it begins.

The words hit like a drop of ink in water—small, but spreading fast. Echo Protocol. Not therapy. Not treatment. Programming. Something engineered.

Her chest tightened.

Click.

Static.

Click.

The screen flashed white.

“Shit!” she gasped, slamming the laptop shut. Her heart punched against her ribs.

Someone had seen her. Not a site crash. Not a coincidence.

They were watching.

Her apartment, once silent, now felt suffocating. The walls closed in. Every creak sounded like a threat.

Then she heard it. Soft. Deliberate.

A shift at the front door.

She crept to the hallway, bare feet soundless on the wood. One slow step at a time. She peered through the peephole.

Empty.

She started to pull back, then paused.

Something had been slipped underneath.

An envelope.

Plain. Heavy. No markings.

Her fingers trembled as she picked it up. The paper was too clean, too smooth. She opened it slowly, like it might explode.

Inside, a single note in neat, elegant cursive:

Curiosity is dangerous, Miss Hart. Meet me tomorrow. Belgrave Square. 11 p.m. Alone.

— AB

Adrian Blackwood.

The initials were more than confirmation. They were a message.

He knew.

He knew her name. Her apartment. Her secret.

And somehow, he'd delivered this into her home without being seen. The locks hadn't been broken. No windows opened.

He wasn’t threatening her.

He was inviting her.

She stared down at the note. Her instinct said to run—but something stronger anchored her to the floor.

She looked out the window. The city was lit up like a breathing machine. Streetlights. Tower cranes. Red-eye planes are blinking overhead. Somewhere in that sprawl, Blackwood waited. Watching.

Could she walk away?

She thought of Alice. And every woman, every survivor who had sat in her office, hoping someone would believe them. Someone would fight.

She grabbed a pen and returned to her investigation wall. Under the headline she’d written last week—

The Rehabilitation Society: Underground Elite or Psychological Cult?

—She added three lines:

Echo Protocol. AB. Belgrave Square. 11 p.m.

If she disappeared, this would be the first breadcrumb.

She stepped back from the board. Her reflection stared at her from the window. Eyes tired. Posture tense. But unshaken.

She wasn’t just investigating anymore.

She was inside the game.

Across town, in a cold room behind layers of steel and surveillance, Adrian Blackwood watched.

He leaned back in his chair, one hand tracing the armrest in idle thought. On the monitor, Isabella stood by her window. Unmoving. Focused.

“She’s stronger than I expected,” he murmured to no one in particular. His voice was calm, almost... admiring.

His fingers tapped once on the desk.

Then he smiled. Slow. Controlled. Cold.

“Let’s see how far The Lantern shines before the darkness consumes it.”