The man on her porch was bleeding.
Ivy got on her knees, her heart racing in her chest, and tried not to panic. He was stunned, his face white, his eyes darting. His coat was waterlogged, shoulder torn, and splattered with blood. The letter he was holding was half-torn but legible:
They know about Stillpoint.
Ivy phoned, but not 911. She wasn't ready to call in the city on this, not yet. She phoned Sasha.
Five minutes after that, Sasha pulled up in an unmarked van with the quiet professionalism of a person who'd witnessed much worse in a past life she never spoke of. They coaxed the man inside, bandaged his wound securely with gauze, and set him down on a makeshift cot in the rear room of the archive basement.
He was young—perhaps in his late twenties. Ivy had never seen him before.
But when he woke, hours later, he said her name first.
"Casella…"
She leaned over him. "Know me?"
He weakly nodded. "Carradine sent me. Years ago. Before he vanished. Said I'd recognize her when I saw what she made people do without asking them to do it."
His words trailed away, lost in pain. Ivy stroked his arm gently. "Rest. We've got you."
Later, when Sasha left to get supplies and the man slept once more, Ivy stood alone in the back of the archive, gazing upon the broken, flood-drenched cabinets and the files that were still intact.
She was no longer afraid.
She was ready.
She pulled her bag open and took out the letter Carradine had printed off for her and tacked it up on the bulletin board above the research table.
Then she wrote three words beneath it.
"The silence ends."
That night, she called Elias.
His voice was hoarse when he answered. "I'm in."
"I figured," Ivy said.
"Are you ready for the blowback?"
"I'm more ready than they are."
The next morning, Ivy walked into the archive early, printed copies of a new memo in hand, and began pinning them to community boards, leaving them in cafés, and slipping them into library books.
It read:
CITY RECORDS MISSING?
Do you live in District 3?
Were you removed by force without reason, rezoned, or forced to leave?
Your word matters.
Step forward.
We're collecting witness accounts.
You'll be protected.
And in fine print:
Contact: Ivy Casella—Archive Level B
StillpointRecords@protonmail.com
She made herself clear: she was no longer hiding.
Seventeen times by noon the door to the archive had swung open.
People came with folders, photos, pay stubs, foreclosure papers, and letters with no return addresses. They didn't all speak, but they looked Ivy in the eye. And they stayed longer than they needed to.
By two o'clock, a crowd had started to form in the hallway.
Sasha came downstairs with tea and closed the door behind them.
"You know you're drawing fire now, right?" she said.
"I know."
"You're standing in front of something."
"Good."
Sasha smiled faintly. "Then we'll stand behind you."
Word was spreading.
Not through headlines, but whispers. Posts. Messages on encrypted threads. Flyers taped to lamp posts. "Stillpoint" was becoming a code word in coffee shops. Ivy Casella—a name no one remembered a year ago—was now the woman people asked about when they needed help or when they'd lost everything and had nothing left to try.
She didn't ask for that weight.
But she endured it.
And then, at 3:47 p.m., burst into the archive Paul—her boss.
Face red. Voice shaking.
"You're making a mess," he growled. "Do you even know what you're bringing in here?"
Ivy slowly got up, the floor groaning under her feet. "People. That's what I'm bringing in."
"You're going to bring the city down around us."
"No," she replied. "I'm going to make them answer for what they did."
Paul glared at her, his eyes tightening. "You think you're above the law now?"
"No," she said calmly. "But I'm not alone."
He scoffed. "That's not protection."
"You're wrong," she said. "That's the only kind that lasts."
Paul left without another word.
But not before noticing how many eyes were watching from the hallway as he did.
By evening, Ivy held a press folder nearly three inches thick.
Every document sourced. Every testimony notarized.
Elias stood across from her, holding a flash drive with duplicates.
"Once this hits the net," he told her, "there's no turning back."
"I don't want to turn back."
He looked at her. "Then we upload it at midnight."
Midnight.
Elias pushed the "upload" button.
The files were sent to ten pre-loaded recipients. Independent journalists. Legal activists. International transparency groups. The subject read:
"The Stillpoint Files: How a City Was Sold One Voice at a Time."
Within minutes, the downloads began.
They sat and watched the counter in silence.
At 12:41 a.m., Ivy's phone vibrated.
Unknown Number. Again.
One sentence only: You got up. Now we take you down.
There was a picture attached.
Her apartment.
And an X marked on the door.