She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes at me like she doesn't buy it. And she's right not to.
I stab a potato, push it around my plate, then say, "What did Melody say to you?"
"Melody?" she echoes, blinking. "Oh. Yeah. I ran into her last week. She mentioned… you got sacked. Something about violence?"
The fork in my hand freezes mid-air. I set it down slowly.
"I don't plan on going back," I say, keeping my voice calm, flat.
Saavni's brows knit together. "Why not?"
"I've got other things to face."
I leave it there. Don't elaborate. Don't give her the details she's probably fishing for. But she's persistent, I'll give her that.
"Sinclair, you've been so… distant," she says again, softer this time, as if repeating it might change my answer. "Even now, you're sitting across from me, and it's like your mind is miles away.".
She leans forward, her voice gentle but firm. "You were like this during our internship too. Always keeping to yourself. Always on edge. Remember? You'd disappear for lunch. Avoid the group projects. I thought maybe… maybe something was going on. I even told you to see a therapist, remember?"
I nod once. "I remember."
"I was worried," she adds, eyes flickering with something too soft to name.
I set my utensils down, press my thumb and forefinger against the bridge of my nose. The weight in my chest feels heavier now, like it's asking for space.
"I lost someone," I say finally. "My friend."
Her lips part slightly. "What?"
"We were supposed to start the internship together. Same day. Same program. We'd been planning it for a year. But… he didn't make it." My voice drops, raw with emotion. "He died a month before. And that year? It wasn't just an internship to me. It was a graveyard of plans we made."
She doesn't speak right away. Just watches me, eyes wide and unreadable.
"I wasn't just triggered, Saavni," I continued. "I was grieving. Quietly. Because people don't know what to do with someone who walks around like a funeral. So I stayed away."
The silence between us is thick. Not awkward—just full.
Finally, she speaks, her voice almost shy. "I didn't know."
"I didn't tell anyone," I replied. "Wasn't exactly something I could just bring up over coffee."
She shifts in her seat, fidgeting with her napkin. Then, so quietly I almost miss it, she says, "I had feelings for you back then."
I glance up.
She avoids my gaze, eyes locked on the table. "But you always looked so… intimidating. Like nothing could reach you. Like you weren't even open to being known."
That makes me exhale a dry laugh. "Guess I was doing a good job pretending."
She finally looks at me. "And now that you're… not that guy anymore, now that you don't feel as distant, you've got a girlfriend."
I don't respond right away. I lean back, fold my arms, studying her. There's this vulnerability on her face I hadn't seen before—one that doesn't match the confident, always-puttogether version of Saavni I'd known during our internship.
"You should've told me," I say quietly.
"Yeah, pardon a girl that thinks she could get a death glare if she confesses to a guy," she replies.
Touché.
The silence between us softens, like something unspoken had finally settled.
"How did you get with Melody?"
"After my internship year. The second month I was transferred to DailyNow Newspaper."
"Did you see a therapist?"
"No," I swallowed. "I just learn to fix myself."
"Did she ask you out?"
I chuckled, gruffly. "Why do you want to know?"
"Oh. Pardon me if I'm intruding. I just want to know what she did to snag you." she eyed me playfully.
"Is that what this meeting is all about?"
"Actually, yes."
I studied her. "I did. I approached her." I took a bite of my potato. "Melody is smart. Brilliant. Creative. I watched her from afar and admired her. I always get teamed with her for any project and gradually, I saw her for more than who she was—boss' daughter or some gorgeous woman."
Saavni played with her spaghetti, "I actually believed you were gay."
I cocked a brow at her. "That kind of makes sense."
"Everyone did." She stabbed a spaghetti with the fork. "I was really hoping you dated a man so I could die peacefully."
A smile spread across my face. "Don't be dramatic now."
"Well then, find a man to date."
"Not even men want to date themselves."
"So, are you saying you hate the idea?"
"I'm not speaking for myself." I took another mouthful bite of potato. "It's like you asking me to pick the least rotten one from numbers of rotten eggs."
"Men are rotten eggs?"
I peered up at her. "What do you think?"
"I think you are right." I smiled.
"Forget everything I said, please. I'm just joking around."
"I know. I can't be sure, though. So, I'll just put this out in case—I can't leave Melody. She is my ride or die."
"Ouch."
I pick up my fork again and push the spaghetti toward her. "Here. Before I finish the whole thing."
She smiles, small and genuine, then takes it back.
And just like that, the moment passes.
Several minutes passed, and we just talked about work— nothing deep, just the surface-level updates people use to fill silence. Saavni mentioned the new editor-in-chief was already making enemies, and I told her the coffee in the press room still tasted like burnt sorrow. That made her laugh, a soft little sound that didn't reach her eyes.
But then she paused mid-sentence, her fork still hovering in the air, and said, "Oliver told me you're using the Dear Diary case for your first article."
I stopped chewing. Slowly set my fork down. "Did he?"
She nodded, gaze steady. "Yeah."
I leaned back in my chair, exhaled through my nose. "Well. That's not public knowledge."
"It is now," she said, not smug, just matter-of-fact. "Look, I didn't bring it up to scare you. I just… wanted to say something."
"I'm listening." Even though I wasn't sure I wanted to.
"I worked that case. Years ago. With Jordan."
I blinked. "Reporter Jordan? The one who—"
"Was butchered," she finished for me. "Yeah. Him."
That got my full attention. I straightened in my seat. "You were on that investigation with him?"
"I was his assistant back then. Fresh out of college. I thought I was invincible." She gave a short, humorless laugh. "He was obsessed with the case. Said it would change the trajectory of journalism. And maybe it would've, if he hadn't ended up as victim twelve."
"Twelve" I murmured. "Shit."
"Yeah. I was the one who found him," she said, voice tight.
I looked at her, really looked. Her eyes were distant now, darkened with something heavier than just memory.
"It was… bad," she said, and I didn't interrupt. "They say reporters get desensitized to violence over time. That's crap. You don't get desensitized to your mentor with his ribs ripped open and arranged like wings." "Jesus," I muttered.
"I went to therapy for three months after that. And I still dream about it sometimes. His apartment. The smell of his decomposed body. His butchered head and the way those lifeless eyes stared at nothing."
Ididn'tknowwhattosay. Foronce,wordsfeltliketheyweren't enough. So I just nodded slowly.
"I'd seen crime scenes before. But seeing him like that… it did something to me. Undid something. Broke something open."
"I get it," I said quietly. "Why you dropped the case."
"Of course I dropped it," she said, like it was the only sane option. "I figured no one else would be foolish enough to pick it back up."
"But then Christopher did."
She nodded. "And now he's dead too."
A beat passed. The air between us felt tensed.
"And now you've picked it," she added, voice barely above a whisper.
Before she could keep going, I raised a hand. "Look—I'm fine. Really. You don't have to worry." But she wasn't done.
She leaned forward, her voice steady but lower. "You know… people used to call me fearless."
I arched a brow. "Let me guess—campfire stories? Military dad? Raised by wolves?"
"Huntingtripswithmyfather," shesaidwithaghostofasmile.
"I was five the first time I navigated the forest behind our villa on my own. There were bears in those woods. I didn't flinch when one charged me. Stared it down until it backed off."
"That's… impressive."
"I've never been scared of anything," she continued, eyes boring into mine. "Not ghosts. Not men. Not even death."
"So what changed?"
"The case," she said simply. "This case. For the first time in my life… I lived in fear. Real fear. The kind that clings to your shadow and whispers your name at night."
Her hand gripped the stem of her wine glass, knuckles pale. "Outofthetwenty-twovictimsthekillermurdered,Isawthree. Three, Sinclair. And I haven't been the same since." "Three crime scenes?" I asked.
She nodded. "Victim seventeen? The killer filmed it. Sent the footage to the victim's mother." My stomach twisted.
"I watched it," she said, voice raw. "Don't ask me why. Maybe I needed to see. Needed to know. But that… thing… whatever it was? It wasn't human. The way they moved. The way they… played with the body. I didn't sleep for weeks after that."
My jaw clenched. "Why are you telling me all this?"
"Because it's the real reason I wanted to meet you today," she said. "Not the funeral. Not nostalgia. Not Oliver. Not to convince you to break up with Melody. I needed to try and talk you out of this."
"I already told you, I'm fine—"
"No, you're not," she snapped, not loud but sharp. "I saw Oliver at Chris' funeral. When he told me you'd picked up the case, he looked terrified. I've never seen him like that. He said Melody was already working on revoking your license to stop you."
That got a blink out of me.
"Melody?" I echoed.
"She said this story would chew you up and spit you out," Saavni continued. "And I agree. Everybody's scared for you. They're just too polite to say it out loud."
I opened my mouth to respond, but then—my phone buzzed.
Reflexively, I reached for it, and it was another article push or spam app message. One of those annoying monthly check-ins from some productivity app I never used.
But the moment I unlocked the screen, my breath caught.
The cnKt app was still open.
And there it was. The icon… typing…
User Rvtag was typing again.
My heartbeat quickened.
"Sinclair?" Saavni asked.
I didn't respond. I was too focused. My eyes locked on the screen like it had the answers to the universe.
Twenty seconds passed.
Then, finally, the message dropped.
When are you coming home? I have a present for you.
I stared at the text. Swallowed hard.
The screen felt cold in my hand.
Saavni's voice broke through the haze. "Are you okay?" But I was already pushing my chair back, standing too fast.
"I have to go," I said quickly.
"What? Why?"
"I—It's nothing. I just… I have to be somewhere."
She stood too, confused and frowning. "Sinclair, what's going on?"
But I didn't answer.
Iwasalreadymoving—pastthetables,pastthestunnedwaiter, out the glass doors and into the humid dusk air. My legs moved like they had a mission of their own.
By the time I reached my car, I was already unlocking it, hands trembling.
I climbed in, started the engine, and peeled out of the lot like my life depended on it.
Because maybe it did.