There was one photo Nathan hadn’t filed away.
Not the ones from the evidence board.
Not the crime scenes, the maps, the grainy stills from the task force archives.
Just this.
A candid shot — taken from across the street through a rain-fogged lens.
Lena Rowe.
The woman from the flower shop.
Laughing. Lightly, freely. Like she lived in a different world entirely — one untouched by blood and betrayal.
He knew her name now.
But not her story. Not really.
And maybe that was the point.
Because in a life built on hunting darkness, she was the only part that hadn’t asked anything of him.
No masks. No lies. Just quiet. Stillness. Color.
He should’ve thrown the photo away.
But he hadn’t.
Not yet.
Maybe because some part of him still needed to believe in what she represented.
A breath. A pause.
A way out.
At HQ, Nathan played the game.
He reported nothing.
He gave no names.
He acted curious, cooperative. Willing.
The Internal Affairs agent — Harper — took it as a win.
“This isn’t about dismantling the operation,” she said. “It’s about control. Power moves through their network — money, silence, loyalty. We don’t want to cut the lines. We want to hold the switch.”
Nathan stayed quiet.
But that was the moment it clicked.
They weren’t chasing justice.
They were chasing leverage.
Another regime, same ambition.
Not to burn the rot out — but to wear its skin.
And that made them no better than the system her organization had already outplayed.
Across town, Marco sat in a silent, low-lit bar. Alone.
A man slid into the booth across from him.
Older. Military posture. Clean hands, dead eyes.
“You’re Marco,” he said, voice like gravel. “The loyal one.”
Marco said nothing.
The man slid a small flash drive across the table.
“On here: five names. They want her gone. They want you out of the way. They’re planning something soon.”
Marco didn’t touch the drive. “And you’re just what — a concerned citizen?”
The man smiled faintly. “I’m someone who knows the difference between a queen and a commodity.”
Marco narrowed his eyes.
“What do you want?”
“Just to watch the game get interesting again.”
Then he stood and left.
Vasha stood alone on the top floor of an unfinished high-rise, wind slicing through the steel bones of the structure. She kept her phone pressed tight to her ear, voice low.
“They’re fracturing,” she reported. “Internal Affairs. Civilians asking questions. Even our own channels feel thin. And Marco’s gone quiet.”
On the other end, Eve listened in silence. No video. No trace. Just her voice, calm and measured when it finally came.
“They’re supposed to fracture,” Eve said. “That’s how you see who breaks.”
Vasha hesitated, her fingers tightening around the phone.
“And if Marco’s the one who breaks?”
There was a pause.
Then: “Then I built the wrong man.”
The line went dead.
Vasha lowered the phone slowly, the wind howling around her like the world had just shifted.
That night, Nathan followed a hunch. Not evidence — instinct.
He returned to Bellrow. Not to the flower shop.
To the building across from it.
The rooftop was unlocked. Old. Quiet. He waited there.
Sure enough, around midnight, Eve stepped out from the back door of her shop. Alone.
She didn’t look over her shoulder. Didn’t check for tails.
But she paused — just for a breath — like she knew she was being watched.
And still… she kept walking.
Back in her safehouse, Eve opened a drawer no one else was allowed to touch.
Inside:
An old ledger. Bound in leather. Paper pages. Handwritten names.
Some crossed out.
Some circled.
One… underlined.
She added a new name beneath it.
Harper.
Then, below that, she paused.
She wrote a second name.
Nathan.
But this time, she didn’t cross or circle it.
She closed the book. Locked the drawer. Stood still for a long time.
Then she whispered, almost like a prayer:
“Don’t make me choose.”
Baawa Unfiltered 