The city is drenched in rain, the kind that turns streets into rivers and silences the usual chaos. I stand in the shadows of the abandoned rally ground, staring at the bloodstain still visible on the podium. They killed him here. My brother was arrested within hours—caught holding the gun, they say. But I know him. He wouldn’t do this.

A crumpled note in my pocket reads: 'The ledger is real. Find it before they do.'

I’ve spent the last week chasing whispers—corrupt cops, missing files, a secret meeting at the old textile mill. Tonight, I have a lead. A contact promised information. But when I arrive, the body is already cold, a knife in his chest, and a single word carved into the wall: Silence.

My phone buzzes. Unknown number. A voice says, 'You’re getting close. Walk away while you can.'

I grip the flashlight tighter. This isn’t just about my brother anymore.