The call should have saved him. Instead, it opened a door he can’t close. A trembling dispatcher, a symbol that should not exist, and a cliffside object that bends every rule he thought he knew. Now his inbox is a battlefield: threats, coordinates, ghosts of vanished sources. Jonathan must choose: safety, or the kind of truth people.
He stared at the jagged red symbol until his eyes burned, until the pixels seemed to pulse with a rhythm that wasn’t on the recording. Every instinct told him to drag the folder to the trash, to pretend the wind had scrambled the footage and the dispatcher had never gone silent mid‑sentence.
But the pattern of disappearances in his old notes, the stories spiked without reason, lined up too neatly with the anonymous coordinates now flooding his inbox. The same symbol. The same vanishing points. The same quiet.
He printed nothing, wrote nothing down, trusting only what he could carry in his head. When he finally stepped outside, the street felt wrong—too many parked cars, too few faces, a drone humming somewhere he couldn’t see. Jonathan realized the real discovery wasn’t the object under the cliff. It was how quickly the world rearranged itself to make sure he never reached it.
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