opener,» Mark said, lighting another cigarette. «Go on.»
«Walk away. While you still can.»
«And if I don’t?»
The line went quiet for a beat before the voice replied, heavy with menace. «Then you’ll disappear. Like the others.»
The call ended abruptly, leaving Mark staring at the phone as if it held answers. Taking a long drag, he looked out the window. The city continued its faceless existence, but somewhere in its shadows, a hunt had begun. He just wasn’t sure if he was the hunter – or the prey.
Chapter 4: Cryptocurrency and Blood
The morning light barely grazed the surface of gray concrete, casting the streets of New York in a cold, muted glow. The city was only just waking up, but Mark was already on the move. He sat behind the wheel of his aging Honda Civic, which rattled with every bump in the road. The jazz station on the radio played softly, though he wasn’t really listening. His mind was consumed by the name «Fox» and the mystery of who – or what – lay behind it.
The drive took him into Brooklyn, to one of those places that seemed unremarkable yet oddly magnetic. A café called The Rusty Cup had become a haven for crypto traders, freelancers, and other denizens of the digital age. The air inside was thick with the aroma of coffee laced with chocolate syrup, fresh-baked bread, and occasionally, the faint hum of electricity when someone lugged in mining equipment.
Mark stepped inside. The atmosphere was a mix of quiet chatter and the rhythmic clicking of laptop keys. The space felt chaotic yet inviting: mismatched chairs, worn rugs, and bookshelves crammed with obscure titles no one seemed to have read. It was the perfect spot for anyone wanting to blend in while still staying visible.
At the counter, holding a large cappuccino, stood a young man. His tired, slightly bloodshot eyes betrayed sleepless nights and, most likely, endless hours staring at charts. Mark recognized him – Rick Lawson, one of Dylan’s former colleagues who was still active in the market.
«Rick?» Mark approached cautiously, careful not to startle him.
Rick turned, his gaze briefly wary before shifting into a look of recognition.
«Davis? Detective?» he asked, as if unsure he was really being addressed.
«That’s right,» Mark said, gesturing toward an empty table. «Let’s sit.»
Rick nodded, casting a quick glance around the room as though searching for someone in the crowd, then followed Mark to the nearest free spot. They sat, and Mark clasped his hands together, looking Rick straight in the eye.
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