Three days passed.
Nothing.
No reply.
No bounce.
No leak.
No article.
Craig had given her everything.
He’d made it easy. A link, a password, an iron-clad body of proof. But Catherine Brand—so-called truth-teller, exposer of systems—had said nothing.
He kept checking the dead-drop inbox.
Even though he knew she’d never reply directly.
By day five, he couldn’t lie to himself any longer.
She’d seen it.
And she didn’t want it.
Maybe she was scared. Maybe she was compromised. Maybe she didn’t want to touch it because touching it meant being watched, and maybe Catherine Brand had done enough of that already. He didn’t blame her. But it still gutted him.
He couldn’t sit on it any longer.
That evening, in the flat in Largs, under yellow kitchen light and with two mugs of instant coffee growing cold beside him, Craig opened a new spreadsheet:
Ten journalists. Ten publications.
Different outlets. Different countries.
Some he'd respected.
Some he hadn't even heard of.
It didn’t matter anymore.
He rewrote the message, making it clearer. Sharper. More urgent. Each one got a unique link, a fresh upload, a unique password. He didn’t want this being flagged by spam filters or caught in coordinated suppression.
At 2:12 a.m., he hit send.
One by one.
Ten messages.
Ten shots fired.
Then he unplugged everything and went to bed.
Two more days passed.
No reply.
No leak.
No article.
Just the same silent weight in his gut.
Like a storm was overhead, but never arriving.
He sat on the promenade that evening, a can of lager in his hand, the sea dark and quiet in front of him.
He watched people walk their dogs. Teenagers threw stones into the surf.
Normal life.
He was outside of it now.
And that’s when the burner lit up.
No number. No caller ID.
Just a message:
“This is bigger than even you think.
Watch your back.
Best of luck.”
No name. No signature. No second message.
Craig stared at the screen.
His mouth was dry. His hands were cold.
He didn’t know what part to focus on.
“This is bigger than even you think.”
What the hell did that mean?
Was it a warning? A threat? A mercy?
He turned the phone off, took out the battery, and sat with the silence.
The sky had gone purple by the time he walked back to the flat.
And for the first time since arriving in Largs, he felt it:
like someone was watching the window.
He didn’t turn the light on.
He stood behind the curtain and waited.
But the street outside stayed empty.
Just parked cars. Just quiet homes.
And still, he waited.