Kristy — Gabres -part 1-

"They don't want the painting. They want what's painted underneath. The real treasure is the lie. - M.T."

She almost ignored it. Almost.

A folder slid under her apartment door. No footsteps, no shadow. Just the soft whisper of paper on wood.

"Miss Gabres. My name is Julian Voss." The voice was smooth, unhurried, with the faintest European rasp. "I'm a curator at the DePaul Collection. I believe you're the person who exposed Councilman Hartley's slush fund." Kristy Gabres -Part 1-

Beneath that, an address. A warehouse in the industrial district. And a time: midnight tomorrow.

Kristy's hand tightened on the phone. Not because of the gore—she'd seen worse. But because of the crown. That was a signature. A message. Someone was playing a very old, very cruel game.

At thirty-four, Kristy had the lean, coiled look of a woman who’d stopped running but hadn’t forgotten how. Her auburn hair was pulled into a messy knot, and the shadows under her gray eyes weren't from lack of sleep—they were from lack of answers. Six months ago, she’d broken the story of the century: a sitting city councilor taking bribes from a development cartel. But a single source had recanted under pressure, the councilor had sued for libel, and the Herald had thrown Kristy under the news van to settle. Now she worked freelance, taking odd jobs for true-crime podcasts and writing obituaries for a suburban weekly. "They don't want the painting

Outside, the rain had stopped. But the fog was rolling in, thick as a secret.

"That painting is a ghost," she said. "Why me?"

Part 1 ends as Kristy steps into the night, not knowing that the blind king's supper is already being served—and she's the guest of honor. No footsteps, no shadow

She hung up, walked over, and picked it up. Inside was a single photograph: a blurry shot of a painting hidden inside a shipping container, half-covered by a tarp. And taped to the back of the photo was a handwritten note in shaky script:

Kristy Gabres looked at her father's photograph on the shelf. "You always said trouble finds the curious," she whispered. Then she grabbed her jacket, her old Nikon, and a lockpicking kit she hadn't touched since the Herald fired her.

"Marco left a file," Voss continued. "Encrypted. He said if anything happened to him, it should go to the journalist who wasn't afraid to burn her life down for a story. That's you, Miss Gabres."

Her phone buzzed. A blocked number.

"Exposed and then un-exposed," Kristy said. "What do you want?"