No return address. No logo. Just a matte black box resting on Alyssa’s desk when she walked into her office that morning, placed neatly at the center as if it belonged there. Her assistant swore no courier had signed in.

Alyssa didn’t touch it at first.

She stared at the box for a long moment, every instinct screaming that this was not a gift—it was a statement.

“Davin,” she murmured.

Slowly, she pulled on gloves and lifted the lid.

Inside were several slim data drives, a stack of printed documents bound with a silver clip, and a single envelope. No flowers. No blood. No theatrics.

Just information.

The most dangerous...