The Williams house had always felt solid to Amara.
Not just in bricks and gates and high walls, but in the invisible barrier that came with security guards, cameras, and her father's name. People could talk, shout, insult, threaten online—but inside these walls, she had always felt safe.
Lately, that feeling was fading.
It started with little things.
A guard who normally joked with her at the gate suddenly growing stiff and quiet.
Her uncle spending more time on the phone in corners, speaking in low tones.
Her mother jumping slightly whenever the doorbell rang.
And her father—still calm, still smiling, but with new lines of exhaustion around his eyes.
"Are we under attack?" she asked one afternoon, half-joking.
Nobody laughed.
That same day, she came down the stairs and paused when she heard voices in the study.
Her father's door was slightly open.
She knew she shouldn't listen, but the sharp tone in her uncle's voice made her stop.
"…I'm telling you, Richard, this is not just some random leak," Uncle Jide said. "These documents are too clean. Too specific. Someone has access to places they shouldn't."
Her father replied, tired but controlled.
"I know that," Senator Williams said. "You've mentioned it eight times this week."
"And I'll mention it eight more," his brother snapped. "We have a mole somewhere. Someone close. Someone with brains and access."
"Then we find them," the senator said. "Panicking won't make them appear."
Amara leaned closer, just enough to see their reflections in the glass frame on the wall.
Her uncle paced the room like a caged animal. Her father sat behind his desk, hands folded.
"We need to tighten the house," the uncle said. "Less people in, less information out. I want a list of everyone who's had access to your files in the last year."
"That's half my team," the senator said. "Are you suggesting I suddenly treat all of them like traitors?"
"I'm suggesting you act like a man who has a target on his back," Uncle Jide retorted. "And we need to start from the obvious."
"Which is?" the senator asked.
"The new variables," his brother said firmly. "Anyone who just appeared in the last few weeks. New staff. New guards. New friends."
He put heavy emphasis on that last word.
Amara's stomach tightened.
She knew exactly who he meant.
"Daniel is not a 'variable,'" her father said calmly. "He is a young man who made a mistake and is trying to correct it."
"He 'coincidentally' almost ran over your daughter," the uncle said. "Then he 'coincidentally' happens to be charming and good with words. Then he 'coincidentally' shows up right when we are being shot at publicly."
"Jide," the senator said. "You're reaching."
"I'm surviving," Jide replied. "You think paranoia is a disease. Sometimes it's a shield."
Amara had heard enough.
She stepped away from the door before they could catch her listening and continued down the stairs, making noise on purpose this time.
By the time she passed the study, the door was fully closed.
She tried to push away the unease clawing at her.
But it stayed.
Later that evening, she went outside to get some air.
The sun was low, painting the sky a soft orange.
One of the security guards was walking the perimeter. Another was speaking into his radio near the gate. They were more visibly alert than usual, scanning the street, checking cars that passed too slowly.
She approached the first guard, Tunde, who had known her since she was a teenager.
"Evening," she greeted.
"Good evening, Miss Amara," he said, giving a small nod.
"You're walking faster today," she noted. "New exercise plan?"
"New security level," he replied without joking.
She frowned.
"What does that mean?" she asked.
"It means we're treating things more seriously," he said. "Your father's enemies are not playing. So we can't either."
"Do you know who's behind it?" she pressed.
He hesitated.
"That is not my place to say," he replied. "My job is to watch and protect. Other people's job is to find the snake."
"And if the snake is already inside the fence?" she asked quietly.
His eyes flicked to hers for a brief second.
"Then we pray we see its teeth before it strikes," he said.
That night, Amara lay on her bed, phone in hand, staring at her screen.
She'd received several messages from friends.
Some were supportive.
Some were nosy.
A few were just there for drama.
She swiped past them until she reached the chat she really wanted.
Daniel.
She hadn't seen him in a few days—not since the family dinner.
Things had been heavy at home after that. Meetings, calls, interviews.
And yet, every once in a while, her mind drifted back to him. His calm, quietly dangerous confidence. His careful words. The way he had faced her father's gaze without flinching.
She opened their chat.
The last message was from him, two days ago:
"How's life in the war zone?"
She had replied:
"Loud. What about you?"
He'd answered:
"Also loud. Different kind of guns."
She hadn't asked what that meant.
Tonight, her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
"Do you ever feel like everyone around you is hiding something?"
She stared at the message, then deleted it.
Too heavy.
She tried again.
"I think my uncle hates you."
She paused, then hit send before she could change her mind.
The reply came quickly.
"Good. If uncles like me, something is wrong."
She smiled.
"I'm serious."
"So am I. In my experience, if the protective uncle looks at you like you're an assassin, you're doing something right. It means he knows you're not completely harmless."
"Are you harmless?" she sent.
There was a slightly longer pause.
"No," he replied. "But I'm not your enemy either."
She stared at that for a long moment.
Her chest tightened.
"The house feels different," she wrote after a while. "My uncle is on edge. My dad is trying to pretend everything is normal. The guards are acting like they expect an ambush."
"Do you feel safe?" he asked.
She thought about it.
Did she?
The walls were still there. The cameras. The guards. The gates.
But the cracks were showing.
"I don't know," she replied honestly. "Maybe that's what scares me most."
His next message came slower.
"Pay attention to your instincts," he wrote. "If something feels wrong, don't ignore it. Even if everyone else says it's fine."
Her fingers moved quickly.
"That's the problem. Everyone thinks something is wrong. But no one knows exactly what."
"That's how real danger feels at first," he replied. "Blurry. Until it isn't."
She swallowed.
"You sound like you've lived in danger your whole life."
"Not my whole life," he answered. "Just long enough to recognize its smell."
She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.
"My uncle thinks there's a mole," she wrote. "Someone close, feeding information to our enemies."
She hesitated, then added:
"He thinks the 'new people' in my life are suspicious."
The three dots that showed he was typing appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Finally:
"Do you think I'm suspicious?" he sent.
Her heart thumped.
Did she?
She thought about the way he always scanned rooms. The way he never fully relaxed. The scars, the calm, the way he used words like shields.
She also thought about the way he listened. The way he made her laugh when she didn't want to. The way he treated her like a person, not an extension of her father.
"You're… different," she typed. "But not in a way that scares me."
"You should be scared of me," he replied.
She frowned.
"Why?"
It took him longer than usual to answer.
"Because you don't know me," he wrote. "Not really."
Her next message came fast.
"That's how getting to know someone works."
She hesitated, then added:
"If you were going to hurt me, I think you would have done it already."
He stared at that message from his own dim apartment, jaw tight.
If she only knew.
His phone buzzed with another incoming text—this time from Mara.
"Call me. Clark's pissed."
He ignored it for a moment and focused on Amara again.
"Just… promise me something," he wrote.
"What?" she replied.
"Promise you'll be careful," he sent. "And if something feels off at home, tell someone immediately. Don't wait."
"Like who?" she asked. "My father? My uncle? You?"
He exhaled slowly.
"Anyone you trust," he answered. "Even if it's me."
She looked at those words for a long time.
The cracks in her world were growing.
She could feel it.
In the way her uncle checked every car twice.
In the way her father locked his study now, even when he was inside.
In the way the guards whispered into their radios.
And now, in the way Daniel, a man she barely knew but already depended on, told her to be careful.
"Okay," she typed. "I promise."
Her phone buzzed again almost immediately.
"Good," he replied. "I'd hate it if something happened to you before you finally admit you like me more than coffee."
She rolled her eyes, but a laugh escaped her.
"Don't push it," she sent.
As the chat faded and the room grew quiet again, she hugged her pillow and stared into the dark.
Outside, the guard did another slow walk around the house.
Inside the walls, everyone felt the pressure rising.
But no one knew yet that the biggest crack wasn't in the walls.
It was in the man standing on both sides of them.
Daniel.