Feriha Devran had always trusted silence.
Silence gave her space to think, to breathe, to see the patterns others missed. 😵
But tonight, the silence felt wrong;too heavy, too expectant.
Rain hammered against her apartment windows as she finished editing a routine article about traffic corruption. Nothing unusual. Nothing dangerous. Just another midnight at her desk.
Until her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
"Stop looking. You're already too late."
Feriha froze.
Her heartbeat drummed like a warning.
She typed back slowly:
Wrong number.
Another message came immediately.
"No. I chose you. You were seen at the library today. You found the file."
Feriha felt the bottom of her stomach drop.
The file.
The one she wasn't supposed to see.
Hours earlier, she had been digging through old accident reports, trying to match dates for a different assignment. Somewhere between the dust and the forgotten archives, she had found a thin brown folder with no label—just a red mark on the corner.
Inside were five photos of victims whose deaths were ruled "accidents."
But their faces told a different story.
And on the back of each photo, someone had written a date;each exactly eleven months apart.
She hadn't told anyone.
So how did this stranger know?
Her phone buzzed again.
"You're next on the list, Feriha."
Not Miss Devran.
Not journalist.
Her name. 🔎
So confidently written.
Her hands trembled as she locked her door and pulled the curtains tighter. She didn't know if she should call the police or delete everything and pretend she never saw that file.
Before she could decide, another message appeared.
"If you want to live, find the detective you ruined."
Feriha blinked.
Detective she ruined?
"His name is Ravihan Sen. He knows why the killings started."
Lightning flashed outside.
In that split-second of brightness, she thought she saw the silhouette of a person standing across the street;motionless, watching her window.
When darkness swallowed the view again, the silhouette was gone.
Her phone lit up one final time: 💡
"He saved you once. He might save you again."
Feriha didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
She had written stories about murder.
She had interviewed criminals, victims, officers.
But nothing had ever prepared her for this ,
Becoming the target. 🎯