The phone buzzed at 3:47 AM. Not a call. Not a message. The kind of notification that made the body go rigid before the eyes even focused on the screen.

Your device has been targeted by mercenary spyware.

Mercenary. They had settled on that word carefully. Not government. Not state. Mercenary—suggesting commerce, suggesting choice, suggesting that this was simply business operating within acceptable parameters.

The notification had been sent to ninety people in another country. Journalists. Activists. A business executive. Then it stopped, abruptly, as if someone had remembered the rules existed. As if someone had been reminded that there were still places where transparency was expected, where denial could be contradicted by facts.

But that was then.

The device lay in darkness. Outside, the city slept. Somewhere in it, other devices were buzzing with the same message. How many? The statistics would never be compiled. The patterns would never be acknowledged. There would only be this: the notification, and what came after.

Delete the drafts, the message said.

It was polite, almost. A suggestion rather than a command. That was how it worked now—the softer the language, the more absolute the requirement. Geographic location is not a factor, they had promised. Everywhere was the same. Everywhere was protected equally. Everywhere was exposed equally.

The device stayed face-down on the table.

The cursor blinked on the open document. The words that had been written—the research, the connections, the patterns no one was supposed to see—waited in the darkness of the screen.

Two choices. There had always been only two choices.

The fingers moved toward the keyboard.