Chapter 3

3.

I arrived at the second-floor coffee shop in Central Plaza twenty minutes early.

When the door opened, the bell chimed. A guy walked in―tall, lean, wearing a black puffer jacket with a pair of professional headphones draped around his neck.

He scanned the room and walked straight toward my table.

“Nia Reed?”

“That’s me.”

He sat down and draped his jacket over the back of the chair. His hoodie underneath looked a bit faded from too many washes. His gaze was calm. He didn't look away, but he wasn't overly friendly either.

“Luke Ryan,” he introduced himself.

“From Zenith Security?”

“Yeah. I’m a lead security engineer.” He rotated his coffee cup slowly. “I recovered the data on that drive. I also saved a copy of the original access logs. They trace back to a month before Vance Ford resigned.”

I placed the flash drive on the table. “How did you do it?”

“The station’s server logs have a six-month retention cycle. He deleted the index, but not the data itself. It’s like tearing the house number off a door―the house is still there.”

“Did you hack in?”

He gave me a look.

“I’m a security engineer. I just audited a public vulnerability.”

I couldn't help but let out a small laugh. He cracked a tiny smile too, though he hid it quickly.

“Vance used a very amateur method. He copied files to a local drive and then deleted them. But he forgot one thing―the station has an automated backup system that runs every week on a separate physical server.”

“So he didn't scrub it clean enough.”

“Exactly. Recovering the data was easy. The hard part was that you had no reason to go looking for it.”

I blinked, confused. “How did you know I needed a reason?”

He didn't answer immediately. He took a sip of his coffee. I noticed the tips of his ears were turning a slight shade of red.

“You said it on your show. You said you wanted to investigate something but lacked the evidence.”

“You were listening?”

He looked up at me. His coffee cup hovered in mid-air.

“I’ve been listening for three years.”

The lighting in the cafe was dim. The redness on his ears hadn't faded, but his eyes were steady.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you read my letters.”

I stared at him for five long seconds. The letters. One hundred and thirteen of them. Mr. Coordinate.

“It’s you.”

He didn't deny it.

A man who had written over a hundred letters to me over three years was sitting right across from me, his headphones around his neck and his coffee going cold.

“Why didn't you ever tell me?” I asked.

He was silent for a moment. He set his coffee down and pulled a folder from his bag.

“Because I wasn't sure if you needed a friend or a witness.”

The folder contained printed system logs. Every page had timestamps, operation records, and IP addresses. He had circled Vance’s activity in red―sixty-seven unauthorized entries in total.

“Is this enough for a case?”

“It’s a start. But it’s not everything.”

He flipped to the last page. It was a screenshot of a wire transfer. On December 25th―just three days after Vance quit―he received his first payment from Ridgeview Capital: one million dollars.

The memo line read: Initial acquisition of AI vocal assets.

“He used your voice to secure his funding,” Luke’s voice was quiet, but every word was sharp.

“The investors think it’s his proprietary tech. In reality, it’s all stolen.”

I stared at those numbers for a long time.

One million dollars. My voice was worth a million dollars―Vance just forgot to send me my cut.

“Is there more?”

“One more thing.”

Luke flipped to the final sheet. It was a screenshot of another host named Sarah Townsend. She had resigned from a station in another city last summer because she was “replaced by AI.” Her voice was a perfect match for another product on SoulEcho FM.

“You aren't the only victim.”

I looked up at him.

Outside the window, the crowds in Central Plaza were buzzing. The 3:00 PM sun hit the table, illuminating the red circles and the cold, hard numbers.

I snapped the folder shut.

“Help me find Sarah.”

He nodded. He didn't say “okay” or “no problem.” Just a single, firm nod. To him, the task I gave him was just another line of code―no confirmation needed.

I suddenly realized something. For three years, this is probably how he had listened to my show.

He didn't talk much. He just got things done.