The Leak | Tweet
Published in Albania 
- Social interactions and entertainment - 0 - 17 Dec 25 00:38
They didn’t notice the leak at first.
It started as coincidences—too precise to be luck, too quiet to be a raid.
A patrol car lingering outside the wrong building for too long.
A neighbor suddenly “remembering” details nobody shared.
A street camera repaired overnight, exactly where it shouldn’t have been.
Pristell felt it in the air before he could explain it. The ankle monitor blinked like a pulse. Not a punishment—an instrument. A metronome for someone else’s timeline.
Inside his apartment, the group gathered again. This time, the silence was heavier. It wasn’t planning silence. It was suspicion.
Imperator didn’t ask questions. He measured faces.
Lucious Lyon sat with her back to the wall, eyes sharp, calm in a way that looked rehearsed. She watched everyone the way a predator watches a room with only one exit.
Lucian smiled like a wound that refused to close.
Papiga arrived hungry, as always—thin, bald, hollow-eyed—and immediately started talking too much, as if words could create innocence.
Komita swayed. Not just from alcohol. From uncertainty. The kind that makes a man slip without realizing he’s slipping.
Bumbarke muttered to himself near the window, twitching, listening to an invisible hive. He kept repeating the same sentence under his breath:
“They know. They know. They know.”
Conte Tintoretto stood apart, silent, rotting the air by existing in it.
The first accusation wasn’t spoken aloud. It was implied.
Imperator leaned forward and placed one simple fact on the table:
“Someone outside this room knows our timing.”
Nobody denied it.
Lucious Lyon tilted her head. “Or someone wants you to believe that.”
Lucian laughed quietly. “That’s cute. You’re all pretending you don’t already have a favorite suspect.”
Papiga’s face tightened immediately—then, as expected, he played his favorite weapon.
He started to cry.
Not softly. Not privately. Loud, wet, shaking sobs. The performance of the wounded victim. He wiped his eyes with filthy sleeves and shook his head again and again.
“How can you even think that? After everything I’ve suffered?”
Nobody moved to comfort him. Not this time.
Komita stared at the floor. He looked trapped in his own body. His mouth opened like he wanted to speak, then closed again.
Pristell watched the room with a new clarity: everyone here was capable of betrayal. Most of them had done it before. Some of them called it life.
The leak wasn’t a question of morality.
It was a question of usefulness.
Lucious Lyon finally spoke—quiet, precise.
“Let’s test it.”
She proposed something simple: a false plan. One that sounded real enough to repeat. A time. A location. A target that didn’t exist. Then they would wait and see which walls grew ears.
Lucian loved it immediately.
He made it worse, of course—adding extra details loudly, with relish, like a man who enjoyed throwing knives into a room full of blind people.
Imperator allowed it. Not because he trusted the idea, but because he understood the value of pressure.
Papiga kept crying, then switched to anger when tears didn’t work. He accused everyone else of paranoia. He demanded respect. He threatened to leave.
Nobody begged him to stay.
Bumbarke began to breathe faster. His twitching escalated into small jerks of the shoulders and hands. He whispered, almost delighted:
“The hive will reveal the parasite.”
Conte Tintoretto took one slow step forward, then stopped. He didn’t speak. He never needed to. His presence alone made the room feel infected—like any truth here would come with consequences.
And then it happened.
A sound from the hallway outside.
Not loud. Not a crash. A subtle, careful movement—like someone shifting weight to avoid creaking floorboards.
Every head turned.
Pristell’s smile flickered and died.
Lucious Lyon moved first, crossing the room in two silent steps, ear to the door. Imperator’s posture changed—calm replaced by readiness. Komita’s hands shook. Papiga froze. Bumbarke’s eyes widened as if he could finally see the enemy.
The sound came again.
A breath. A fabric scrape. A presence.
Someone was out there.
Lucian whispered, almost gleeful: “So the leak is already here.”
Lucious opened the door sharply—
And the hallway was empty.
Only one thing remained on the floor: a small, folded piece of paper.
No signature. No name.
Just two words written in clean, deliberate letters:
“Good bait.”
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then Imperator exhaled slowly, and the room understood what had just happened.
The leak wasn’t an accident.
It wasn’t a mistake.
It was a message.
Someone had heard. Someone had watched them create a lie. Someone had stepped close enough to deliver proof—and walked away untouched.
They had been tested.
And they had failed without even knowing the rules.
Lucious Lyon stared at the paper, expression unreadable.
Lucian’s grin widened. “I told you. Someone wants to be seen.”
Papiga’s crying stopped completely—too quickly. He wiped his face, suddenly dry-eyed. The switch was so clean it felt mechanical.
Komita finally spoke, voice low and ugly.
“We’re not hunting a leak.”
Pristell looked down at the blinking ankle monitor and felt something colder than fear.
“We’re being hunted.”
Outside, the city continued as if nothing had happened.
Inside, the Riders of Apocalypse realized a new truth:
Their plan was no longer theirs.
Somebody else had entered the story.
And that somebody was not asking permission.
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