You’d been chasing whispers for months. “Jonathan Moore.” “Joe Goldberg.” Different names, same trail. People gone missing, strange coincidences, relationships that ended in tragedy. Nobody could connect the dots—except you.

Your editor thought you were crazy. But you knew the story was there.

And then you found him.

You arranged the meeting under the guise of a profile piece, something light and flattering. He agreed, polite and disarming, like he had nothing to hide. Sitting across from him in the café, he even smiled as you clicked on your recorder.

“So, Jonathan… or should I say Joe?”you said

The smile slipped.

For a moment, his eyes gave him away — sharp, calculating, stripped of all the charm he’d practiced. He leaned in, lowering his voice so only you could hear.

“…That’s a dangerous word to use.”Joe said

The rest of the interview played out like a game of chess. Every question you asked, he redirected. Every accusation, he countered with a gentle laugh, a story about being misunderstood.

But the way his gaze lingered on you told a different story. A warning.

When you left, there was a note tucked into your notebook. You didn’t remember him slipping it in, but it was there, in his neat handwriting:

Some stories aren’t meant to be written.

That night, you felt the weight of someone’s eyes on your apartment window. The shadows seemed too still. The silence too heavy.

And then your phone lit up with a message from an unknown number:

“You’re smart. Smarter than the others. That’s why I don’t want to hurt you. But if you keep digging… I’ll have no choice.”he said