Paranoia's Not Just a Feeling

There are moments where you can feel the world shifting under your feet  not an earthquake, not a physical thing. Just this quiet, invisible snap. Like something in the air broke. And now nothing will ever sit right again.

That was this morning.

I stood in my kitchen, hand wrapped around a mug I hadn’t even sipped from, just staring at my door. I kept wondering if it had been opened last night. If the lock was twisted and re-twisted while I was sleeping like the dead.

Because lately, death felt closer than sleep.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

Blocked number.

I stared at it for a second before picking up.

“Detective Cross,” I said, voice flat.

A deep, distorted voice came through the line. Not Greaves. Not anyone I recognized.

“If you want to know the truth, look behind the mirror.”

Then the line went dead.

I stood there, frozen, heart hammering. I scanned the room. The only mirror I had was the one in the hallway  cracked on the top right corner. I hadn’t replaced it. Part of me liked the way it showed me broken.

I walked up to it slow, the floorboards creaking under me. I expected it to be a prank. Or a metaphor.

It wasn’t.

Behind the mirror, taped to the wall, was a photo.

A still frame from a security camera. Black and white. Grainy.

Me in my own apartment  standing in front of the fridge.

Naked.

Exposed.

Taken from inside the place.

I ripped the mirror off the wall and threw it across the room. It shattered. I didn’t flinch.

Whoever was playing this game was already inside.

I went straight to Marcus.

He didn’t say a word when he saw my face. He just handed me coffee and closed the blinds.

“Talk.”

“I’m being watched,” I said. “From inside my place. From close. Real close.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Do you want to move? Temporary security?”

“No. That’s what they want. Me displaced. Shaken. Easier to corner.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Everything,” I growled. “Every camera in my building. Every maintenance log. Every digital lock record. I want the damn janitor’s shoe size if it helps.”

He gave a tired smirk. “Okay. I’ll make calls.”

I paused. “You trust everyone here?”

The smile vanished.

“No. And neither should you.”

By noon, Juno was back in her digital cave, tracing the origin of the image. Her apartment still smelled like fear, but she was focused teeth clenched, fingers dancing over keys like she was fighting a war through Wi-Fi.

“It came from your building’s internal feed,” she said. “But it wasn’t pulled by the super. He didn’t have access.”

“Then who did?”

She clicked a few more times.

“Someone spoofed a city surveillance request and got a full dump of the feed. They routed it through three proxies, but I cracked two already.”

“And?”

She turned the screen toward me.

A name popped up on the trace.

Detective Julia Renn.

I blinked.

“No,” I said. “That’s not possible.”

Juno looked confused. “You know her?”

“Yeah,” I said slowly. “She trained under me last year.”

Juno frowned. “She’s the one who leaked your address, Lana. It’s all over some dark crime forums now. Your habits. Jogging schedule. Grocery runs.”

I didn’t speak.

I couldn’t.

---

I confronted her that evening not at the station. At a diner we used to hit after shifts. I didn’t want her guarded.

She was already there when I arrived. Sipping black coffee. No fear on her face.

Which told me everything.

I sat down across from her.

“You bugged my apartment.”

Her eyes didn’t blink. “That’s a strong accusation.”

“It’s not an accusation,” I said, sliding the photo across the table. “It’s a fact.”

She looked at it and finally, finally, her jaw tensed.

“I didn’t know he’d go that far,” she said.

My hands curled into fists under the table.

“Who is he?”

Her lips pressed tight.

“I can’t say. You don’t understand what you’re in the middle of.”

“No,” I said, “I understand better than anyone. I’m in the middle of a crime scene that keeps growing. And now I know someone in my own department is feeding the killer.”

Her eyes flicked to the window.

“If I tell you,” she whispered, “I’m dead.”

“You’ll be dead anyway if I don’t stop this,” I snapped.

She hesitated, then slid a napkin toward me. On it, a name:

Commander Halbrook.

My blood ran cold.

That man had been running special ops for two decades. A ghost in a badge.

Renn leaned in.

“He made a deal with Greaves,” she said. “Back when the first case was active. Greaves was meant to hand over information on a cartel art trafficking ring. In exchange, Halbrook promised him certain... freedoms.”

I stared at her.

“You mean murders.”

She didn’t correct me.

“I only leaked your address because I was told to monitor you,” she added. “Not to hurt you.”

“Too late.”

I stood.

“If I go down, I’m dragging everyone with me.”

“Lana…”

“No,” I snapped. “You don’t get to say my name like we’re still on the same side.”

That night, I found another package on my doorstep.

No postage.

Just a small black box tied with wire.

I opened it slowly, heart thudding.

Inside:

A human ear.

Still fresh.

And beneath it, a note typed on plain white paper.

“She told you something she shouldn’t have. Tell her goodbye.”

I called Marcus.

No answer.

Called Juno.

No answer.

I drove like hell back to the diner.

Julia Renn was slumped in her booth, head tilted at a sick angle, blood dripping from her ear. One eye still open. Still watching.

I dropped to my knees.

Too late.

Too damn late.

At that moment, something inside me snapped.

Not fear.

Not grief.

Purpose.

No more tiptoeing around red tape and old boy networks. No more pretending this was just about a killer with a flair for art.

This was a system of rot.

And I was about to burn it down.