The note doesn’t look threatening.
That is what unsettles me most.
It is a narrow strip of paper, folded once, slipped into Damian’s coat with enough precision to feel intentional rather than rushed. No creases from panic. No ink smudges from haste. Just clean white paper, stiff enough to hold its shape, soft enough to fold without protest. The handwriting is neat block lettering, pressed confidently into the page, each line deliberate, evenly spaced, as if the person who wrote it wanted no room for interpretation.
We are watching.
Four words. No punctuation. No flourish. No need.
Damian reads it in the car before he thinks to hide it.
I see the moment register in his eyes. The flicker of recognition, sharp and immediate. The tightening of his jaw. The way his shoulders shift as if b
