Wrist. Sketch. Two Watchers. Smile.

The ice pack is on my wrist at 16:00 and it throbs in a way that feels honest — like the bruise is confirming something I already knew. He didn't just want the case. He wanted it from me, specifically, and the grabbing was not about the hearing program. It was about whether I would let go. I let go of nothing. But my hand still aches when I press my thumb into the mark and that small sharp pain is the only thing that tells me it was real.

At 17:00 I drew the false authorization. His face leaning in, the smile that was not a smile. My hand in the sketch looks like it is being pulled away from something — not gracefully, not like in the stories where the courier is always faster. My arm looks like it is being dragged. I ranked him first today on the list of people I want to see walk into a glass door. He took something from me even if I didn't let go.

Lonely at 18:00. I wrote down every warning sign and I wanted to tell my mother during the call at 20:00 but I said I was tired instead and she said rest well and I did not say I am scared or I am building something out of a rust-coloured smear on a briefing room floor and a confirmation text I photographed nine days ago. The lie was easy. The truth was that I am tired of the lie being true.

I washed the case details from my phone at 21:00 and it felt like burning evidence. His face I will forget. That is probably good.