Forbidden Truth
It started with those little columns of newsprint that used to be clearly labeled: Sponsored Promotion. Then, the label was removed so they looked like regular articles, and Kent Karlson had a lot of questions.
On page three, there was a story about a product called Vision Miracle, written by the feature reporter: Drake, the guy who always wore AirPods and talked like he was the narrator of his own Netflix docu-series.
“Hey Drake,” Kent said, walking over with a mockup in his hand. “Why not just tell them the truth about the vitamin supplements? There’s no miracle. It’s just a capsule of vitamins. It isn’t magic.”
Drake shrugged, still typing.
“That doesn’t sell, Kent," he said, in a lecturing tone. “The Sentinel wants clicks. If you want truth, go write a book.”
After Drake's condescending dismissal, Kent retreated back to his desk, but not until his on again, off again girlfriend Alice Durham, showed up and shoved an “Elon Musk Cyber Heater" into his hands. It was about the size of a night light and radiated very little heat, but Alice wanted him to have it. She also noted with smile that Musk had nothing to do with it and that there was no customer satisfaction or return policy.
"Sounds like another winner. Could someone please relay a message to Murph?" Kent said, referring to the editor who Alice was secretary to.
"What?" Alice said. "We all saw you go over to talk to Drake. We're all rooting for you."
"Drake and I go way back," Kent said, casually.
"We're impressed that you approached him," Alice said.
Kent's patience had worn out, when someone left an "Air Genie" on his desk. He examined the fake air purifier being positioned as a “revolutionary new cyber ultra-filter,” when it was really something so cheaply made that it could actually be a danger to user's health. That's around the same time he'd become aware of the “Crypto Profit Booster Bot," which claimed that it took only seven days to turn five dollars into five thousand. On the eighth day it was claimed to be “SEC-approved,” but that was far from the truth.
The mock up that Kent had done for a feature on Neurogum, was with him when he went to see his editor.
"You want me to publish that this gum is supposed to “boost IQ by forty points in forty-eight hours?"
"Maybe it does," said Terry Murph, the editor.
"And I don't think we should be selling a wrinkle cream that "doctors banned because it cures aging in one application,"” Kent stated.
"It's your job to sell them," Murph said, evenly.
Kent then took a breath, exhaled and then asked: "Could I have the Crypto Profit Booster Account?"
"Turn five dollars into five thousand in seven days?" asked Murph, with a chuckle. "Sure."
"Great," Kent said and then asked: "Don’t you ever worry that we're adding to the noise?"
Murph stirred his soup.
“There’s no time for worry anymore, Kent. So, don't rock the boat,” Murph cautioned, and that was supposed to be the end of it. But Kent had more to say.
"I'm just afraid of the message this is giving our subscribers, that sales are based on clicks and not facts," Kent pointed out.
"Write something flattering, okay?" Murph asked, and shook his head with impatience, as if he'd heard it all a thousand times. So Kent knew what he had to do, since the newsroom no longer cared about truth, but only that the products being promoted had the right sales spin.
The Sentinel presses ran each night and as the whole process became more automated, Kent felt like the newspaper itself had become a kind of machine, not for printing information but for manufacturing trust in what should not have been trusted.
The "Crypto Profit Booster Bot," which guaranteed that you could turn five dollars into five thousand in seven days - or your money back - was his now. Murph had agreed to it and he gave the Neurogum account to another reporter.
That night when he closed his laptop at midnight and was alone in the newsroom, the blue glow of silent monitors lit the place like a morgue. He whispered to no one: “I wanted to be a reporter, not a marketing accessory.”
But in the dark of that night, he realized that no one was listening anymore. They'd all decided that it was easier to go the direction where they got instant gratification.
So, he decided to just go home to bed.
Kent Karlson couldn't remember exactly when the ads became louder than the truth. Maybe they'd always been.
But somewhere between the political season that never ended and the realism that disguised sponsored content as breaking news, Kent Karlson had been following a message thread about a crypto billionaire who was flooding the market with worthless vanity coins.
The Sentinel's website was full of ads that appeared to not be genuine, but one was at least worth following up on and tempting in the way an alcoholic might say “I’ll just have one sip.”
This particular ad had a photo of the old river bridge downtown. He recognized the rusted green steel structure immediately. He’d biked past it a hundred times. And the headline grabbed him.
"You Won’t Believe What This High Schooler Invented to End Poverty!
Investment specialists are stunned.
Bankers are panicking.
A 16-year-old from Omaha, NE just changed the world with a $3 gadget that fits in your pocket. The Crypto Profit Booster Bot. Requires no electricity or maintenance. Backed by a “government agency” report that was unreleased and banned in nine countries, but why?
Kent's focus stayed on the ad. At the bottom was a GIF of a spinning silver coin the size of a nickel dropping into a mason jar of murky water and the water suddenly turning clear, like magic.
“Financial problems solved overnight?” That’s what some insiders are claiming. This tiny device is making headlines except in the mainstream media. Why? Maybe they don’t want you to know. This is being censored. Click before it’s gone.
Kent exhaled. He was used to uncovering mysteries which could unwind like Alice falling into a rabbit hole. But he should have ignored this one, because when he clicked it, his browser instantly froze. His fan spun up like a jet engine before the screen went black for half a second, then something reloaded that did not look like Chrome, Safari, Firefox, or Edge. It was something more like Tor, which he’d heard had been developed for special ops.
Instead, he saw rows of numbers scrolling: Flight paths, satellite imaging snapshots, redacted pdf layers with "Restricted viewing by National Secrecy Act."
He laughed aloud. None of this should have been visible to anyone! Not even an ace reporter like Kent. But then, all at once, a little tiny window popped up in the corner.
A pi symbol. Like someone had added it as a joke.
“Loading restricted discovery footage,” Kent read aloud, like he was a witness to the unthinkable. And he almost didn’t pay enough attention to what happened next. While he was watching someone being bludgeoned to death in a small window on his phone, he felt just the tiniest prick on the inside of his elbow, like a mosquito bite.
The poison spread rapidly like burning tattoo ink and he gasped as his hand locked and his vision doubled. He couldn't even hold a pen.
He then spun around but didn't see a dark intruder, just the faintest metallic click coming from the left, like someone closing a pen. He staggered to the bathroom mirror, but he could barely keep his balance. He had to crawl back to his desk to try to dial 911. Instead the phone app opened to immediately redirect him back to the same ad that had hijacked his computer!
Kent tried to breathe - the way he had breathed through panic attacks as a teenager - in slow counts, inhaling through his nose, calming his pulse, and anchoring, the faint pulsing throb of blood carrying whatever chemical further toward his demise.
He clearly read something that he couldn't be seeing: the word classified stamped in red and the accompanying secret names and numbers. He forced a grin and glanced at the picture of Alice Durham that he kept on his desk. She was pretty, pale and usually had a half smile on her face. She'd have never imagined him stumbling down the stairs, gripping the railing the way a drunk would, and almost colliding with old Ms. Brickworth who was on the way up, and then in his delerium, pushing out into the cold air, the sound of traffic like a muted underwater roar.
“Stop,” he whispered, as he'd staggered out into the street. A big empty bus came to a screeching halt, inches from hitting him but he didn't think anything of it.
Like a teetering drunk, he detoured down an alley, until he collapsed between a dumpster and a brick wall behind a Vietnamese take-out, his cheek hitting the pavement and some smelly and wet cardboard.
He tried to push himself up on one elbow but got up about an inch before boots scraped on concrete behind him. He was able to whisper “Help…” But the voice that answered was neither surprised nor panicked. It was calm and clinical.
“I told them you wouldn’t make it far,” said the man, one of several who now surrounded him.
Hands then hooked under his arms and he was dragged toward a steel service door he didn’t even realize was there. When the door shut, he was plunged into the dark. Then nothing.
Kent floated in a space that wasn’t quite dark, more like the color behind your eyelids when headlights pass outside your window.
He heard voices before he saw faces.
“Is he a risk if he wakes too fast?”
“No. He just needs to hear what we're saying to him…”
Big hands slapped both sides of his face lightly.
“You with us, Kent?”
The voice was low. Calm. The voice of an authority.
“You’re here because somebody pays attention when you write.”
Kent was afraid, but somewhere deep inside, there was an ironic grin. His best stories got no attention but these paid publicity stories were getting this reaction? Another hand tapped on the back of his head, as if marking a point.
“No more stories about him,” a commanding voice said.
Kent blinked until faces finally formed out of the blur. There were three of them, one of who stood near the wall. Neatly dressed in suits and ties, dark glasses although it was night, and coiled ear pieces, the type that didn’t need to hear a rebuttle.
“Your crypto billionaire? The one you think is cheating markets with his new predictive trading app? That ‘algorithmic clairvoyance’ piece you’ve been quietly drafting?”
Kent was shocked. They knew about the draft! The leader smiled like a parent explaining consequences to a child.
“He’s not just rich, Kent. He’s plugged in and in bed with people who can find anyone, anywhere.”
Kent whispered, “Why me?”
“Because you still believe in truth,” the man said softly. When he leaned nearer, Kent could smell the peppermint on his breath and thought of "Neurogum" and all it's wild claims.
“Sorry but no more drafts. No more notes. Never write another line about him, about his app, his hedge positions, his shell LLCs, or proxies in Dubai. Nothing. Ever.”
Then someone slapped him hard on the right side of his upper face, enough to make him pause. The intent was enough.
“Say it,” the man whispered.
Kent’s throat barely cooperated but he did what they asked him and promised to find anotger.
Kent didn’t even remember walking the rest of the way back to the newsroom, where he found himself inside the bathroom again, leaning against the bathroom sink.
He washed his face twice, then once more for good measure. He didn’t open his laptop but just stared at it from across the room.
Finally he took out his phone, carefully and slowly as if he were prey and not wanting to trigger a trap. Then he dialed the number he most needed to, that of Alice Durham.
“Tough Love Alice” answered on three rings and Kent launched right into his dilemma..
“If you had two choices given to you by others and both of them were bad, what would you do?”
“Take neither of them and find my own way,” she said, decisively.
Kent paused briefly, respecting her choice.
“Could we meet at a location nearby, maybe during your lunch hour?” he then asked.
"What's the matter?" she asked, sounding somewhat alarmed. She'd been Kent's confidante through all the changes.
He joked about wishing that he'd stayed on the Neurogum account and other things that bothered him. He said that he’d explain when she got there. And she said she'd be there, because the truth made her afraid.
Neurogum was supposed to make you smarter. It seemed like only yesterday that some samples of it were left on his desk and they'd laughed. Now he scooped up the small box of Neurogum and left the laptop alone like a sleeping animal he didn’t dare disturb. Then he pulled out an old trenchcoat he hadn’t worn since at least last year and buttoned it all the way up. Staying anonymous was better than being exposed.
Conscious of the box of Neurogum in his pocket, he walked the long way toward the Old Market from the office, taking side streets, alleys, staying in the shadows until the uneven brick streets when they finally came into view. There were gaslight-style fixtures, wrought-iron balconies, and antique boutiques with dusty window displays that looked unchanged since seventy-eight.
At the far end of the cobblestone main street sat a coffee shop named Beehive, the kind of place that survived on nostalgia, because it had developed a good reputation many years ago. Clean counters, the smell of the best coffee, a dozen jars of flavored honey and a row of internet computers against the far wall. Just in case there were any doubts, painted on the window was a neat sign in block letters: "Veteran Owned."
Kent sat down at one of the work stations, careful not to angle his face toward any cameras. Checking messages, he found only one from Alice.
"Hey man, someone from corporate was just down here looking for you," she wrote. "Is our date still on?"
He answered yes and that he was already at their meeting spot. Before the anxiety could get a grip on him, he opened a private browser tab, as private as a public terminal could offer, and he typed:
Steven Biltmore Predictive Trading App.
When he pushed enter, he got nothing definitive: just glossy magazine shots of Steven with Echiam Halim at a Monaco yacht gala. Steven laughing in a rooftop pool with an“actress rumored to be secretly engaged.” Then that million dollar smile again as Steven was backstage at a Vegas boxing match with some billionaire whose empire was in energy and diamond mines.
It was tabloid-style coverage with zero substance. The predictive trading app appeared at the bottom like a neglected afterthought.
But was this the app he’d been so sensitive about? He looked at the main page: with it's sponsored influencer reels, and crypto-friend podcasts promising “front-row access to the trading secrets of tomorrow.” These were all unimportant, compared to the download page. He couldn't download at the public computer but he could get it on his phone.
As he was doing that he hadn't been aware that Alice had already arrived, and was sitting beside him, intent on whatever she had up on the computer screen at the next workstation. He kept his voice down to a whisper.
"I found nothing bad about Biltmore, which means only one thing: Steven Biltmore wants to hide any connection to his crypto ventures," Kent said.
Alice agreed. "Good luck with that if we're doing our job."
She pointed out his trenchcoat, draped awkwardly over the back of his seat, and also noticed him nervously glancing toward the street.
She wanted to know what he knew but also reminded him that "Murph didn't want us to rock the boat," she said.
"Murph is harmless," Kent pointed out. "But Biltmore's gang isn't. They paid me a visit earlier."
He was keeping it just above a whisper as a car rolled slowly past the curb outside. It was a black SUV with tinted glass. His heart raced as he turned to Alice.
At the coffee shop, Kent Karlson said: "I'm starting to feel uncomfortable here," to Alice Durham, another reporter on The Sentinel who he considered the closest thing he had to a girlfriend. She understood and so he pulled his trenchcoat back on and he agreed to follow her to a different meeting spot.
From the public parking lot they were both parked in, her dark Honda led the way and he followed her in his dark colored Toyota, glad that Kent had suggested an alternate meeting spot where he figured they wouldn't be disturbed.
She followed him back about eight miles, right back to his own neighborhood.
Kent's home was a quaint split level on the west side, nicely landscaped and hidden from the street by many trees and bushes.
With her own brand of “Tough Love” she'd encouraged Kent think for himself, and excercise caution when he wasn't sure.
So when Kent led her past three houses: two ranch homes and one split level before he got to a blue bungalow, where he knocked on the door.
"Someone always burns a firepit here," he said, as he waited for an answer.
Alice mentioned that the air smelled like a sweet incense.
With no one answering the door, they took the side gate and headed toward a gentle glow that flickered from the backyard. There was laughter. Voices he recognized from unwanted Ring camera recordings and neighborhood listserv arguments.
As soon as they rounded the back of the house, they could see that the scene was disarmingly pleasant: folding chairs arranged in a circle, warm fire crackling, marshmallows speared on skewers, neighbors sipping cider but as he entered, the chatter died. When Kent gingerly introduced Alice, a collective cheer rose around the fire.
Dave from the corner lot stood up. “Man, we’re so glad. Alice must have convinced you to come because we never thought you’d make the effort.”
“A friendly neighbor is a good neighbor,” Kent said, clearly noticing them collectively holding sections of The Sentinel newspaper. “So this is what, a bonfire tribunal?”
“No!” they all said at once, and Melissa took her section of the paper and threw it into the fire as if disposing of evidence.
The group exchanged awkward looks.
Finally, Melissa said: “Kent… we called you here because we need your help.”
He expected something like: We want you to trim your trees or do something about all the leaves that blow over to neighbor’s yards, since Kent's was one of the only properties nicely landscaped with trees instead of fences.
Instead: “Half the neighborhood invested in the Crypto Profit Booster Bot.”
The fire crackled. Kent stared. “You all did what?”
Dave winced. “It was that ad with the bridge! The high school genius! The magic coin thing! It said bankers were panicking!”
“Oh lord,” Kent whispered.
Melissa leaned forward, one hand on her forehead. “We each put in, like, five hundred dollars. Some put in more.”
“Who put in more?” Kent asked.
Three hands lifted slowly like guilty schoolchildren.
Dave added, “And now our money has vanished.”
“And the customer service number is a Laundromat voicemail,” someone else said.
“And the refund page sends you to a dating site,” another muttered.
Kent rubbed his aching cheek. Neighbors scammed. Money evaporated. Crypto con.
A bridge ad. A mysterious high schooler who clearly didn't exist. And his newspaper: The Sentinel, running ads for this garbage. He felt something ignite inside him. Something he hadn’t felt in months, purpose.
“Listen,” Dave said, “we brought you here because you’re the only investigative reporter we know.”
Kent looked up sharply.
“No, I’m the only investigative reporter you know who hasn’t quit journalism for a podcast about miniature houseplants.”
“Yes, exactly,” Melissa said.
“Please,” Dave begged. “Find out who did this to us. Write about it. Expose it.”
Melissa’s eyes widened. “So, you’ll help us?”
Kent smiled crookedly.
“Tomorrow morning I’m going to The Sentinel, and I’m going to ask Murph for the Crypto Profit Booster Bot assignment.”
Dave frowned. “But didn’t they give you something else to cover?”
“Yes,” Kent said darkly. “Neurogum.”
“What’s Neurogum?” Melissa asked.
“A joke,” Kent said. “A caffeinated supplement disguised as journalism. A fluff assignment for a reporter they’re trying to neuter.”
He looked at the fire again. At the flicker of hope on their faces. At the quiet desperation of people fooled by a scam and too embarrassed to admit it.
“I'm switching,” he said firmly. “Crypto comes first.”
Then he stood up, wobbling only slightly from the punch.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “I start digging.”
The neighbors nodded solemnly, like he’d just volunteered for a quest.
Kent walked away from the firepit, feeling the sting in his cheek, but something else stirring too.
Resolve. Purpose. And the faint, burning question: If half his block fell for the ad, how many thousands more had?
Although the firepit could have been lighter in mood, there was just the tense quiet of people pretending everything was normal while silently panicking. Paper plates with burnt marshmallows sagged on the folding table. Half a dozen neighbors sat slumped in their chairs like a jury that had been deliberating too long. There was a feeling of darkness.
Sophie, who lived next door and was still annoyed with Kent about the leaves that blew over from the only trees in the front yard of any of the nearby properties, still trembled from either fear or a sugar crash.
“Oh, my stars, Kent. Your face,” she gasped, noticing an obvious bruise from being roughed up earlier. “Did the… the Crypto people do that?”
“No,” Kent said, “just a neighbor who thought my leaves were an intentional threat to public safety.”
Sophie nodded sympathetically, apparently not connecting her boyfriend with it.
Kent sat, rubbing the bruise along his cheekbone. Everyone waited. They looked at him like he might already have answers, like he had walked straight into the belly of the beast and returned carrying forbidden truths. He took a breath.
“I talked to Murph.”
A collective groan. Melissa covered her eyes. Dave muttered something family-unfriendly.
Kent raised a hand. “It’s worse than I thought.”
They leaned in; even the fire leaned in.
“Stephen Biltmore,” Kent announced, “the billionaire behind the Crypto Profit Booster Bot, also owns The Sentinel.”
A stunned silence followed, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire. Even Sophie seemed to freeze mid-blink.
Dave whispered, “You mean the newspaper knew the investment was fake?”
“They knew it wasn’t journalism,” Kent said. “But advertising money speaks louder than truth these days. Murph can’t assign the story. He’s trying to protect the paper and maybe me.”
“Protect you from what?” Melissa asked.
Kent hesitated, because saying it out loud felt like crossing a line.
“When I clicked the ad, someone showed up at my house and punched me in the face.”
Sophie gasped so loudly she inhaled a marshmallow off her skewer.
Dave looked horrified. “Are you saying the Crypto people hit you? For clicking?!”
“No,” Kent said slowly, “I don’t think they hit me for clicking… I think they hit me for thinking.”
The neighbors murmured.
Kent continued. "At first they tried to blame it on the leaves, but this isn’t a normal scam. It’s built on manipulation and on making people stressed, irritable, overreactive. It’s designed to overwhelm your brain with fear, excitement, urgency. They use the same psychological tricks as predatory salesmen.”
Sophie raised a timid hand. “Is that why I bought that… um… two-for-one door support handle?”
“And the night-vision binocular,” added Melissa.
“And that thing that was supposed to be a new way to open cans,’” Dave said.
Sophie shook her head, embarrassed. “The salesman explained everything so clear and simple. Like it was going smarten me up. But when I got home I couldn’t even remember what it was supposed to do.”
Kent softened. “That’s the point. They target people when they’re tired, lonely, and overwhelmed. They’re not just selling gadgets, they’re selling a feeling that you’re finally taking control.”
Sophie sniffled. “I run out of disability money every month, and I feel so stupid returning half the things I buy. But when they’re selling it, I believe them. Every time.”
Kent’s voice gentled. “Sophie, this is their strategy: to engineer confusion. They rely on it. Because confused people shop.”
The group looked at him differently now. Not as a neighbor. Not as the guy with too many leaves. But as someone who could name what they were afraid to face.
“I wrote a draft today,” he admitted. “An exposé. The first piece that lays out how the scam works, where the money goes, and how they recruit influencers to run fake testimonials.”
He hesitated.
“I'll finish it tonight and send it off to the newspaper.”
Melissa straightened, alarmed. “Will they publish it?”
“Not by choice but a lot of systems are automated,” Kent said. “I'll submit it after midnight and talk to my editor tomorrow.”
A cold wind swept the yard. A few leaves scuttled across the patio, small, defiant reminders of the trees Kent refused to cut down.
Dave cleared his throat. “So what do we do after that gets you fired?”
“You can protest a reporter who didn't sit down and shut up,” Kent said immediately.
The fire popped loudly, punctuating the word.
“I may not have Murph. I may not have The Sentinel. But I have you,” Kent said and scanned the circle.
Melissa frowned. “Does that thing still freeze when you try to open PDFs?”
“Exactly,” Kent said. “It’s angry, like me.”
A small ripple of laughter ran around the firepit: relief, maybe, or hope.
Kent leaned forward.
“I’m going after Biltmore anyway. Quietly. Independently. I’ll follow the fake testimonials. The server addresses. Shell companies. Offshore wallets. The ‘magical high schooler’ who obviously doesn’t exist.”
“And what about us?” Sophie asked. “What should we do?”
Kent looked at her gently.
“Stop blaming yourselves. And stop letting these scammers decide your worth.”
Sophie blinked rapidly.
Melissa wiped her eyes discreetly.
Dave sat up straighter.
Kent added, “But also… maybe stop bullying neighbors who are just trying to get by.”
Sophie nodded solemnly. “Yes. We're all grateful for what little we have and want to hold onto it. I won't buy anymore of those night vision binoculars.”
Everyone paused.
“You bought more than one?” Kent asked.
Sophie lowered her head. “They were so persuasive.”
Kent stood, brushing ash off his coat.
“There’s one more thing,” he said. “Before I left the office, Alice told me something. Something important.”
They leaned in again.
“Biltmore isn’t just running scams. He’s launching a new one soon. Something bigger. Something global. And whatever it is, he doesn’t want journalists - real or semi-pro - poking around.”
Dave exhaled. “Then he’s picked the wrong neighborhood.”
Kent gave a half-smile.
“That’s the spirit.”
He looked around at the circle of worried faces illuminated by firelight. For the first time in a long time, he felt like a reporter again, not because of a newspaper, not because of a paycheck, but because truth was hiding in the shadows and someone had to pry it loose.
“Tomorrow,” Kent said, “we start fighting back.”
Sophie raised her marshmallow skewer like it was a tiny, sugary sword.
“For justice,” she whispered.
“For refunds,” Dave added.
“For all the trees Kent refuses to cut down,” Melissa said with surprising emotion.
Kent nodded firmly.
“For all of it,” he said.
Kent arrived at The Sentinel at 8:01 a.m., which for him was an hour before he was scheduled to be there.
He figured that he'd at least avoided traffic, as the newsroom’s glass doors squeaked open with their usual reluctant wheeze, like the building itself wasn’t convinced that real journalism was worth the energy anymore.
Alice Durham greeted him but otherwise the place felt wrong. There were too many smiling faces for a Wednesday.
Kent headed toward his desk, past the interns clustered around the coffee machine like caffeinated muscrats.
At his desk, he seriously considered taking a stick of the Neurogum.
“Boost IQ 40 points in 48 hours!”
“Unlock Cognitive Potential!”
“Smarter Decisions, Faster Thinking, Better You.”
Kent sighed. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
But he was. For Melissa, for Dave, for Sophie and her night vision binoculars, and for the neighborhood’s collective dignity currently sitting on a Laundromat voicemail server.
He popped another piece into his mouth.
Mint. Too minty. Like it was trying to punch his brain awake through his sinuses.
He chewed hard and waited for lightning. Nothing. Then maybe… something?
A subtle, buzzing alertness. A faint, tingling clarity kicked in. A suspicious confidence that he might know what he was doing today.
“That’s not intelligence,” Alice muttered. “That’s either caffeine or ephedrine.”
Alice was ready, holding a thermos and wearing her practical reporter boots, hair tied back, calm expression hiding a mile of concern.
“You took the gum,” she said before he even spoke.
“Yes,” Kent replied defensively. “Why? Do I look smarter?”
“You look… awake. But are you sure it wasn't from Arnold's punch?”
Alice handed him the thermos. “The neighbors put a few things together for you.”
Kent unscrewed it and inhaled the scent of soup.
“They’re trying,” Alice said. “They were up half the night worrying about you. And also blaming themselves. Dave’s convinced your punch was a sign from God that they shouldn’t have bought the Crypto Bot.”
Kent sipped the soup. It tasted like earnestness and turmeric.
“Alice,” he said, softer, “I can’t help feeling responsible for them. And for whatever’s coming next.”
Alice gave him a long look. “I know,” she said. “That’s why they trust you. And why they’re ready to help.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Help? How?”
Alice shrugged. “I may have… organized them.”
“Organized them?” Kent echoed, alarmed. “Into what? A book club? A vigilante HOA strike force?”
“No. Just… support. Look behind you.”
Kent turned.
At least nine neighbors stood scattered across the sidewalk and lawns, pretending to be out for jogs, watering nonexistent plants, walking dogs that weren’t theirs, or holding mugs of coffee while maintaining the casual stiffness of people performing stealth in suburban daylight.
Dave gave Kent a thumbs-up.
Sophie saluted with a night vision binocular in the other hand.
Melissa pretended to stretch, very badly.
“They want you to know,” Alice said, “that they have your back.”
Kent’s throat tightened.
“But,” she added, “they also insisted you don’t do anything stupid alone.”
“I'll try to abide, but I sometimes do stupid things alone,” Kent countered.
Alice raised a brow. “You just chewed intelligence gum.”
Kent opened his mouth, then closed it.
“Am I stupid if I believe in it,” he asked.
Alice stepped closer. “Tell me the plan.”
He took a breath. This was where it mattered. He needed clarity. Confidence. Strategy. A brain that functioned at least at mid-to-high capacity. He felt the tingle of Neurogum in his mouth, a whisper that he might actually know what he was doing.
He pulled out his notebook. “Step one,” he said, “we track the fake testimonials and influencers behind the Crypto Profit Booster Bot. They can't all be fake.”
Alice nodded.
“Step two: I’m going to The Sentinel's app. At midnight, the content management system runs the automated publish-check, if I time it right, my exposé might slip into the queue before anyone sees it.”
Alice’s eyes widened. “Kent, that could -”
“Get me fired? Yes.”
“And you’re still doing it?”
Kent glanced at the neighbors. At their hopeful faces. Their half-frozen mugs. Their anxious solidarity.
“I have to.”
Alice swallowed. “Then I’m coming with you.”
“No.” Kent raised a hand. “You’re the crime reporter. If I disappear, you’ll need to find out why.”
“You, Kent Karlson, have turned trouble into a second career,” Alice said. He tried not to smile.
“With the support of my neighbors, yes,” Kent said, and he straightened his trenchcoat, feeling the faint cosmic absurdity of the moment swirl around him. He, Kent Karlson, a bruised, underpaid reporter was about to lead an informal neighborhood coalition against a global crypto scammer. Such unrealistic expectations of participating and not just reporting was being fueled by the neighbors.
They snapped to attention like kindergarteners when the teacher enters the room.
Dave called out, “Kent! Do you feel smarter? Say something smart.”
Kent opened his mouth. What came out surprised even him.
“We're going after truth,” he said. “Not because it’s safe but because someone has to stop the people who mislead and profit off of it. And if we don’t do it, the naïve will always lose.”
The neighbors cheered.
“Wow,” Melissa whispered. “The gum is working.”
Kent felt a swell of something strange in his chest. It was a sense of purpose. Maybe that was enough.
Alice slipped beside him. “Well,” she murmured, “looks like you’re officially the fearless leader.”
Kent looked at the blue gum box in his hand, then at the hopeful faces around him.
“I guess I am,” he said quietly.
“But please don’t believe it has anything to do with that Neuro-Gum,” she said.
Tomorrow, they would take on Biltmore.
But today Kent Karlson had a neighborhood, a cause, a trenchcoat, and a minty chemical courage coursing through his bloodstream.
And that was the most needed he’d felt in a very, very long time.