Copy & Paste Power in Modern World

Rovan thought about asking Havel for help three times.

Each time, he stopped before entering the man’s office.

Havel had not become softer after the Maren case. If anything, he had started watching Rovan with more patience, and that was worse. A loud officer could be handled with anger. A patient officer waited until a mistake became useful.

When Rovan finally stood near Havel’s door, he heard his own name from inside.

"If Rovan touches another report without clearance, send it to me first," Havel said. "I want to see where his hands are going."

Rovan stepped away before anyone saw him.

That road was closed.

He could not go to Havel and say an unknown organization had forced him to move against Rust Gate. He could not say Maren’s death had been arranged through him. Even asking for protection would sound like confession if Havel looked at it from the wrong angle.

His next road was George, but George’s building was worse.

Rovan went there in plain clothes and gave his name at the reception. The secretary did not come down. A security man listened through an earpiece, then shook his head.

"Mr. George is unavailable."

"Tell him it is urgent."

"He is unavailable."

"I am a police officer."

The guard looked at him without respect. "Then come with official papers."

Rovan left with his jaw tight. 𝕗𝕣𝐞𝐞𝘄𝐞𝚋𝚗𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹.𝚌𝕠𝚖

George had cut him off completely. The man who had once used him now treated him like dirt stuck near the door. Rovan wanted to shout, but shouting outside George’s office would only prove he had lost control.

He waited in his car for almost twenty minutes afterward, hoping someone from inside would call him back. No one did. By the time he drove away, he understood the answer. George would not stand near a man who smelled like trouble.

So he did the only work still in his hands.

He investigated.

Adam’s last order had been clear. Find everything about international organizations moving in the province. Rovan started from the police station records. Two unknown men had come asking about the forest road shooting, not as complainants and not as officers. They had spoken to a clerk, checked small details, and left before anyone could ask too much.

The clerk remembered them because they had not pushed like local gang men. They had spoken politely, paid for tea, and still made him feel that refusing them would be unwise. That kind of behavior did not belong to ordinary street criminals.

Then he sent word through his own informers.

One informer said several outsiders had visited the area near the forest road after the police tape came down. Another said a hotel driver had been paid to wait near the western side of the city for men who spoke little and tipped too much. None of it was proof, but the pieces were starting to point in the same direction.

By evening, one of his street sources agreed to meet behind a closed warehouse. The man smelled of tobacco and machine oil. He sold illegal guns when he could and information when guns were too dangerous.

"Do not ask too loudly about those people," the source said.

Rovan’s eyes narrowed. "Which people?"

"The outside ones who are not local," the source said. "They are asking about Maren, Rust Gate, and who knew the route. Some people say they belong to a bigger line. Bigger than Gonda. Bigger than Rust Gate."

Rovan’s mouth dried.

"World Zone?" he asked before he could stop himself.

The source’s face changed. "So you know the name."

Rovan cursed inside.

The source leaned closer. "Listen, Officer. Whatever money you are making, make it quietly and step back. Something is going to happen. This is not a normal gang fight. Outside people are here, and local men are choosing sides. When that starts, everyone who carried a message gets checked."

Rovan did not like the last sentence.

"Checked by whom?"

"By whoever survives."

The source left first.

Rovan remained near the warehouse for several minutes.

At first, he felt a small ugly relief. If World Zone was moving against the nameless caller’s side, then maybe the caller would be too busy to squeeze him. Maybe the problem would eat itself.

He almost smiled at that thought.

Then he remembered who had given him Maren’s route.

Then the thought turned.

If World Zone investigated Maren’s death deeply, they would ask who had moved the police line. They would ask who had shaped the report. Somewhere under enough pressure, his name could appear.

And if the nameless side found out he had hidden useful information, they might release everything they had on him.

There was no safe corner.

The worst part was that he still did not know which side was stronger. World Zone had a name, men, and foreign reach. The caller had no name, but he had information that arrived at the exact moment it was needed. Rovan could not decide which was more frightening.

He thought of the activist’s sister, Havel’s eyes, George’s closed door, and the caller’s calm voice. Every road around him had someone waiting at the end. The only reason he was still moving was because stopping would make him easier to cut.

Late that night, Rovan sat at his desk after most officers had gone. He opened his own email account, the one already tied to the copied phone the caller somehow used. His hand hovered over the keyboard.

He hated doing this.

He hated that he did not have a better choice.

He wrote everything he knew. Unknown men asking at the station. World Zone sources near the forest road. Underworld talk of an outside organization. A warning that Rust Gate’s new leader might be targeted. A second warning that Bruno could be next if they had connected him to Tobin.

He did not write his own fear, but it sat behind every line. If the caller could read between words, he would understand that Rovan was no longer reporting from loyalty. He was reporting because the ground under him had started breaking.

He read the message twice.

After one last breath, he sent it to himself.