"Alright," Dayo said finally. "It's about swimming. I found out that some athletes are using drugs to enhance their performance… and I have evidence."

Alice almost jumped out of her chair.

"WHAT?"

Her mind flashed immediately to the day reporters ambushed Dayo, demanding answers, accusing him of doping without shame or proof. Now the same Dayo was saying he had real evidence—names, formulas, coaches, and a full breakdown. It felt like the universe had flipped.

Alice blinked, amused, impressed, and slightly terrified all at once.

"Dayo… you're really ruthless. You know that, right?"

Dayo smirked lightly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh please," Alice rolled her eyes. "Your enemies should be praying."

Dayo exhaled a soft laugh. "Of course they should."

They chatted briefly before ending the call. Dayo stepped outside to film content with Timon, leaving the house with a clear head.

---

Outside, across the street, Max sat in his parked car with Bella beside him. Both wore casual outfits, blending perfectly into the neighborhood. The mission was simple, but the weight behind it was massive.

The car windows were slightly down, letting a faint morning breeze slip through.

Max leaned back, staring at the quiet building in front of them. "So… what do you think about these people backing Michael? The ones Boss keeps mentioning."

Bella took a slow breath. "Honestly? Scary."

"Scary how?"

"The kind of scary that one can't say in the open." She shifted, crossing her legs. "I feel like these people… Boss didn't exaggerate. They're powerful. Influential. And they want control."

"Control of what exactly?" Max asked.

Bella glanced at him. "Control of everything that affects the public. Media, narratives, opportunities, what the world sees, what they hear… Boss showed us only a tiny piece, and even that tiny piece is deep." She clicked her tongue. "Imagine the full picture."

Max shook his head. "And Michael is just a pawn."

"Obviously," Bella replied. "He's talented, but replaceable. People like that—those who move behind the scenes—they don't invest in a single person. They invest in leverage and they definitely have somethig on Michael to keep him on leash."

Max exhaled slowly, staring out the windshield. "And if Boss doesn't stop them… what then?"

Bella didn't answer immediately. She looked at the building again, the windows reflecting soft sunlight.

"Then once they get a tighter grip on the media, everything changes," she said finally. "Imagine someone who controls what the world sees. Which artists rise. Which artist fall. Which stories disappear. If they combine business and entertainment… that's dangerous power."

Max nodded. "Yeah… really dangerous."

Bella shifted her gaze and suddenly stiffened. "Target approaching."

Max straightened immediately.

They watched in silence as David Thomas, the head of USADA, approached his apartment building after his usual morning jog. He wore a grey sweat-soaked T-shirt, earphones dangling around his neck, breathing hard.

The moment he unlocked the front door and went inside, Bella murmured, "Now."

Max stepped out of the car calmly, walked across the short pathway, and approached the door. He placed the envelope—thick, sealed, and heavy with truth—against the doorframe.

Then he rang the bell.

He didn't run. He didn't hide. Instead, he walked away casually, turning at the corner just enough to glimpse the peephole light flicker.

Thomas peeked.

He saw Max's figure leaving, and though he didn't recognize him, he didn't see any threat. A second later, the door opened, and Thomas picked up the envelope.

Max slid back into the car, buckled his seatbelt, and leaned back with a quiet grin.

"Mission completed, lets go." he said.

Bella started the engine, and the car rolled away smoothly.

****

Inside the house, David Thomas stared at the envelope in confusion. He wasn't expecting any delivery. He checked the seal again—completely unmarked, no return address.

"What is this?" he muttered.

He was about to drop it on the table and head for the shower, but something tugged at him. A strange instinct. He sat instead, pulled the chair closer, and opened the envelope.

The first page stopped his breath.

EVIDENCE OF PERFORMANCE-ENHANCING DRUG DISTRIBUTION WITHIN MULTIPLE NATIONAL SPORTS PROGRAMS

He blinked.

No way.

His eyebrows pulled together in disbelief. He flipped the page. And the next. And the next.

His jaw clenched.

Names of coaches.

Names of suppliers.

The formulas used.

The manufacturing process.

The list of athletes benefiting from the enhancements.

Dates. Receipts. Digital footprints. Conversations.

Everything.

"Impossible…" Thomas whispered, hand trembling slightly.

But it wasn't impossible.

It was real.

Shock expanded into anger—hot, sharp, and immediate. His heart thumped against his ribs as the memories flooded back:

He had been an athlete once.

A runner.

Clean, disciplined, relentless.

And yet, despite all his effort, drug users had always outranked him. He refused to take shortcuts. Instead, he fought his way up the system until he reached USADA—determined to protect athletes from the same injustice he faced.

He always suspected something was wrong in the system. He had pushed labs for deeper tests, demanded rechecks, argued with supervisors… but the results always came back "clean."

Now he understood why.

Someone was covering it up and it was massive.

His hand tightened on the file until his knuckles turned pale.

"This…" he muttered, breath shaking, "this is corruption on a level I've never seen."

He didn't waste a second.

He grabbed his phone and dialed his deputy's number.

"Meet me downstairs. We're going to the testing lab. Immediately."

***

Within twenty minutes, Thomas and his deputy were inside the facility where athlete samples were stored and monitored.

"Get me the list of athletes under these coaches," Thomas ordered, slamming the file down on the table. "Random selection. Five from each."

The technicians exchanged confused looks but obeyed instantly.

Thomas opened another section of the evidence: the drug formula and detection method—a formula his labs had never tested for because it wasn't on any official list.

"Run the new test," Thomas ordered. "Use the formula here. I want results within the hour."

The lab workers rushed into motion.

Thomas waited—pacing, stopping, pacing again—his entire body tense, furious, and determined.

Finally, the results printed out.

Positive.

Positive.

Positive.

Positive.

Every single athlete tested showed signs of the enhancement.

Thomas felt a cold wave wash over him. Rage simmered beneath his skin.

He picked up his phone again, voice low and dangerously calm.

"Organize an emergency meeting," he told his deputy. "Right now. I want every senior official in that room in the next thirty minutes."

The deputy didn't argue. He swallowed and nodded. "Yes sir. I'll get it done."

Thomas stared at the evidence again, his anger solidifying into purpose.

"This ends today," he muttered.

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