In Plain Sight

Produced by J.August Jackson sith support from ChatGPT, MidJourney, and ElevenLabs. A podcast version is available on Spotify.

The ring wasn’t flashy. If you weren’t paying attention, you’d miss it.

A simple, dark metal band—matte, with no gems, no engravings—except for a barely visible symbol etched into the inside curve. Something ancient-looking, geometric.

The first time I noticed it was on the hand of some senator during a trade summit. It could’ve been nothing, but once I saw it, I started seeing it everywhere.

A hedge fund CEO here, a retired general there. Even a couple of UN delegates, their fingers resting lightly on podiums as they addressed crowds about climate initiatives and economic policy. Different industries, different faces, but the same ring.

Whatever it meant, it wasn’t for show. These weren’t power pieces meant to signal status like Rolexes or gold tie pins. They weren’t advertising it. They were keeping it—close, quiet, and connected.

That’s what stuck with me. These people didn’t broadcast their symbols. They already knew who was part of their group.

And if I’ve learned anything in this business, it’s that when the elite start keeping secrets, it means they’ve got something worth hiding.

I spent the next three days combing through archives, old photos from summits and board meetings, zooming in on hands at charity galas and government hearings. Same ring, over and over, always on the same finger—right hand, middle finger. CEOs, senators, tech giants. Even a former Secretary of Defense wore one.

At first, I tried contacting the usual suspects. Called corporate offices, fired off emails, tried working my way through PR channels. You know, pretending to play the game.

But every response I got back told me exactly where I stood.

“Mr. Caldwell doesn’t know you, Ms. Holt. We’re unable to accommodate your request at this time.”

“If you’re not affiliated with a major publication, we’re not able to arrange an interview.”

Translation: You’re nobody. Goodbye.

That’s the way the game works—if you’re not in the club, you’re invisible. And I’ve never exactly played nice with gatekeepers.

Still, the whole thing gnawed at me. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get close to anyone wearing the ring. These people had built walls I couldn’t climb. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned as a reporter, it’s this: Walls only look solid from a distance. Get close enough, and you can find the cracks.

On the fourth day, I got lucky.

Edward Caldwell—CEO of Aegis Global, a corporation so big it probably has its own weather system—was giving a press conference right outside their downtown headquarters. It was about some new green energy initiative, but I wasn’t interested in solar panels. I was interested in the ring on his finger.

If I couldn’t get him through official channels, I’d confront him the old-fashioned way—on the street, right as he was leaving. No appointments, no PR people blocking my path. Just me, him, and a few precious seconds to ask a question.

The press conference was exactly the kind of chaotic mess you’d expect—reporters from major outlets shouting over each other, cameras flashing, microphones shoved toward Caldwell’s face. He smiled his way through the whole thing, like a man who’d been born with his chin tilted just right for the cameras.

I kept to the edges, watching. Waiting.

Caldwell was wearing the ring, just like I’d seen in the photos. Matte black, a symbol barely visible on its surface. It caught the light as he gestured toward the crowd—smooth, deliberate, like someone very aware of his own power.

When the conference started winding down, he turned toward the black car waiting for him at the curb. His bodyguards were already moving in, cutting off the reporters with practiced efficiency. If I wanted my shot, it had to be now.

I slipped between two reporters and made a beeline for Caldwell just as he reached the car.

“Mr. Caldwell!” I called out, raising my voice just enough to cut through the chatter. “A quick question—about the ring.”

He paused, halfway into the car, his hand resting on the door frame. For a second, I thought he was going to ignore me. But then he turned, slow and deliberate, his sharp gray-blue eyes locking onto mine.

The weight of that look hit me like a gut punch. He didn’t seem surprised or annoyed—just… curious. Like he’d been expecting me.

“I’m sorry?” he said, tilting his head slightly. His tone was polite, but there was a subtle undercurrent—something amused, almost playful.

I pointed toward the ring on his hand. “The ring. I’ve seen it on several other CEOs and government officials. What does it mean?”

Caldwell glanced down at the ring, turning it idly on his finger. For a moment, he looked almost thoughtful, as if the question had stirred some old memory. Then he smiled—a quiet, knowing smile.

“You’ve been paying attention,” he said softly.

There was something unsettling in the way he said it, like I’d passed a test I didn’t know I was taking.

I pressed on, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s not just you, is it? Others wear it too. What’s it for? Is it connected to LuxCorp?”

The question didn’t seem to faze him. He just kept twisting the ring, a faint glimmer of amusement flickering in his eyes. And then, without warning, he leaned in—just enough for his words to hit like a whisper against my ear.

“We’ve always been here, Ms. Holt.”

The world around me seemed to tilt, just slightly.

He knew my name.

I hadn’t told him. I hadn’t given it to any of his people, hadn’t introduced myself to the PR folks. I was just another face in the crowd—no press badge, no credentials. To him, I should’ve been nobody.

But he knew exactly who I was.

And worse than that—he’d spoken to me like he knew me already. Like I was part of something I hadn’t even realized I’d joined.

Before I could respond, he gave me one last smile and slipped into the back seat of the car. The door clicked shut, and the black sedan glided away from the curb like a ghost slipping into the night.

I stood there, stunned, my heart pounding in my chest. The street around me blurred into background noise—reporters packing up, pedestrians rushing past—but all I could hear were those five words.

We’ve always been here.

I don’t know how long I stood there, replaying the conversation in my head, trying to make sense of it. But one thing was certain: whatever that ring meant, it wasn’t just a piece of jewelry.

And whoever they were—they knew who I was.

And they were watching.