You wake up inside your dream with a thin black chain around your neck leading away from your bed and below your bedroom door. You get out of bed to follow it. You know it's unbreakable.
The chain takes you through your very large house, down to the wine cellar, across the hidden door to your private shelter, descending ruthless to a sub-basement that doesn't exist. There's no floor there, only damp earth and the chain, now red, buried on it.
There's a shovel. You start digging around the chain. You quickly find a dead hand grasping it, and the moment you see it you know you knew it was there. The chain forks a thousand times above the hand - each new chain buried down to grasping dead hands.
The hands yank the chain once. You see the snap travel out of the ground and across the chain going up the pooled red-blackness you trail behind you, moving slowly, faster than sound, and there is nothing in their path but your beck to be broken.
Right before you die you are woken up by a phone ringing. It's not your business phone, nor your personal phone, nor your secure phone. A very smooth voice, too flawless not to be synthetic, confirms that yet another journalist too ambitious or too dedicated, with too much luck or too clever fintech forensic tools, has gotten back enough in the past to trip your alarms.
The voice doesn't ask anything.
You answer Yes and the voice hangs up.
You don't try to sleep again. Tomorrow night there'll be another hand in the ground, but the mathematics of the thin chain won't be more immutable than your resolve.
Even if the hands yanking the chain are more and angrier every time.