Behind the headlines, something far more unsettling is happening.

One woman quietly forged checks for years.

One man walked into a Newark office with a bat and chaos exploded in seconds.

We rush to stop what’s loud, visible, terrifying.

Levita Almuete Ferrer’s story is not about a cinematic villain;

it is about an ordinary employee whose private collapse found a perfect hiding place inside institutional trust.

Her addiction did not need brute force when signatures, passwords, and

routine familiarity opened doors far more efficiently than a crowbar ever could.

Each forged check was a quiet betrayal, made possible because people believed that systems work and that familiar faces mean safety.

The man with the bat in Newark shattered that illusion in the opposite way.

His threat was obvious, his violence immediate, and the system reacted exactly as designed: alarms, lockdowns, police, statements.

Yet that contrast exposes a deeper failure.

We have built elaborate defenses against the dramatic intruder, while neglecting the colleague unraveling in plain sight.

Until we treat human vulnerability itself as a core security risk, we will keep being blindsided—not by strangers, but by the people already inside.