Something about the truck driver was off.Walker noticed it the moment Svet shrugged off his coat and settled into the waiting room chair. The dim hospital light cast soft shadows over his frame, highlighting the marks that crept up his neck—tattoos, but not the casual kind. Some were shaped like stars, others like half-moons, blending into the wrinkles of his aged but still intimidating physique.Then there were his arms.Walker had seen tattoos before—who hadn’t?—but the ones on Svet’s hands were different. His left forearm bore the inked silhouette of a scorpion, its tail curled upward in a striking green hue, as though ready to strike. The details were sharp, intricate, as if the creature itself had been burned into his skin rather than merely inked. It was mesmerizing, dangerous-looking, almost alive.This wasn’t just body art. This was a mark of belonging.Walker’s gaze shifted to Svet’s right arm, where a serpent-like dragon coiled in emerald and black, its fierce eyes seeming

Jett jerked awake to the sharp sting of ice-cold water slamming against his face. His body convulsed from the shock, lungs seizing as the freezing liquid soaked into his torn clothes. The world was a blur—shadows moving, voices laughing, his breath coming in ragged gasps.Then, the fist came.A brutal strike to the ribs. Then another. Jett groaned, head lolling forward, but the pain snapped him awake. His wrists burned from the ropes cutting into them, his legs bound so tight he could barely feel them anymore.A boot slammed into his gut.He would’ve doubled over, but the ropes held him upright."That woke him up," one of the guards sneered, rolling his shoulders. The red scarf around his neck was stained with dried blood—maybe his, maybe someone else’s. Didn’t matter. These men didn’t care.Jett spat blood onto the floor.The laughter around him was casual, like they were playing cards instead of torturing a man. He could barely lift his head, but he caught glimpses—rifles slung lazi

The entire police department was in chaos.A cop had been beaten, humiliated, and left for dead in the middle of the street. The video was everywhere—circulating online, played repeatedly on news channels, dissected frame by frame by both law enforcement and the public. The image of Officer Oscar struggling, then collapsing, played like a stain on the department’s reputation.A prisoner had escaped, not just slipping through their fingers but taking a patrol car and making a mockery of them. It was a slap to the face.Inside the precinct, tempers flared.“We have checkpoints all over the city, CCTV surveillance, and an entire force dedicated to tracking this guy down!” Ramirez slammed a file onto the desk. “And yet, nothing?!”Another officer, jaws clenched, shook his head. “He’s like a damn ghost. We traced the patrol car—found it abandoned near an uncompleted building. No fingerprints, no leads, nothing.”The NYPD’s higher-ups were livid. The escapee’s face was everywhere, plastered

The car screeched to a halt. Jett barely felt the force of the stop—his body was too battered, too numb to register anything but exhaustion. The doors unlocked with a mechanical click, and one of the men in the front seat turned around, his cold, dead eyes drilling into Jett’s.“Get out.”Jett didn’t need to be told twice. He pushed the door open, dragging himself onto the pavement, his legs wobbling beneath him. He felt the weight of eyes on his back as he staggered forward, nearly falling but catching himself at the last moment. The car didn’t linger. It roared off into the night, leaving behind nothing but the acrid smell of burning rubber.He forced himself toward his apartment, each step a reminder of what he had just survived. His ribs jutted out beneath his torn shirt—he hadn't eaten real food in days. His body was an empty shell, but his mind… his mind was a storm.Jett fumbled with the key, his fingers trembling as he jammed it into the lock. The door creaked open, and he all

The cab ride home was silent, the only sounds coming from the city as it blurred past the windows. Oscar leaned against the seat, his face pale from the blood loss. His wife, seated beside him, reached for his hand, her grip firm yet trembling. She didn’t say a word, but the worry in her eyes spoke volumes.When they arrived, she helped him out of the car, her movements swift but cautious. His legs nearly buckled beneath him, and he gritted his teeth, pushing through the pain as she supported him toward the house. The Bolt driver waited as she guided Oscar through the door before hurrying back to the car. She had to retrieve the vehicle she had left at the mall to throw off any potential followers. Their movements were calculated, deliberate. They couldn’t afford mistakes.Oscar staggered inside, his breath shallow as he made it to their bedroom. His wife helped him ease onto the bed, carefully positioning him against the pillows. Every inch of his body ached, the pain radiating from