Everything was a blur when Irene stormed back into HQ. The briefing room was buzzing with chatter, soldiers moving in and out, reports flying left and right. But Irene? She stood still in the middle of it all, eyes locked on a single piece of paper clutched in her fist.That damn note.“Next time, don’t let a civilian clean up your mess. – D.”The words were burned into her brain. Who the hell left this? How did this person get in? More importantly, how did he get out without a trace? How did he get out without being seen?Mad Tiger had been one of the city’s most terrifying A-class criminals, it had been the military mission to bring him down and they had failed several times.Now how can a criminal with that kind of reputation be tied up like a birthday gift with a neat bow, unconscious and bruised. Her team had been stuck outside for four freaking hours, and this guy handled it like it was a walk in the park.And then had the audacity to mock her.How dare he!Irene paced the room

The Thornton residence was unusually lively. Sunlight poured through the tall windows of the estate's sitting room, throwing golden streaks across polished mahogany floors. Crystal glasses clinked softly against a tray of champagne flutes, and the scent of fresh croissants mingled with the sharper tang of espresso from the butler's cart.In the center of the room, Trevor Thornton held court like a smug prince in a kingdom of admirers. Dressed in a fitted navy suit with a crimson silk pocket square, he leaned against the fireplace mantle, one hand lazily swirling a drink, the other animated as he launched into the third retelling of his version of the Mad Tiger capture."So there we were," Trevor began, voice loud enough to turn every head, "military lines spread thin, command floundering, chaos ready to explode. And I said to my contacts—high-ranking officials, mind you—‘Gentlemen, let me make a few calls. My father and I can handle this, then suddenly I kicked the door of the mad Tig

The case file was empty—officially. No fingerprints. No credible eyewitnesses. No known motive. But Irene knew better. Something moved through the city like a shadow with a vendetta. And she was going to find it.She sat alone in her office at midnight, the blinds drawn, the dim desk lamp casting long shadows across the peeling case files stacked like tombstones around her. The buzz of fluorescent lighting overhead was the only sound, save for the faint hum of her old computer. She hadn’t told anyone. Not her superiors, not her team. What she was doing wasn’t sanctioned. It was personal.Davion.The name echoed like a ghost through the corridors of her mind. Ever since the takedown of Mad Tiger—a man so violent he was considered untouchable—Irene hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. She’d read the initial reports a hundred times. A four-hour standoff ended in fifteen minutes after a mysterious blackout. No gunfire. No tactical team confirmed entry. But the aftermath was clear:

The sun was already dipping low behind the rooftops, painting the sky in these crazy shades of orange and pink. It should’ve been one of those chill, Instagram-worthy evenings. But of course, things were never that simple.Beverly walked beside her mom, Margaret, trying not to roll her eyes too hard. They’d just left some stuffy charity luncheon where old people talked about "bettering the city" while sipping overpriced tea and pretending they cared. Now, Margaret was back on her usual drama.“The city’s falling apart,” she complained, heels clicking sharply against the sidewalk. “Too many thugs, not enough law. And don’t even get me started on that ridiculous Mad Tiger vigilante garbage. He’s probably just a myth some people made up to feel better.”Beverly didn’t answer. Her head was full—mostly of memories she wished she could forget. Like the last time she saw Davion. That weird tension. The way he looked at her like he knew something she didn’t. Ugh.“And you, Beverly,” Margaret

The smell of smoke and ash still lingered in the air, thick and bitter like regret. Even though the fire trucks had come and gone, and the flames had been out for hours, the devastation still pulsed in the air like a fresh wound. Twisted metal, cracked pavement, scorched concrete. People whispered more than they spoke, as if the destruction might hear them and come back to finish the job.Irene stood with her arms crossed, her badge clipped tight to her jacket and her jaw clenched even tighter. Her boots crunched over broken glass as she made her way through the ruins of what used to be a corner deli. A witness—a scruffy teenage boy with soot smeared on his cheeks—stood in front of her, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else."Kid, I'm going to ask you one more time," she said, her voice sharp and no-nonsense. "You saw what?"The boy shifted on his feet. "I told you already. Right before the blast, I saw someone. It was a figure. Not clear, like...like shadows. But it was tall and