Owen gently pulled back from the embrace, brushing a strand of Nathalie's hair away from her face. "You should get some rest," he said quietly. "Starting tomorrow, I'm going to help you figure this out. Step by step." Nathalie gave a small nod, her eyes tired but softer now, less burdened. "Can I stay with you? Just… for tonight?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Owen let out a quiet chuckle which helped lighten the moment. "Yeah, you can stay," he said with a reassuring smile. Carrying her to his room, without waiting for another word, Nathalie wrapped her arms around him again, curling up against him. She rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was the first time in a while that she felt safe. Owen draped his arm around her protectively, letting his own eyes close. The quiet of the room wrapped around them like a cocoon. And in that shared silence, with her breathing evening out against him and his arms a

Killian sat curled on the floor, hunched forward with his back against the wall, sweat clinging to his brow despite the coolness of the room. His jacket lay discarded nearby, his shirt clinging to his body as his chest heaved with shallow, frantic breaths. His hands trembled violently, one clutching his phone while the other fisted the fabric near his heart, as if sheer pressure might still the ache spiraling out of control inside him. He had tried everything, breathing exercises, pacing, even holding his breath for ten seconds to regain rhythm but none of it helped, not tonight, not when Janelle still hadn't returned, not when his mind was screaming with spirals of loss, failure, and fear. He recorded another voice note, his voice uneven, raw, breaking between words. "Janelle… I'm sorry. I'm... God, I didn't mean to hurt you, I just… I don't know how to sit still anymore. You said not to go, and I wanted to listen. I really did. But Owen needed help, and I couldn't leave Nath

The soft flicker of the television bathed the living room in pale light. Janelle was nestled comfortably against Killian's side, a shared blanket covering their legs as the romcom played on. He hadn't protested much, not when she looked so pleased every time the couple on screen kissed or shared some cliché, heartwarming line. It wasn't the kind of evening he typically indulged in, but having her close, her warmth pressed against his side and her quiet laughter filling the room, it made him forget the outside world existed. For a while, but as evening fell, and the shadows grew longer, his phone buzzed sharply on the coffee table. Killian hesitated before reaching for it, the name on the screen read Owen. He exchanged a glance with Janelle before answering. "Owen?" Killian's voice immediately sharpened. "What's wrong?" There was a beat of silence, then Owen spoke, grim and direct. "The cartel called. They threatened Nathalie." "What? What exactly did they say?" He

The darkness of the industrial zone cloaked the area in silence, broken only by the faint mechanical hum of the drone as it flew overhead, guided expertly by Owen. He and Killian stood at a distance, partially shielded behind the rusted shell of an abandoned truck, eyes glued to the monitor in Owen’s hands. Killian scanned the warehouse cluster, each structure eerily still. The place felt abandoned—no movement, no light, no signs of activity. For a moment, it was hard not to wonder if they had been wrong. If Nathalie’s memory had simply led them to another dead end, but then, just as the drone pivoted toward one of the northernmost buildings, a figure emerged from the shadows. A man, he wore a cap pulled low over his face and a thick black jacket, even though the air was mild. He walked with caution, glancing over his shoulder before slipping through a narrow metal door hidden by a sliding wall. Killian leaned in. “There.” Owen nodded. “That’s suspicious.”

George got home that evening with his thoughts still spinning like a wheel stuck in motion. Ashley's teasing words echoed in his mind, looping over and over. "Do you want me to be your girlfriend?" He knew she had been joking, well, half-joking but still, the question haunted him. Should he have been just as blunt? Should he have told her how he felt, laid it all bare? Maybe she would have laughed, or maybe she would have smiled and said yes. But he hadn't, and now, alone in the long, quiet hallway of his family's villa, it felt like a missed chance again. As George dropped his backpack onto the floor of his room, his mother Agnes waltzed in without knocking. Typical, George didn't even bother hiding his exasperation. He scoffed inwardly as she adjusted a vase on his desk like she had a right to be in there. "The maids already made dinner," Agnes announced breezily, ignoring the tension in the air. "Time to eat." George sighed, he wasn't exactly in the mood, but skipping d