It started with a whisper. Ling heard it first, during a late-night intake at the Phoenix Foundation. A girl, small and pale, spoke in a voice that barely carried across the desk. She told Ling about a place—an old warehouse near the docks, locked from the outside, where people came and went at odd hours. She said it was bad. She said she had a friend still inside. Ling brought the news straight to Brent. He listened and was quite shocked. He called Adam, who started digging into shipping records and security footage. Jessica and Tommy cleared the night’s schedule. Lucy took Hope home and promised to call if anything seemed off. Brent didn’t wait. He called his private security team. Within an hour, they had a plan. Brent’s team pulled up behind the warehouse. The air was thick. Docks stretched into the darkness, cranes and stacks of containers looming like giants over the water. Brent wore black—no log

Jessica was the last to leave the safehouse that morning. She watched the sun rise, and tried to shake off the fear from the night before. The breach had rattled everyone—especially the children. Hope clung to her mum for hours. But Jessica had work to do. She’d barely slept. Her mind turned over every detail of Sarah’s network, every shadow left by Victor Lang, every unanswered question about the syndicate. She poured coffee, opened her laptop, and dove into a stack of files Adam had flagged. Most were dead ends—shell companies, fake names, money trails that vanished overseas. But one entry caught her eye: a logistics company, Eastgate Holdings. It looked ordinary at first—shipping, storage, warehouses. But the addresses didn’t match. One site was listed as “inactive,” but the power bills were sky-high. There were deliveries at midnight, payments from strange accounts, sudden bursts of data traffic. Jessica dug deepe

Brent hadn’t slept much in weeks. The days blurred—board meetings, news cameras, emergency phone calls from city officials. He kept going, fueled by rage and duty, but even he felt the weight sometimes. This morning was supposed to be a win. His company’s new water bottling plant was finally at full capacity, and the first shipment of Walker Pure Water was scheduled to arrive at community shelters across the city. Brent made it a point to be at the plant before dawn. He shook hands with workers, signed crates, and helped load the first truck. “We’re doing good work here,” he told the team. “Clean water. Fair pay. No shortcuts.” Lucy brought Hope along, and she got to put her name on a bottle. The workers cheered, snapping photos with their phones. Brent thought, for just a moment, that maybe things were turning. He was w

The cold wind still bit at Sarah’s skin when she reached the edge of the prison parking lot. Her legs felt weak, but she kept her head high. Cameras trailed her every step, shouting her name and questions she couldn’t quite hear. All she could hear was the thud of her heart, like it wanted to break through her chest.Then she saw it—a long, sleek black limousine parked by the curb. Chrome wheels. Tinted windows. A uniformed chauffeur stood at the door, stone-faced.The reporters motioned towards the limo, blocking her path. “Sarah! Who sent the limo?”She paused, let them swarm. The tears on her cheeks had dried, leaving her face pinched and pale. She didn’t answer. Instead, she glanced at the car, waiting.The chauffeur opened the door. “Miss Chen,” he said softly.Sarah slid into the back seat. Plush leather. Warmth. The smell of new money and sharp cologne. A voice spoke, smooth and low. “Welcome back to t

The Chen family had never done subtle. Not when it came to power, not when it came to saving face, and certainly not when it came to welcoming Sarah back into the world of the living. So when Robert Chen announced a gala—the first in the city since Sarah’s release—it was less an invitation and more a declaration: We’re back. And this time, we’re untouchable. The city’s elite flocked to the grand ballroom of the Imperial Tower, the same chandeliered palace where Sarah once made headlines for her charitable “philanthropy.” Tonight, the air was heavy with perfume, the walls echoing with laughter that didn’t quite reach anyone’s eyes. Sarah stood at the top of the marble staircase, her mother fussing over her hair with trembling, jeweled fingers. “You look perfect, darling,” her mother whispered, smoothing a stray strand into place. “Remember, no matter what they say, tonight is about you. About us. They want a show—give them one.”