The drive to Wilfreda’s and Helsin’s felt endless as Chance didn’t remember running down the stairs of his building. He didn’t even remember bursting into the parking lot or how hard he slammed the door of his car. All he remembered was the hammering in his chest and the desperate chant running through his mind over and over:Please let them be safe. Please let me not be too late. Even if he wasn’t sure yet whether they were safe, and that he was the one who was probably overthinking, he could almost tell that all wasn’t well, and that he had to hurry as fast as he could.It was unusual for Wilfreda to have left the call the way she did, and most unsettling was the fact that the head of security personnel wasn’t answering his phone either.He took the corners too fast. Ignored traffic lights. His grip on the steering wheel was so tight his knuckles whitened. Every second felt like it was dragging him deeper into dread.The moment he screeched to a stop in front of Helsin and Wilfreda’

Chance opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He looked genuinely lost, overwhelmed, struggling to piece together what Gerald was implying.Nothing that Officer Gerald was saying at that moment was making any sense to him, and he could only wish Gerald would just make him understand instead of making him look lost as though he was hiding something from him.“I really wish I could understand where all of this is going,” Chance said at last, shaking his head. “But I don’t. I don’t see the connection between Helsin… Wilfreda… the guards… and what happened months ago.”Gerald let out a cold breath through his nose, something snapping inside him. He had expected Chance to say that, and so hearing it now, didn’t really seem to make any difference as far as he was concerned.He had been keeping a close eye on Chance and everything that has been happening around him since the incidence with the blood-stained bullet, and he had noticed the patterns. But what had heightened it all for him was

Christopher O’Connor was escorted through the towering glass doors of the Federal Internal Affairs Headquarters, flanked by two stern-looking officers. It wasn’t the kind of walk one would expect for someone under custody; if anything, it felt like he was being ushered into a luxury hotel.And in a way, he was.Internal Affairs didn’t keep high-value detainees in ordinary holding cells. They were too important, too dangerous, or too politically connected. And Christopher was all three.The warden leading him—a stout man with silver hair and a face that revealed nothing—pushed open a reinforced door that slid aside with a low mechanical hum.“Welcome to your suite, Mr. O’Connor.”Suite it was indeed, because calling it a “cell” would’ve been an insult.The room was furnished with a plush bed, a full private bathroom, a mounted television, a small but well-stocked bar, and a desk with a digital tablet sitting neatly on top. There were surveillance cameras, of course, but they blended in

Harry said nothing as he didn’t trust his voice Instead, he simply turned to the next page where more photos greeted him. There was a younger version of Doomdoer in crisp suits, a younger version of his late mother laughing and a small boy with missing teeth—him—standing between them.He flipped again, and again until his hand paused.A new figure appeared in one of the pictures. A man who looked almost like Doomdoer, but darker, broader-shouldered, with sharper features. A man with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.Harry stared, as something about the man he was seeing in the picture was just enough to make him halt, as though there was some kind of interesting story about him that he’d love Doomdoer to tell him about.And of course, there was an interesting story about the fellow, and Doomdoer didn’t wait for him to ask before he continued speaking.“That’s my brother. Robert.” His voice dropped lower, deeper. “We looked so much alike that people often mistook us for twins.”

Gerald arrived at the café upstreet in less than five minutes as the café wasn’t very far from Ava’s law firm.It was a small place known for its quietness, and was tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore, with the smell of roasted beans drifting out through the open door. Exactly the kind of spot where no one paid attention unless you wanted them to.He stepped inside, scanned the room, and immediately spotted Flynn Holloway seated near the window.Flynn was impossible to miss. Twenty-one. Sharp-eyed. Hair slightly messy in a way that suggested he had been buried in work for hours. His laptop was open, screensaver flickering, camera bag at his feet, fingers absentmindedly tapping a rhythm on the table as though processing a thought only geniuses understood.He looked up when Gerald approached.“Agent Gerald,” Flynn said with a small nod—respectful, but not intimidated. That was something Gerald appreciated about him.“Flynn.” Gerald pulled out the chair opposite him and sat. “Yo