Before Gary could reply, the soft purr of a different engine echoed from a side access tunnel. A modest, dark sedan glided to a stop a few yards away. The door opened, and a man in his early to late fifties stepped out. He was tall, slightly stooped, with a mane of silver hair and eyes that held a lifetime of meticulous study behind wire-rimmed glasses. He carried an old leather satchel.Adams Smith.He approached Frederick Wheler, and the two men exchanged a handshake that was more than a greeting—it was a silent transfer of weight, a reaffirmation of a decades-old pact. No words were needed.Smith then nodded to Gary, a brief, assessing glance. "Gary. Thank you for facilitating this."Before Gary could respond, the main entrance tunnel filled with the sound of Chance's powerful car. It pulled into the pool of light and stopped. The doors opened.Chance stepped out, his eyes immediately scanning the scene, taking in Gary, the imposing figure of Frederick Wheler, and the unfamiliar y

Courtney returned alone later that evening. Gary had texted: "Going to be late. Critical meeting with Chance. Don't wait up." The message was terse, typical of him when things were volatile, but it left her feeling unmoored in the quiet space.She dropped her bag by the door with a soft thud, the day's accumulated grit and mental fatigue clinging to her. All she wanted was the scalding spray of a shower to wash away the dust of the secret facility and the chill of shared confessions.It was only after, wrapped in a soft robe with her damp hair piled in a towel, that she finally checked her personal phone, which had been silenced for hours.A notification glowed on the screen: 1 New Voicemail.Frowning, she tapped it and put the phone to her ear. The connection was poor, layered with static and the faint echo of a vast distance."Court? It's... it's me. It's Margaret." The voice was her sister's, but thinner, strained. A tremor ran through it that had nothing to do with the bad line. "

“I have to,” Chance heard himself say, the words hollow. “I can't find out something like this, and keep it to myself."He finally glanced at Chloe. Her face was pale in the dashboard glow, her expression a complex map of worry, sympathy, and a fierce, unwavering support. She wasn’t shrinking from this. She was buckling in beside him for the fallout."I have to tell her," Chance repeated, more to himself than to Chloe, as he navigated the long, winding driveway. The hollow feeling had been replaced by a cold, solid determination. Chloe reached across the console, her hand finding his where it rested on the gear shift. She didn't try to offer empty reassurance or logic. She simply laced her fingers through his, a silent anchor in the storm. Her touch was warm and steadying."Everything will be fine," she said softly. Not a prediction, but a promise of presence. I am here. You are not alone.Chance looked at their joined hands, then at her. He offered her a small, short-lived smile—a f

Flynn looked younger than his years, his eyes darting between the two people seated across from him. Ava Rennet and Gerald Seth.They had scheduled this meeting just so they could prepare him for the cross examination later that day during the Julia's case regarding the death of Bruce Lincoln.Ava, having worked with Sandy before knew what to expect, and felt like preparing Flynn for it so that his testimony won't be watered down at the end of the day.“Sandy Thorne is going to come at you hard,” Ava said, her voice low but piercing. “She’s going to imply you were paid, that your memory is faulty, that you have a grudge. Your only job is to be a brick wall. Answer the question asked, nothing more. ‘Yes.’ ‘No.’ ‘I don’t recall.’ Do not volunteer, do not explain, do not get drawn into a debate. Understood?”Flynn swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Understood. Just the facts.”“Smart,” Gerald rumbled, giving a single, approving nod. He took a sip of water, his eyes never leaving Flynn

Christopher let out a sigh, heavy with the weight of a caregiver. He ran a hand over his face, the picture of exhausted devotion. “My fiancée,” he said, the lie smooth. "What happened to her?" The female officer asked.“She has severe narcolepsy. Coupled with chronic fatigue. She had a… an episode this morning, right before we were supposed to go to a very important specialist appointment across town.” He infused his voice with a tremor of frustrated worry. “The stress of it all, you know? She just… crashes. Completely out. I have to get her to this doctor. He’s the only one who’s been able to help her.”He glanced back at Janelle, his expression softening with what looked like genuine love and pain. “I didn’t want to move her, but missing this appointment… it could set her back months.”The officers exchanged a look. The story was specific, plausible, and delivered with the confident vulnerability of a wealthy, worried man. The car was expensive but not flashy, his clothes spoke of