Thiago walked through the front doors of the mansion, his mind still racing from the news of the whole thing, he was not fast enough to know who was the boy and what connection he has with the boy. “Fuck” he screamed as he stepped into the grand foyer, his feet went still. The sound of a brush scratching against stone filled the silent hall.There, in the center of the white marble floor, was a girl. She was on her knees, her small frame hunched over a bucket of grey, soapy water. She was wearing a thin, grey maid’s uniform that was two sizes too big for her. Her hands, once soft and full of life, were red and cracked from the harsh chemicals.It was Tamia. His little sister.Thiago felt a sharp pain in his chest, like a hot blade was twisting in his heart. The last time he saw her, she was wearing a bright yellow dress."Tamia?" he whispered. His voice was thick with emotion.The scratching stopped. The girl didn't jump. She didn't look up with joy. She slowly turned her head, her m

The plastic wristband felt like a brand of ice against Thiago’s palm. NAME: DANIEL HENDERSON. STATUS: TERMINAL. The letters blurred as his vision swam with a mixture of predatory focus and soul-crushing dread. Daniel. The name he had whispered into the hollow of Bernadette’s belly five years ago, before the world turned to ash. The lead guard, a man with a thick neck and a jagged scar running through his eyebrow, chuckled. The sound was wet and grating. "Look at him. The man looks like he’s seen a ghost. You shouldn't have dug so deep, Henderson. Some things are better left buried." Thiago’s thumb traced the word Terminal. His voice was a low, vibrating hum that seemed to rattle the very air in the foyer. "Where is he?" "Henry said you’d be eager," the guard sneered, gesturing with the barrel of his rifle toward the black transport van idling in the driveway. "He’s at The Willow Tree. But the doctors are tired of waiting for him to expire. If you want to say goodbye, you come with u

The rain over Manhattan felt less like water and more like liquid soot, streaking the windows of the armored SUV as it cut through the neon-drenched streets of the Meatpacking District. Thiago sat in the back, his face illuminated by the flickering glow of a tablet. On the screen, the grainy image of the boy—his son—played on a loop. “Is my Daddy here yet?” The words were a serrated blade, sawing at his restraint. "Put it away, Thiago," Melanie said from the driver's seat. Her voice was taut, professional. "If you hyper-focus on a ten-second clip, you’ll miss the movement in the periphery. And right now, everything is moving." "I've searched every satellite image of New York State for a facility named 'The Willow Tree,'" Thiago growled, his voice a low vibration that seemed to rattle the door panels. "I’ve audited every deed, every hidden basement, every decommissioned asylum under the McHampton name. It doesn't exist. They're keeping a child and a comatose man in a ghost." Melan

The digital clock on the farmhouse dashboard hit zero with a pathetic, tinny beep that felt like a death knell in the silent woods. Thiago braced for the end. He closed his eyes, his mind flashing to Daniel’s silver gaze—the son he had just discovered he had. He expected the white-hot flash of thermite to vaporize the SUV and everything in it. But the roar of an explosion never came. Instead, a soft fizz hissed through the clearing. A shower of cheap, harmless sparks sprayed from the underside of the lead truck, and a flickering blue light projected into the muddy air. It was a hologram. Richard sat in a plush leather chair, swirling a glass of amber liquid, his face twisted into a smirk that radiated pure malice. "Twenty minutes, Thiago," Richard’s voice crackled, mocking and smooth. "You ran like a dog for a bone that wasn't even there. I wanted to see if the trillion-dollar 'Observer' still had the desperate heart of a janitor. You didn't disappoint. While you’re out playing her

The library door clicked shut, sealing out the echoes of Bernadette’s frantic footsteps in the foyer. Inside, the air was thick—smelling of old paper, spilled bourbon, and the sour scent of a man who had spent the night realizing his life was a house of cards in a hurricane.Henry didn’t even look up when they entered. He looked like a man who had been hollowed out. His tie was undone, dangling like a noose around his neck, and his desk was a graveyard of bank notices and legal warnings."The Chairman wants an update, Henry," Thiago’s voice was like a hammer on cold iron. He slammed his palm onto the desk, rattling the half-empty bottles. "And Melanie here has very little patience for 'low-class' excuses."Henry flinched, his bloodshot eyes darting to Melanie, who stood with her arms crossed, her face filled with boredom. He let out a loud laugh."Updates? You want updates?" Henry gestured wildly at the papers. "I’m bankrupt, Thiago! Do you hear me? The accounts are frozen. The offsho