2025-06-08 08:14:27
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The Face Behind The Door
Eliot sat on the edge of his bed, the file still clutched in his hands. His eyes were fixed on the name—Aria Cross—and the address beneath it. It should’ve felt like progress, but instead, it felt like standing at the edge of a cliff.He picked up his phone and dialed."Renna," he said when the call connected.“Boss?” she answered, sounding half-asleep. “It’s 2 a.m.”“I need a favor. A big one.”Renna groaned. “Bigger than helping you ghost-hack that cartel leader’s safe files last year?”“Bigger,” he said. “I need you to find someone. Aria Cross. I have an old address—67 Maple Hollow Lane in Greenridge Township—but the people there said she moved.”Renna’s tone shifted immediately. “Got it. Give me fifteen.”The call ended. Eliot stood, heart pounding. He paced the room while Max curled up in the corner, eyes following him silently.Fourteen minutes later, his phone buzzed.“I got something,” Renna said. “Her name pops up in a community registry, rural area not far from Greenridge. P
The Search for Aria Cross
The drive to Greenridge Township felt longer than the distance on the map.As Eliot guided the car along the winding road, trees lined both sides like silent sentinels. Their branches arched overhead, filtering golden light across the cracked pavement. The file folder rested on the passenger seat beside Max, its single address still etched in Eliot’s mind: 67 Maple Hollow Lane.It was a quiet neighborhood, tucked away from the world—as if time had forgotten it. Birds chirped somewhere in the distance. A swing on a tree swayed gently in the breeze, its rusted chains creaking with every gust.Eliot parked near the curb and stepped out. Max followed closely, nose twitching at the unfamiliar scents.There it was. The house.Two stories tall, weathered but still standing proud. The shutters were painted a faded blue, and flowerpots lined the front steps. It looked like the kind of home where people laughed in the kitchen, where bedtime stories were read under warm blankets. Eliot’s heart t
Echo's of The Past
The engine’s low purr was the only sound that filled the morning as Eliot drove through the narrow roads that led to the edge of the city. His mansion had faded behind him, swallowed by tall buildings and noise, replaced now by quiet, broken sidewalks and peeling fences.He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his fingers cold despite the air conditioning. Max, riding shotgun, sat alert with ears perked, as if sensing the weight in the air.A decade had passed since Eliot Reyes last saw the place. The old neighborhood hadn’t changed much—same crooked streetlights, same rusty bus stop, same little convenience store with faded paint that once sold penny candy.But it felt smaller now. Or maybe he had just grown too far away.He pulled into the gravel parking lot of the orphanage—St. Miriam’s Home for Children—and killed the engine. The building stood like a stubborn memory: old brick walls covered in ivy, windows trimmed in flaking white paint. The front door was still blue, though
The Weight of A Promise
The mansion was quiet.Not the suffocating quiet of loneliness, but the kind that settled into a home after a storm. Thick, warm, earned. Eliot sat in the sun-drenched living room, legs stretched across the sleek gray couch, a half-empty mug of coffee forgotten in his hand. Outside, the ocean whispered against the cliffs in long, steady sighs. Inside, sunlight filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting soft gold against the polished stone floors.Max dozed nearby, belly to the floor, paws twitching as he chased something in his sleep—maybe a squirrel, maybe a memory. Occasionally, his ear flicked, but otherwise, the dog was still. Peaceful. Alive in his own way.The news played on the muted screen above the fireplace, captions scrolling silently.…DR. MALCOLM WYNN, ONCE SILENCED CO-FOUNDER OF GENX, SPEAKS OUT……ROARKE INNOVATIONS SHUTS DOWN AMID INVESTIGATION……PHOENIX EDGE—A NEW ERA OF ETHICAL TECH?…Eliot leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. He could feel it—somethi
Mission save the Forgotten Genius successful
The lights on the talk show stage weren’t kind.They were harsh, hot, and too many. Dr. Malcolm Wynn sat alone in the wide leather chair, a glass of untouched water on the small table beside him. The audience was quiet. Not the usual chatty hum before a segment. They were waiting. Hungry. So were the cameras.The host—a woman with perfectly combed curls and an unreadable face—sat across from him, legs crossed, tablet in hand."Dr. Wynn," she began, her voice calm, almost gentle. "Thank you for agreeing to speak with us. Especially now."Wynn gave a slow nod. He looked older tonight. Maybe it was the lighting. Or the week he’d just lived through. Or maybe betrayal really did leave wrinkles."I'm not here to clear my name," he said quietly. "I'm here to speak the truth."The host raised an eyebrow. "You and Calven Roarke were once close. Co-founders. Partners. Friends. What happened?"Wynn looked straight ahead. Past the cameras. Past the host. Like he was watching a younger version of
The Fall of Roarke Innovations
The hospital lights were too white—too sharp, too clean, like they didn’t belong in a night like this.Lana Roarke stood outside the emergency room doors, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her father’s blood still drying on her palm. She had forgotten how to cry. The tears had stopped, but the panic hadn’t. It pulsed through her chest like a second heartbeat. Her heels clicked softly on the sterile floor as she paced, then stopped. Then paced again.Inside, through the glass, doctors moved fast. Machines beeped. Nurses called out short, clipped orders. Calven Roarke lay on the gurney, limp, eyes closed. Tubes in his nose. Chest rising slow. He looked smaller than he ever had. As if the weight of all his secrets had finally pressed him down into the mattress.Marcus stood near the wall, his phone in hand, clenched so hard his knuckles had gone white. He wasn’t calling anyone. There was no one to call. Not yet. Not until they knew. He glanced at Lana, who hadn’t spoken since they arr
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