2025-02-07 00:44:59Walker wasn’t surprised by the shift in their demeanor.
They had seen him. And now, they would do everything in their power to silence him. A nurse—one he didn’t recognize—stood at the counter, her gaze cold and detached. "Sir, may I know who you are?" The question sent a chill through him. They were pretending he didn’t exist. He forced a smile, though his nerves were unraveling. “I’ve been here since last night. This is my card. But…why are you asking?” She barely looked at it. “Sir, if you don’t adhere to hospital policy, I suggest you leave.” Walker gritted his teeth. “You should know me. I brought in a woman last night. My wife—Elizabeth.” For the first time, her expression shifted. A slight furrow of her brow. Then, as if catching herself, she straightened and dismissed him. "Next in line." A woman pushed past him, stepping up to the counter. Her features were unsettling—deeply sunken eyes, heavy lids nearly concealing her pupils. She had the look of someone who had seen too much or nothing at all. Walker stepped aside, but his thoughts spun wildly. "Have they killed her?" "No. No. They can't." The images from the night before surged through his mind—the white bags, the garbage truck, the human remains in the trash can. He clenched his fists. He wanted to demand answers, to storm into the ward and tear the place apart until he found her. But he forced himself to stay calm. "Miss, I’m sorry. Maybe I was too harsh earlier. My name is Walker, and my wife was admitted here last night. Here’s my card again." The nurse sighed, hesitating this time before flipping through the register. Walker’s pulse pounded. This was it. She’d find Elizabeth’s name, and this nightmare would be over. Then, her lips parted, and she spoke the words that shattered him: "There is no Elizabeth in this book." Walker’s breath caught. His fingers trembled. “That’s not true! Check again—Elizabeth Steve!” But deep down, he already knew. They had erased her. The sight of intestines in that trash can flashed before his eyes. His stomach churned. "Sir, there’s no one by that name here," the nurse repeated, already turning her attention elsewhere. Walker stumbled back, his mind racing. Something was wrong. His name was there—but hers wasn’t. How? His gaze darted around the waiting area, searching for a familiar face. Someone—anyone—who had seen him bring Elizabeth in. Then, he spotted her. An elderly woman sat alone in the corner, the same woman who had been there the night before. Hope flared in his chest. She would remember. Walker took a deep breath and approached her. "Ma’am, good day," he said softly. No response. He hesitated, then crouched to her level. Her head tilted slightly, but she didn’t look at him. "Ma’am… please, do you remember me? My wife—Elizabeth—was brought in here last night. You saw her." Still, nothing. His heart pounded. Was she ignoring him? He waved a hand slowly in front of her face. No reaction. His chest tightened. His fingers trembled as he moved his hand closer, just inches from her eyes. Still, nothing. His breath hitched. She was blind. His last hope shattered. A lump formed in his throat as he slowly stood. He glanced around the waiting area, scanning for anyone else who might have been here last night, but every face was unfamiliar. And the nurses were watching him. Walker sat stiffly on the hospital bench, his hands clenched into fists. His mind was a storm of confusion and fear. How could Elizabeth just vanish? How could they erase her so easily? The nurses had been cold, unhelpful. The records didn’t show her name. It felt like he was losing his grip on reality. **** As he sat there, his eyes caught movement across the hall. A man, dressed in a wrinkled blue shirt, stood by a glass wall. His shoulders trembled, and his head was pressed against the glass, as if the weight of the world had collapsed on him. Walker frowned. The man wasn’t just standing—he was crying. Curious, he followed the man’s gaze and saw two tiny infants in the neonatal unit, their small chests rising and falling with fragile breaths. The man's fingers pressed against the glass, his tears smudging the surface. The man didn’t move. His grief was thick, suffocating. Walker hesitated, then walked toward him. "Are they yours?" Walker asked gently. The man sniffled, rubbing his wet face with his palm before nodding. "Yes... my twins," he muttered. His voice was hollow, drained of life. Walker glanced at the babies. "Where’s their mother?" At that, the man let out a bitter laugh—a sound so empty, it made Walker’s skin crawl. “They told me she died giving birth,” he murmured. His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms. "But I never saw her body. They wouldn’t let me. They told me there were ‘complications’ and that she was gone before I arrived. Just like that. Gone." Walker’s stomach turned. “They didn’t let you see her?” “No.” The man shook his head. “They handed me a death certificate and told me to make arrangements. I asked to see her, just once, but they kept delaying… stalling. It didn’t make sense.” A heavy silence settled between them. Walker’s pulse quickened. “What time was this?” he asked. “Around midnight,” the man answered. "But something didn’t feel right. She was healthy. Strong. She sent me a message an hour before they said she died. She said she was fine and that she couldn’t wait to hold our babies.” His voice cracked. “And then… she was gone.” Walker clenched his jaw. The pieces were falling into place. The secrecy. The missing records. The eerie silence. His instincts screamed at him. Something about this felt disturbingly familiar. He needed more information. “What was she like?” he asked carefully. “I mean… her features?” The man turned to him, confused but too broken to question why Walker was asking. “She was beautiful,” he said. "Strong. She had these… eyes. Everyone always talked about them." Walker’s fingers twitched. "Her eyes?" The man nodded, his own gaze distant. “They were… different. Sparkling, like gemstones. The most stunning eyes I’ve ever seen.” A cold chill crawled down Walker’s spine. His breath caught in his throat. His heart pounded. “What if she’s not dead?” Walker whispered, his own fears bleeding into his voice. The man slowly turned to face him, his tear-streaked face contorted in confusion. "What do you mean? Walker exhaled sharply, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He didn’t say a word again, didn’t let the thought slip past his lips. But in his mind, it was clear. They took her. And if he did nothing… Elizabeth would be next. Walker swallowed hard and turned back toward the corridor. The helpless man had no idea what had really happened. No idea what kind of monsters lurked in this place. Walker wouldn’t tell him. It would destroy him. Instead, he looked at the tiny infants in the glass room—motherless, fragile, unaware of the horror that had taken their mother. It was time to act. It was time to stop being calm. Enough Walker clenched his fists.
Previous Chapter
Latest Chapter
Meet me at the Cave
Walker stood by the cracked window, his silhouette half swallowed in the shadows of the room. The light outside was still, but his insides churned like a distant storm.“Svet…” he began, voice low but firm, “…I don’t want to involve you in what you don’t fully understand.”Svet leaned forward on the edge of the couch, hands clasped tightly. His expression had shifted from curious to cautious.Walker stepped away, slowly, almost like retreating. His boots made faint creaks on the wooden floor.“I’ve pulled others into this before,” Walker continued, eyes not meeting Svet’s, “and now… they blame me for everything.”His voice cracked slightly on that last word, as if regret was a bruise he hadn’t stopped pressing.He was about to say more—“involving” was halfway out of his mouth—when his phone buzzed in his palm. A sharp vibration.No name. Just a blank number.Walker stared at it for a beat too long.Then he answered.“Hello,” he said, slowly, cautiously.A silence. Then a voice. Famili
"I'll stay till you figure it out"
The clock ticked past midnight.Walker hadn’t moved far from the window. The lights inside were off. Only the pale glow of the fridge lit the room, casting long shadows across the kitchen floor.Outside, the night sat heavy. The air was thick. Quiet.Then headlights cut through the silence — low, cautious beams. A single car.Walker flinched. His fingers curled tighter around the pistol in his hand. Safety off. Just in case.The sedan crept to a stop across the street. Engine idled. No one stepped out immediately.He stood to the side of the window, one eye just barely peeking through the blinds.Svet.It looked like him. Slouched behind the wheel, shoulders hunched like always. His signature gray hoodie up over his buzz-cut head. No sudden movements.Walker watched for another full minute.Nothing. No second car. No shadows moving behind.Still, he waited.Another thirty seconds.Then he crossed the room silently, reached the door, and unlocked it — click. He kept it half-open, letti
Svet Arrives New York
Walker’s burner phone vibrated against the kitchen counter — a deep buzz that rattled the empty glass beside it.He turned slowly, eyes narrowing. His body stiffened, just slightly, like prey sensing a predator from miles away.The screen flashed: Unknown Caller.He hesitated. His thumb hovered. Then, a quiet sigh.He answered."Walker," a voice said — sharp, urgent, trembling at the edges. "Hello? Am I speaking to Walker?"Walker’s heartbeat skipped. The voice was familiar. Too familiar.He cleared his throat, dropped his tone, and added a rasp. “No. Who’s asking?”The line held its breath."You bastards," the voice snapped, fury laced beneath the words. "You kidnapped Walker, didn’t you? I swear to God — I’ll make sure all of you suffer. I’ll make your lives a living hell."Walker said nothing. He let the silence hang, his jaw clenched, eyes locked on the fridge door’s faint reflection.The voice cracked again, this time with disappointment and confusion. “If you're not Walker, then
Clash
Walker wasn’t in a rush. He moved with the ease of someone who’d done this before.The sun was soft against the hospital roof as he stepped out of the black cab across the street, a brown paper bag in one hand and his eyes doing what they always did—scanning.He’d parked two blocks away and walked the rest. Not out of habit—out of necessity.Private hospital. Minimal foot traffic. Neutral colors. A blue logo painted on a cream wall that looked like it hadn’t seen graffiti in twenty years. Classy. Quiet. Too quiet.He adjusted the paper bag in his grip, the warm sandwich scent from the deli still rising out. Not that he planned to eat. He just needed the visit to look normal.That was the game—make things look normal. Even when they weren’t.Before he crossed the street, he slowed. His left eye twitched.There. The guy across the florist van. Pretending to be on a phone call.Another one—bent at a vending machine too long.Something in the air shifted. Not loud. Just a scent. But Walke
Walker is found again
Dax stood still—frozen, like a man watching his own shadow stretch under a dying sun.His breath dragged out longer than usual. A pulse ticked under his jaw. Slowly, he lifted his wrist and glanced at the time—a black-faced Rolex Sea-Dweller, thick-strapped, gifted by Montoya himself during a silent night of blood and loyalty.The hands on the watch ticked without mercy.Time… slipping.Only twenty-two hours remained out of the thirty-six he’d been given. If Walker wasn’t caught before the clock bled out, Dax wouldn’t just lose his rank—he’d lose his head.And the Stone-Faced Man?That man didn’t make empty threats.Already, Dax had dispatched his crew across the boroughs—Brooklyn to Bronx, from the belly of Queens to the upper glass towers of Manhattan. His men were hunting, and their phones stayed hot. Walker or Riven—he didn’t care which one showed up first. One would lead to the other.He slid his tongue across dry lips and tried to swallow, but the air tasted metallic.The gangs
Left To Die
The warehouse reeked of silence.A heavy, moldy silence—thick like spoiled milk left too long in summer heat.In the center of the dim, rust-stained space stood a single metal pole, its base corroded into the cracked concrete floor.Wrapped around it, bound like an offering to some unseen god, was a girl.Anita.Her frame—once lively and laced in neon lights—now slumped. Her wrists bore deep red rings where the thin, silver chains had bitten into her flesh. Her ankles? Worse. Skin peeled in flaky strips. Swollen. Bruised. One foot twitched every few minutes, not from strength—no, that was long gone—but from involuntary nerves fighting hunger’s grip.Her black leather miniskirt was soiled. Her crop top clung to her skin like a second, sweat-drenched hide.She hadn’t eaten in days.Her hair, once slick and shining under the club's violet strobes, now hung in tangled mats, clumped with sweat, dust, and the dried scent of old urine.And the stench...Even rats stayed away.Three days ago,
