The sky was that light blue color Eva always said looked like cotton candy. They were at the park behind the foster home—the last one they shared before being split up. Tim, age ten, sat on the creaky swing set, watching his little sister stomp through the grass with her arms stretched out like airplane wings.
"I'm flying, Timmy!" she shouted, spinning in wobbly circles. She was five, missing her front teeth, her pigtails bouncing as she laughed like nothing in the world had gone wrong.
He smiled weakly. He didn't want to tell her the truth. That they wouldn't be here much longer. That some social worker had told him they'd be placed "separately" due to space.
Eva ran up to him and clutched his hand. "When we get older, we'll have a house. With a big dog. And a swing. You promise?"
Tim knelt in front of her, heart sinking. "I promise, Eva. Always."
He woke up gasping.
The memory hit like a fist every time—vivid, unfair, a punch from the past that never got old. Tim sat up on the couch, shirt clinging to him with sweat. His apartment was quiet except for the rhythmic drip of a leaky tap in the kitchen.
He rubbed his face and sat in silence for a moment.
Eva. Five years old. Lost to the system. Gone.
But not forgotten.
After a quick shower and some mental negotiation with a stubborn tie, Tim was suited up. He glanced in the mirror—mustache perfectly angled, hair holding up, suit a little wrinkled but passable.
"You look like a man about to sue God himself," he muttered. "Or get fired trying."
The phone buzzed: Cetus Corp Ad—'For Tomorrow. For you. For America.'
Lex Armstrong's face lit up the screen, hand over heart, the American flag behind him like some kind of divine halo. A man carved out of charisma and dollar bills.
Tim scoffed. "Right. Lex Armstrong—the man who put 'patriotic pharmaceutical overlord' on his resume."
The guy was everywhere. Billboards, magazine covers, and talk shows. But never in person. Lex was too big, too polished. Untouchable.
At Khan & Thomas Attorneys at Law, the morning buzz had already hit a fever pitch. Phones rang, interns sprinted, and—of course—Danno held court by the coffee machine, holding his latte like a scepter.
"Timmy D!" Danno called, spotting Tim across the lobby.
Tim sighed. "Danno, it's too early for this."
Danno strutted over, wearing that perpetual grin that said, I know I'm too much, but you love me anyway. "Did you catch Lex's latest pitch-fest last night? Man's got style—jet flyover, fireworks, the whole shebang. I swear, that guy could sell bio-weaponized shampoo, and people would thank him."
Tim raised a brow. "And you, of course, would buy two bottles."
Danno shrugged. "For the good of the country."
Tim smirked. "I'm this close to suing you for emotional distress."
As they walked toward the elevator, Danno leaned in. "You hear the buzz? Cetus just bought up a surveillance tech company—Duralex or something. Rumor is they're opening shop in Europe now. Paris, maybe?"
Tim froze for a fraction of a second, then masked it. "Surveillance tech? From a pharmaceutical company? That's not weird at all."
Danno laughed. "Welcome to capitalism, baby."
Tim peeled off toward his office. "Catch you later, Captain Patriotism."
Once inside, Tim closed the door and locked it. His light mood evaporated. He yanked open a drawer, pulled out Harris's latest file, and flipped through it. There it was—Duralex Solutions, purchased through a Cetus shell company, location: Paris, with vague notations about "private event hosting."
Tim's mind churned. Duralex. Paris. Lex Armstrong's sudden push for "global expansion."
He pulled out his phone and messaged Sera's burner line.
DURALEX. Paris. Cetus front. Private event pending. Confirm?
Then he paused, staring again at Lex Armstrong's smug face on the ad.
That man had woven himself into every part of the country's fabric—heroic CEO, man of the people, savior of the sick. But something darker was lurking behind that million-dollar smile.
And Tim was going to rip it open.
The warehouse felt colder tonight.
Tim sat on an overturned crate, a steaming cup of bad coffee in hand, watching as Sera knelt over a tangle of maps, papers, and surveillance photos. Nearby, Damian moved like a caged predator, double-checking weapons in his duffel bag with the precision of a soldier who expected war at any moment.
Tim broke the silence. "You know, for a guy who could probably punch through walls, you're weirdly organized."
Damian didn't look up. "Order keeps you alive."
Tim sipped his coffee. "I usually just make lists."
Sera smiled faintly but didn't turn. "And how's that working out?"
Tim glanced at the pile of notes beside him. "Well, I'm not dead. Yet."
She finally looked up, eyes thoughtful. "We might be able to keep it that way."
Before Tim could respond, the creaky warehouse door opened. Valen, thin and pale with haunted eyes, entered nervously. His coat was too big, his movements twitchy, like a man constantly bracing for impact.
Sera met him halfway.
"I... I wasn't followed," Valen whispered, glancing over his shoulder.
"You're safe," Sera said gently.
Tim stood, studying the man. "Valen, right? Lab tech at Cetus?"
Valen nodded quickly. "I shouldn't be here. But I had to tell someone. They're... they're planning something."
Sera reached for his hand.
The moment they touched, something shifted in the air. A soft golden glow shimmered faintly from her fingertips, not bright, not dramatic—more like the way sunlight filters through tree leaves. Tim felt it too, like the temperature in the room had subtly risen, the tension melting away.
Valen's tremble stilled.
Sera's voice was calm and melodic. "Tell us everything."
Valen inhaled deeply. "They lied. Cetus. Said it was gene therapy. Cures. But they were testing on people. Injecting them. Changing them. Some... got stronger. Others... died."
Tim stepped closer. "And now they're selling these people?"
Valen nodded. "A private auction. Friday night. Hotel L'Estoire in Paris. There's a gala upstairs. Fancy. Public. But below... that's where the buyers are."
"Cetus is hosting it?" Damian asked.
"No," Valen whispered. "Someone else owns the hotel. Cetus just... arranged it. Quietly. No paper trail."
Tim swore under his breath. "Of course. Legal separation. It's a shell game."
Valen pulled a crumpled flyer from his coat—an invitation to the Gala for Global Progress. Tim scanned it. Lex Armstrong's face was nowhere on it, but the timing aligned. Behind the scenes, Cetus moved the pieces.
Valen's voice dropped lower. "I shouldn't have come. They'll find me."
"You've done enough," Sera said, gently releasing his hand. The golden glow faded, but a sense of peace lingered.
Valen slipped out the door, vanishing into the night.
Tim paced.
"So let me get this straight. At the gala upstairs, the elite show off their wealth. Downstairs, human lives are on the auction block."
Damian crossed his arms. Security will be heavy. We can't just storm it."
Tim nodded slowly. "But if we get evidence—documents, photos, names—then I can bury them legally."
Sera watched him. "You want to take them down in court."
Tim shrugged. "I'm a lawyer. It's what I do."
Damian frowned. "They won't let you live long enough to file charges."
Tim met his gaze. "Let me worry about that."
Sera stepped between them, hands up. "We need to focus. We all want the same thing."
Damian nodded reluctantly. "Fine. We leave on Thursday. Paris."
Tim exhaled, mind racing. "I'll pack a bag."
The room fell quiet, save for the hum of a flickering light overhead.
Tim leaned over the table, staring at the gala flyer, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm on the wood. His mind raced. Legal angles. Security flaws. Risk assessments. All of it.
"We need to hit them hard," Damian said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Fast. Quiet. In and out before anyone knows we're there."
Tim looked up. "I'm coming with you."
Silence.
Sera blinked. Damian froze mid-step.
"You're what?" Damian's tone was flat, but danger simmered beneath.
"I'm coming with you," Tim repeated, more firmly now. "Look, I'm the only one who can make this evidence stick. You can steal files, sure, but I know what to grab. What courts will accept. What'll blow this wide open?"
Damian stepped forward, towering. "You're not trained. You've never been in the field. This isn't a deposition, Delaney. It's dangerous."
Tim didn't flinch. "I know the risks. Eva's in this somehow. I can't just sit back."
"You'll slow us down," Damian growled. "You'll get us caught."
Sera put a hand on Damian's arm. "Let him speak."
Tim took a breath. "You think I'm just some desk jockey? Fine. But I've spent years chasing shadows for Eva. The only clue I've got is Cetus. I won't let you take this from me."
Damian's eyes narrowed. "This isn't about you. We can't afford mistakes."
"You need me," Tim snapped. "You said it yourself—we need evidence. Legal proof. I know where to look, how to get it, and how to make it count."
Damian's fists clenched, but Sera stepped between them.
"Tim," she said softly, "we understand. We do. But this mission is too dangerous for someone untrained."
"I can handle it."
Her eyes met his. She didn't speak for a moment—just watched. Felt. She could sense his desperation, his pain, his raw determination.
He wasn't bluffing.
She sighed, stepping back beside Damian.
Their voices rang out in unison:
"No."
Tim stared, stunned.
Sera's voice was kind but firm. "We'll get the evidence. You stay here. Stay safe."
Damian added coldly, "Or you become collateral."
Tim's jaw tightened. "This isn't over."
He turned away, fury and helplessness boiling under his skin.
Behind him, Sera and Damian exchanged a glance—uncertain, wary.
Paris loomed.