Victor Cross stood motionless, the weight of Lucas's words settling over him like a noose tightening inch by inch. A man accustomed to control, to power that bent others to his will—yet here he was, faced with something he couldn't buy, threaten, or force into submission.
Something had taken his brother.
Victor's gaze darkened. A flicker of desperation passed through his expression, but it was quickly buried beneath the mask of control.
"Find Caleb, if you can. Alive."
Lucas didn't blink. His reply came cold, detached.
"I doubt that."
A long silence stretched between them. Tense. Heavy. But Lucas was used to this—men who thought they could control things beyond their grasp. Victor Cross was no different.
Lucas took one last drag of his cigar, ember flaring before he flicked it aside. The glow faded, like his interest in the conversation. Without another word, he stood, turned, and walked out into the night.
The air outside was different. Metallic. Dirty. Honest.
No more talking.
Now, the hunt.
His ride waited at the curb—a 1969 Dodge Charger R/T, deep charcoal, swallowing the streetlights. Not pristine. Not flashy. Just a machine built for purpose, for speed, for surviving whatever the road threw at it.
He ran a hand along the door before sliding inside, the leather worn but familiar. The engine rumbled awake, low and deliberate. Like him.
No wasted movements. No hesitation.
Lucas Cain didn't drive to be seen.
He drove because standing still meant giving things time to catch up.
One hand on the wheel, the other reaching for his phone. A name. A location. A few words. Short. Precise. No time for anything else.
Then the phone buzzed.
Not a name. A force.
Victor Cross.
Lucas exhaled through his nose and answered, tucking the phone between his shoulder and ear.
"You're working." Victor's voice wasn't a question.
Lucas kept his eyes on the road. "I don't get paid to sit around."
A pause. The weight of calculation. Victor was a man who didn't ask twice, and Lucas was a man who didn't offer reassurance.
"Good," Victor finally said. "I have people watching."
Lucas smirked. "Tell them to get better at it."
Silence. Then, Victor's tone cooled. "Caleb wasn't just taken. He was erased."
Lucas flicked ash from an unlit cigar. "Messy job for an erasure."
"Not if you're something that doesn't leave fingerprints."
Another pause. Victor wasn't a fool—he wasn't throwing words at a wall to see what stuck. He had a piece of the puzzle.
Lucas let the silence stretch. Then:
"Tell me what you know."
Victor's voice was measured, controlled. "Not over the phone." A pause. Too measured. Controlled—like a man who knew what fear sounded like and refused to let it shape his words.
"Meet me when you're done."
That told Lucas two things:
Victor didn't trust whoever was listening.
He was afraid.
Lucas rarely heard fear from men like him.
That meant something.
"Alright," Lucas said. "Then I'll be in touch."
He hung up.
The city stretched out before him, neon reflections bleeding into wet pavement. The road wasn't empty, but it felt like it.
Because something had left this place without leaving. And that, more than anything, told him he was on the right path.
The street was quiet. Too quiet.
Not the usual hush of money—this was different.
The alley held its breath. No wind. No distant traffic. Just silence, like a hand pressed over the world's mouth.
Lucas sat in his car, one hand on the wheel, the other rolling an unlit cigar between his fingers. A familiar weight. Something solid.
He didn't like this.
Not the job. Not the case.
The absence.
Caleb Cross wasn't the kind of man who faded. He left a weight behind—in a room, in a deal, in the bones of the people who met him.
But his house?
It felt empty.
Lucas exhaled, slow. Then stepped out.
The driveway was too neat. A car sat untouched, a thin layer of dust settling over its windshield. Hadn't moved in days. The porch light glowed, but the curtains didn't shift.
The house was waiting.
Lucas moved up the steps, boots silent. Tested the doorknob—unlocked.
Something was wrong.
A mistake. Or a message.
The air inside felt stagnant—like something had been here that didn't belong.
Even after it left, its presence lingered, an imprint that refused to fade.
This house hadn't just gone still.
It had gone silent.
As if waiting for something to break it.
Then it hit him.
Not scent. Not sound.
Worse.
Like something had settled into the walls, exhaled into the floorboards—something that should have left but hadn't.
Lucas let the feeling guide him.
Boots whispered over hardwood. Through the kitchen. Down the hall.
He wasn't looking for blood or broken furniture—those were easy.
He was looking for the things that didn't make sense.
The study held its silence like a locked jaw.
Lucas stepped through the stillness, slow, precise.
Then, he found it.
A phone on the desk. Screen cracked. Dropped in a hurry? Maybe.
A cup of coffee beside it. Cold. Half-empty.
The contradiction struck instantly. If the phone had been dropped in panic, why wasn't the coffee spilled?
Lucas's gaze flicked toward the window.
Outside—leaves, disturbed. A scattering that suggested movement. A clear path leading away.
A lesser investigator would seize on it. A struggle. A dragged body. Proof.
Lucas stayed still.
Then, he crouched. Fingertips brushed the nearest leaf. Dry. Crisp. Brittle with age. Wrong season.
His gaze shifted. No trees overhead. No way they fell naturally.
Someone put them here.
A setup. A mistake.
Then—
A whisper.
Not in the air.
In the glass.
Lucas's eyes flicked toward the study window. His reflection stared back.
"He's not here. He never was."
The Whisper.
Lucas didn't react. Didn't turn. Just watched as his own reflection smiled.
A slow, knowing curve. Not his.
Then—
The voice wasn't his.
Not entirely.
Like a layer beneath it, something else was speaking too.
Lucas blinked. The reflection held.
Then—gone.
Silence.
He exhaled, slow. Then turned away from the glass.
Let others chase shadows.
Lucas Cain didn't.
He stepped forward—
And the silence followed.
And from somewhere deep in the silence,
something sighed.
THE END OF CHAPTER 2.