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Liam Pov
"Eve, update the HUD with Cross's and Wick's intel," I said, loosening my tie as I leaned back in my office chair.
A second later, the familiar blue overlay flickered across my vision as Eve's voice came alive.
[Compiling data… Done.]
The HUD lit up with files and timelines. Eve began reading
[Travis Keane, former professional sprinter. Retired early due to injury, turned coach. His trainee—Ethan Cole, nineteen, won multiple regional 100-meter dash titles, considered a rising star. Retired suddenly due to an unspecified chronic condition. Status update: Travis Keane—missing, last reported by his wife three weeks ago. Ethan Cole—currently bedridden.]
"Missing means two things," I said quietly, eyes narrowing. "Either hiding… or dead."
[Both possibilities are consistent but need to get solid evidence to prove] Eve replied.
"Continue."
[According to Wick: Hale's primary associates are Victor Marino—loan shark, high-level moneylender with extensive connections and Carlos Vega—recently elevated drug distributor. Marino has deep capital reserves and contacts and Vega somehow got capital and manpower to increase his distribution channels. Both some how maintain ties with Hale.]
I let the pieces sit in my head, then said, "Eve, make notes. Start with this: First point—why would a professional coach pick a fight with Hale outside the club? It wasn't random and add a side note: according to the security guard, the word poison was shouted during that fight. Keep that."
[Noted: Point one—Why Travis Keane confronted Hale at the club. Side note: keyword *poison* was heard.]
"Second point," I continued. "Carlos Vega—small-time dealer, suddenly turned kingpin. Wick said he had secured capital and manpower. That doesn't just appear out of thin air. Hypothesis—did Victor Marino bankroll him?"
[Point two logged: Vega's rise tied to Marino's possible financial backing.]
"Third point: no mention of milk powder from either Vega or Marino. So where did Hale get it? Who's manufacturing it?"
[Point three logged: Unknown source of milk powder. Investigate supply chain.]
I closed my eyes for a moment, thinking. The notes hung in my HUD, each one glowing like a checkpoint in an unfinished puzzle.
Eve's tone softened. [Your case theory is gaining traction, but you're still missing the keystone, Liam.]
"I'll find it," I muttered. "Keane, Cole, Vega, Marino, the powder… they're all tied together. Hale's just the face. Someone else is pulling strings."
[Or Hale's pulling them himself,] Eve countered.
[Never underestimate a narcissist with money.]
A faint smile touched my lips. "True, but if Hale's is the one, then why would he not fight this?"
Across the room, my desk phone blinked with missed calls.
Beth had left me a note earlier—twenty calls from Stone in the last twenty-four hours.
Desperate wasn't even the word but I ignored it.
Cameron had given me his word—I run this case my way. Stone couldn't weasel around me, no one can.
"Let him sweat," I said under my breath.
The next morning, I didn't bother with the office.
Instead, I threw on my jacket, grabbed my helmet, and swung onto my bike.
The roar of the engine filled the cool air as I cut across the city, heading for my next lead.
Seraphina.
I'd already pulled her address from the club security guard.
She wasn't just some casual witness—she had some ties to Hale that were there yet not there.
If Keane's disappearance and Cole's condition were connected to this "poison," Seraphina might know more than she realized and become the key to unlock this puzzle.
The neighborhood was rougher, low-income blocks with graffiti-sprayed walls and the faint smell of cheap food vendors hanging in the air.
I killed the engine, parked the bike near a rusted fence, and climbed the cracked concrete steps of her building.
Fourth floor.
The hallway lights flickered, buzzing with that annoying hum fluorescent bulbs make when they're dying.
I stopped in front of her door, adjusted my jacket, and knocked firmly.
Now it was time to see how much Seraphina was willing to talk.
The knock echoed down the dim hallway.
For a moment, nothing. Then, a muffled voice from behind the door:
"Who is it?"
I leaned slightly, catching the faint outline of a figure behind the frosted peephole.
She was standing there—still, cautious, waiting for me to say something wrong.
"Liam Harper," I said evenly, keeping my voice professional. "Assistant District Attorney. I'm here regarding Marcus Hale's Case."
Silence.
Then her voice again, sharper: "I don't know him. I don't have anything to say. Please go away."
I tried twice more, different angles, different phrasings but each time she repeated the same words like a broken record—I don't know anything.
That was the problem with swimming with sharks, one wrong move, and they smelled blood. Seraphina wasn't just refusing.
She was terrified but I need answers
I exhaled slowly, then hardened my tone.
"Seraphina, listen carefully. If you want to keep this private, this is your only chance. Otherwise, I come back with a warrant, I bring uniformed cops, and I put you on the stand. You'll testify in open court. And you know exactly what happens if the wrong people hear you're talking."
The silence that followed stretched long and heavy. I could almost hear her breathing on the other side.
Then—click. The lock turned.
The door creaked open, and Seraphina stepped aside.
She wore a loose tank top and sweatpants, a half-burnt cigarette trembling between her fingers. Her eyes—sharp brown, but ringed with exhaustion—betrayed the fear she was trying to hide.
"Come in," she muttered.
I stepped inside. The smell of smoke hit first.
Her apartment was a mess—clothes draped over chairs, empty bottles on the floor, ashtrays overflowing.
She shoved a pile of magazines off a chair, motioning for me to sit and she sank onto the bed herself, pulling another drag of nicotine like it was the only thing keeping her steady.
I sat, leaned forward slightly, and locked my eyes on hers.
"I know you're tense and scared but that won't stop me from getting what I want."
Her hand shook as she brought the cigarette back to her lips, trying to mask the tremor.
She failed as nothing escaped me.
"You've got two options," I continued.
"One—you cooperate. You talk and I make sure your name never sees paper. You vanish from the case. No subpoenas, no courtrooms. No one knows your existence. Two—you keep quiet, and I make sure you end up on that stand and you know exactly what will happen if those people believe you're even thinking of talking."
She froze. The words cut deeper than I expected. Her lips trembled, her eyes widened—and then she snapped.
"Stop! Stop! I'll talk, I'll talk." Her voice cracked, spilling fear into every syllable.
She took a shuddering drag before continuing, her words tumbling out fast:
"Hale—Marcus Hale—he buys cocaine from Mr. Carlos Vega. Hale's supplies it to movie stars, models. I… I can name a few of them, that's it! That's all I know!"
I leaned back slightly. "That's a start but not the info I was looking for"
But I shook my head, unimpressed, and pulled out my phone.
My thumb slid across the screen, bringing up a photo. I turned it toward her.
Travis Keane.
The effect was immediate. Her eyes widened, face draining of color. For a split second, pure horror crossed her features.
Then she forced it down, crushing the cigarette into the ashtray with more force than necessary.
"I don't know him," she muttered quickly. Too quickly.
I kept my gaze fixed on her. "You sure?"
"I said I don't know him!" she snapped, lighting another cigarette with trembling hands.
Smoke curled between us.
Her denial didn't matter. Her reaction said everything.
I gave her a beat, then tried another angle.
"Victor Marino. You know him?"
The name hit harder than the photo. Her eyes widened again—just for an instant—but the fear was unmistakable.
She shook her head furiously, lips pressing together, as if saying his name out loud was a death sentence.
"No. Don't know him." She inhaled sharply, lit cigarette shaking between her fingers. "Never heard of him."
But her hands betrayed her. The lighter clicked twice before the flame held. Her eyes darted anywhere but at me.
She was terrified. Too terrified.
I leaned back in my chair, watching her.
She'd given me Vega but her reaction to Keane said she knows something.
And she is even more terrified of Marino.
That was enough show that there was a connection and I want the whole truth—I'd need to break through her fear but don't have the time so there is only one other way.
I looked into her eyes straight and my eyes turned crimson.
The End