Location: Fenwick District — The Ashwick Corridors — Night
The Dodge Charger rolled through the streets like a predator searching for wounded prey.
Its engine growled low, a throaty rumble that vibrated through the frame and up into Caleb's chest. The windows were tinted, dark enough to hide the man behind the wheel, but not dark enough to hide the cigar smoke that curled through the cracked window and dissipated into the night air.
Caleb drove with one hand.
His other hand rested on the center console, fingers drumming a rhythm that had no melody. His eyes moved from the road to the rearview mirror to the side streets—always scanning, always searching, always waiting for something he couldn't name.
Three weeks, he thought.
Three weeks since Frederick Morrecca's death. Three weeks since the entire criminal underworld of Crestwood shifted on its axis.
And three weeks since Nathan Drayke vanished into thin air.
He took a long drag from his cigar. The smoke curled toward the ceiling of the car, catching the faint amber glow of the dashboard lights.
If I needed to find where that troublemaking punk was hiding, I needed to start where I suspected he was.
The Ashwick Corridors.
The place where it all began.
The place where Frederick Morrecca's empire started to crumble.
His fingers tightened on the wheel.
Everything about what happened to Frederick Morrecca—the beef with Nathan Drayke, the way he was taken out—it was too clean. Too precise.
Only a deranged criminal mind—someone like Azaqor—would be capable of something like that.
And Elijah—
Even if I'm not sure he is Azaqor, that kid was part of the network. The security detail for the Halvern Consortium's pharmaceutical front.
Someone of that caliber, when they turn into a scheming wacko, can obviously be capable of this.
He reached into his jacket.
His fingers emerged holding a photograph.
The image was grainy, pulled from a distant dashcam that had been confiscated during the investigation into Lucian Freeman's kidnapping. The woman's face was partially obscured, but her posture, her build, the way she moved—it was unmistakable.
Twenty-two years old, he thought.
Certified A-rank Vaultform.
Her trainer—a man named Henrik Lundqvist—was once the fourth in command of a private security firm that operated out of Collis.
The same Collis where the Hydrone Collider was built. Where breakthrough research into spatial particles and dimensional mechanics was conducted.
One of the most protected regions in the world.
People who work there sign NDAs that last beyond death.
And yet Lundqvist left that place and joined the criminal underworld.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
---
Caleb's eyes moved to the photograph again.
The only reason I even connected Nathan Drayke to Elijah was because of her.
Tyla. The one who was caught on that dashcam. The one who was seen taking Lucian Freeman away.
And after that—nothing.
Nathan Drayke vanished.
No sightings. No traces. No leads.
It's like he disappeared into thin air.
He took another drag from his cigar.
I'm at a dead end again.
And I hate being at a dead end.
His eyes moved to the rearview mirror.
Marcus sat in the back seat.
His posture was relaxed—too relaxed. His head was tilted, his eyes half-lidded, his lips curved into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. His hands rested on his knees, fingers tapping a rhythm that was just slightly off from the music playing on the radio.
He's been like this all night, Caleb thought.
That smile. That look.
Like he knows something I don't.
Like he's waiting for something.
Like he's hungry.
---
The car pulled into a parking lot near the edge of the Ashwick Corridors.
The buildings here were older—not the crumbling ruins of the industrial district, but the faded grandeur of a neighborhood that had once been prosperous. Brick facades. Fire escapes. Windows covered in bars.
A figure stood near the corner.
He was young—early twenties, maybe—his face pale, his eyes darting from side to side. His clothes were cheap, worn, the kind of clothes that had been bought at a thrift store and had never quite fit. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his shoulders hunched, his posture the posture of someone who was trying to be invisible.
Caleb killed the engine.
"Wait here," he said.
"Of course, Father."
Marcus's voice was soft.
"I wouldn't dream of leaving."
Caleb stepped out of the car.
The night air was cold, damp, carrying the smell of garbage and exhaust. He walked toward the figure, his footsteps heavy on the cracked asphalt.
"You," he said.
His voice was flat.
"What do you know about the Kuvitich?"
The figure's eyes went wide.
"I—I don't—"
"Don't lie to me."
"I—"
"I know you've been working for them. I know you've been peddling their product."
"I—"
"Tell me where they are."
"I don't know—"
"You do."
"I—"
The figure's throat moved.
"They're gone," he said.
"Gone?"
"Gone. All of them."
"What do you mean, gone?"
"I mean gone. Vanished. No word. No warning. They just... left."
"When?"
"A few weeks ago. Right after the Morrecca Brackside thing."
"And the peddlers?"
"Gone too."
"All of them?"
"All of them."
"That's—"
"I know."
The figure's voice was shaking.
"I thought they were just keeping their operations tight. But the thing is—"
He paused.
"They all vanished. Without any word. Without any warning. Like some ghost haven."
Caleb's eyes narrowed.
"That doesn't make sense."
"I know."
"Why would they all disappear?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know."
"I don't know."
---
Caleb's internal thoughts churned.
Three weeks, he thought again.
Three weeks since the Morrecca Brackside fell apart. Three weeks since Frederick Morrecca's death. Three weeks since Nathan Drayke's last known appearance.
And now the entire Ashwick Corridors drug network has gone dark.
The Kuvitich. The peddlers. The whole operation.
All of them vanished without a trace.
If my guess is right, whoever they are—this criminal drug syndicate that had ties with the Morrecca—they disappeared for a reason.
And Nathan Drayke is probably behind it.
The timeline aligns perfectly.
Frederick dies. The Morrecca Brackside is dismantled. And then the Ashwick Corridors go silent.
Coincidence?
No.
Not a chance.
His hands clenched into fists.
If I find someone who has ties with them—someone who knows where they went—maybe I can get a clue where Nathan Drayke is hiding.
But Sarah's taskforce is also looking into this.
I can't let them get to Elijah before I do.
I won't let them.
---
Marcus stepped out of the car.
His movements were fluid, unhurried. His eyes were fixed on the figure, on the trembling hands, the darting eyes, the desperate need to escape.
"Relax," he said.
His voice was soft.
"I'm not with them."
"You—"
"I'm not with them."
"Then—"
"I'm just looking for information."
"Information?"
"Yes. Information."
Marcus's smile widened.
"You do know about them, don't you?"
"I—"
"Can you tell me where they are?"
The figure's throat moved.
"I—"
"Tell me."
"I—"
The figure's eyes darted to Caleb.
"I'm just trying to pay off a debt," he said.
His voice was shaking.
"I owe some money to the Kuvitich. For the product they gave me. I've been working to pay them back."
"And?"
"And they disappeared."
"Completely?"
"Completely."
"That's—"
"I know."
"That's strange."
"I know."
"Very strange."
The figure's eyes were wide.
"I just want to be left alone," he said.
"I just want—"
"I know."
Marcus's voice was soft.
"I know."
---
Marcus's hand moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just there.
His fingers closed around the figure's throat.
The figure's eyes went wide.
His mouth opened.
No sound came out.
Marcus's grip tightened.
His head tilted.
His lips parted.
And he drank.
---
Caleb dropped his cigar.
The ember hit the asphalt, scattering sparks across the cracked surface. He stomped on it, grinding it into the ground with the heel of his boot.
The sound of the figure's scream echoed through the parking lot.
And then it stopped.
Marcus straightened.
His lips were red.
His smile was wide.
"Father," he said.
His voice was soft.
"It appears we have some work to do."
---