December 25, 2025 – Chicago Time: 9:30 a.m.
On Christmas morning, Chicago was blanketed not by white snow, but by gray fog. Michael Hale watched Michigan Avenue from the large window of his home. The coffee in his hand had long since gone cold. The rusty key and anonymous message on the table had set up a chessboard in his mind throughout the night.
When the doorbell rang, Michael reflexively reached for his waist, but there was no gun there; only that defensive instinct, a habit of years. When he opened the door, he found Elara standing there.
Elara was 31 years old. She was a successful documentary filmmaker, but the frightened light in her eyes was a remnant of that dark night when she was 16. She was holding a package of Christmas cookies.
"Merry Christmas, brother," Elara said, hugging Michael. But she immediately noticed his tension. "You didn't sleep again? Your eyes... they look like Dad's did at the end."
Michael invited her inside. "Just a tough case, Elara. Don't worry."
"The kid at Dawson's Bridge?" Elara's voice trembled as she took off her coat. "I saw it on the news. That place again, Michael. Why always there?"
Michael looked into his sister's eyes. Elara knew Vince D'Angelo was dead, but she didn't know how the body had been disposed of, how their father had cleaned up the mess. To Michael, Elara was both his greatest weakness and the only thing he would sell his soul for.
"Just a coincidence," Michael said, calming his voice like a therapist. "They act like there are no other bridges in the city."
Just then, Michael's phone vibrated on the kitchen counter. A news alert:"Shocking Announcement from the D'Angelo Family: Luca D'Angelo Returns to Chicago!"
Michael felt a punch in his stomach.Luca. Vince's older brother. The man who had been exiled to Italy 15 years ago, the family's truly dangerous face, had returned on the very morning of this murder.
Time: 2:00 PM
Cook County Police Department
Natalia Reyes pushed the files on her desk aside in frustration. The identity of the young man found on the bridge that night had been confirmed:Leo Cross.21 years old, a petty thief. But the real bombshell was Leo's phone calls from the past week.
"You need to see this, Natalia," said her partner, placing the file on the desk.
Natalia read the report and froze. Leo Cross had called the same number three times before he died. The number belonged to Chicago's most prestigious psychiatric clinic, namely Michael Hale's office.
Natalia remembered the brief conversation she had with Michael on the bridge that night. Michael was there, as if waiting for something.
"Hale..." Natalia murmured. "What aren't you telling me?"
Just then, a man in a smart gray suit, with a deep scar on his face, entered through the door of the police station. He was followed by two burly bodyguards. All the police officers in the building paused for a moment.
The man was Luca D'Angelo.
Luca walked straight to Natalia's desk. His eyes were ice cold. "A body has been found on the bridge where my brother Vince died," Luca said, his voice as deep as a grave. "I know your justice fell silent 15 years ago, Detective. This time, I won't be silent."
Natalia stood up. "This isn't your playground, D'Angelo. Get out of here."
Luca leaned close to Natalia's ear, the scent of expensive tobacco filling the room. "Tell the Hale family hello. I've come to settle the score his father left unfinished with his son."
Time: 8:00 PM
Michael's Secret Archive
Michael opened the secret compartment behind the bookcase in his office. He was rummaging through his father Richard's personal diaries from 2010. He was looking for the name "Asher Burke." Finally, he found his father's handwriting on a yellowed page:
December 28, 2010: I cleaned the blood off Michael's hands. But Asher saw everything. He's not a blackmailer, he's a collector. He didn't want my money, he wanted my loyalty. If he ever comes back, there's only one thing I can tell Michael: Never, ever negotiate with him. He's the creator of the only game you can't win.
Michael turned the page. A photo fell out from between the pages. In the photo, his father Richard was shaking hands with a young man. The man's face was in shadow, but the tattoo on his wrist was clear: An hourglass.
At that moment, there was a loud knock on the door. Michael shoved the photo into his pocket and closed the compartment. When he opened the door, he saw Natalia standing there. Natalia was wearing handcuffs.
"Michael," Natalia said, her voice bitter. "You're going to tell me why Leo Cross called you and what you were really looking for on the bridge that night. Otherwise, you'll spend the night in custody."
Michael smiled. It was too late to defend himself now. He adjusted his mask and looked Natalia in the eyes.
"Come in, Natalia," Michael said. "I'll tell you a story. But in the end, you'll decide whether I go to jail or half of Chicago does."