The phone didn't just ring; it screamed.
Runa Winters froze mid-step, her breath hitching. Warm Los Angeles sunlight spilled across her bedroom floor, illuminating a depressing landscape: a stack of red-stamped unpaid bills, a half-finished charcoal sketch of the pier, and the dust motes dancing in the air of a life that had felt safe only ten minutes ago.
She stared at the screen. Unknown. Four calls in five minutes. Her father's gambling had always been the "family ghost"—a whispered embarrassment discussed behind closed doors, tucked away between poker nights and heavy sighs over crumpled envelopes. But this wasn't a bank representative or a local bookie. This silence had teeth.
She finally swiped the screen. "Hello?"
The silence on the other end was heavy, absolute. No breathing. No background noise. Just the terrifying sound of a line being held by someone who was waiting for her to break.
Click.
Runa's stomach knotted. The efficiency of that hang-up screamed "professional." She sank onto her bed, her fingers tracing the simple silver band on her right hand—the only thing her father, August, had given her that hadn't been hocked for chips.
"Dad," she whispered to the empty room, "what did you do?"
The phone vibrated again. Same number. She didn't answer this time. She couldn't.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
Three sharp, rhythmic raps at her front door. Not the sound of a neighbor, but the sound of a command.
"Winters," a voice boomed—deep, gravelly, and devoid of any warmth. "Open up."
Panic hit her like a plunge into ice water. Runa lunged for the window, but the latch was stuck. She thought of the police, but her phone was a dead weight in her hand. Before she could even scream, the lock on her front door gave way with a sickening, metallic crack.
Two men filled the doorway. They weren't the "thugs" she'd seen in movies. They wore tailored charcoal suits and earpieces.
"No sudden moves," the taller one said, his voice flat. "We aren't here to hurt you—yet. But you're coming with us."
Runa backed into the corner of her room, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Who are you? You can't just—this is my home!"
"We represent the Vale family," the man stepped forward, his presence swallowing the light in the room. "Your father gambled with money that didn't belong to him. He vanished. You're the only asset he left behind."
Collateral. The word tasted like copper in her mouth.
The men moved with terrifying speed. One grabbed her arm, his grip like a vice. As they dragged her toward the door, Runa finally found her voice.
"Help! Someone! Help me!"
She was hauled into the hallway just as her neighbor, Leo—a college student who lived in 4B—stepped out with a bag of trash. He froze, seeing the struggle. "Hey! What the hell are you doing? Let her go!"
Leo stepped forward, reaching for his phone, but the second man didn't hesitate. A heavy hand slammed into Leo's chest, pinning him against the hallway wall with effortless strength.
"He's a witness," the first man muttered, not even looking at Leo. "Bring him too. The Boss will decide if he's worth the trouble."
"No! Leave him alone!" Runa shrieked, but a thick black blindfold was suddenly snapped over her eyes.
The world went black. Her hands were zip-tied behind her back, the plastic biting into her skin. She was hauled down the stairs, her toes dragging against the carpet. The air changed—from the scent of her lavender laundry detergent to the smell of expensive leather, car exhaust, and cold, recycled air.
She was shoved into a seat. A door slammed. The locks engaged with a heavy, final thunk.
"Resist," a voice hissed in her ear, "and we'll make sure your friend doesn't make it to the first stop."
Runa went still, her breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps. As the engine roared to life and the car surged forward, her city and her safety vanished into the shadows.
One thought remained, bitter and trembling, echoing in the darkness behind her eyes: Dad… what have you done?