Night had swallowed Ohio, 1998.
The sky was pitch black, not a single star in sight. Cold air bit into Mike's skin. Police sirens screamed through the silence, over and over, like a warning that came too late.
Red and blue lights spun wildly, reflecting off the jagged rocks on the outskirts of town.
Dozens of squad cars surrounded the area.
Amid the chaos, a man moved quickly between the shadows—breathing steady, eyes sharp, focused like a predator who already smelled his prey.
Michael Travis.
Or just Mike.
"He's heading that way!"
one officer shouted.
Mike didn't respond. His legs kept moving, climbing over rocks, chasing a figure that had been clearly visible just seconds ago.
The target was cornered. No way out. No place to hide.
Everything was too perfect.
And that was exactly what was wrong.
Mike slowed his pace.
Eyes narrowing.
Silence.
No breathing. No movement. No trace of someone who had just been running desperately.
Mike stepped closer.
One step.
Two steps.
Then—
He stopped.
In front of him stood a "person."
Still.
Too still.
Mike grabbed its shoulder—and the body went rigid, falling to the side.
Light.
Empty.
A mannequin.
In that instant, the sound in his head crumbled.
"…Shit."
He was too late.
The target was gone.
Mike froze, jaw clenched. His fists tightened slowly, veins bulging.
Behind him, the police voices grew closer.
"Where is he?!"
"Mike?!"
He didn't answer.
Eyes blank, mind racing.
This wasn't just an escape.
It was planned.
And he… had just been toyed with in front of everyone.
Mike drew a deep breath, trying to hold back something that almost exploded from inside. Anger—big, hot, brutal—but he didn't let it out.
Not here.
Not now.
His face went cold again.
Too cold.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Ohio, 2006.
A calm morning.
Sunlight streamed through the living room window, illuminating dust floating in the air. The TV murmured news in a low tone.
Mike sat silently on the sofa.
Eyes fixed on the screen.
"…the latest case shows patterns similar to the late-90s incident—"
Click.
The remote stopped moving in his hand.
Face unchanged.
But his eyes… different.
Sharper.
Deeper.
Old memories, buried long ago, resurfaced.
Rocks.
Sirens.
Mannequin.
And one unanswered question:
How did he get away?
"Mike."
A soft voice pulled him back to the present.
Kate Travis stood in the kitchen doorway, a faint smile on her lips.
"Breakfast is ready."
Mike nodded slightly, standing without a word.
At the dining table, warmth filled the room. Plates were neatly set, food smelled comforting.
Brian and Lila were already sitting.
Normal life.
Life he tried to hold onto.
Mike sat, eating quietly.
Kate watched for a moment.
"What's wrong?" she asked softly.
Mike didn't answer immediately.
He swallowed his food, shook his head.
"Nothing."
A lie.
And everyone at the table knew it.
Brian glanced at his father briefly. No words. No protest. Just looked—long enough to understand, but wise enough not to ask.
He chose silence.
Respecting boundaries never spoken.
Kate exhaled slowly.
"We need to talk about money," she finally said.
Mike stopped eating.
"Our savings… it's gone," she continued cautiously. "Brian and Lila start college next year."
Simple words.
Heavy weight.
Mike lowered his gaze to his plate.
Reality could not be avoided this time.
"…I'll find a job," he said shortly.
The city felt louder than usual that afternoon.
Mike went from shop to shop.
Ten places.
Ten rejections.
Some didn't even give him a chance.
"Sorry, we're looking for someone younger."
"Or someone with more recent experience."
"Or… yeah, just not you."
Ten-minute interviews that felt like formalities.
Mike returned to his car.
Silent.
Hands gripping the wheel.
Then—
Brak.
Fist hit the steering wheel.
Once.
Twice.
Heavy breaths.
Frustration creeping, slowly but surely.
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to regain control.
Until his gaze caught something by the roadside.
A small, worn sign.
Almost unnoticeable.
"SECURITY GUARD WANTED – CALL 5503-776-2999"
Mike stared for a few seconds.
A… sad option.
But not much else.
He grabbed his phone.
Dialed.
"Yes?" a quick, slightly rushed voice answered.
"I saw the security posting. Still available?"
"Hm… yeah. Come by now if you want an interview."
Click.
Short.
No nonsense.
Mike started the car.
The office was small.
Almost like life had been forced into it.
The door opened, and a man stood inside—Charles McGinn.
Eyes assessing instantly.
Mike handed over his CV.
"Former cop," Charles read slowly.
Pause.
His expression shifted slightly—between suspicion and desperation.
"Security guards before you… didn't last long," he said flatly.
Mike didn't respond.
Charles exhaled.
He needed someone.
And time wasn't on his side.
"You start tomorrow."
Then, in a thin tone, almost sarcastic:
"So… are you clean, or dirty?"
Mike stared for a moment.
He understood the meaning.
But he said nothing.
Just silent.
That was enough.
Mike began walking around the room, observing every corner. Old habits that never left.
Then—
His eyes stopped at a shelf.
A book.
The title simple.
"FRIENDS OF CARTEL."
His heart slowed.
But grew heavier.
Something was wrong here.
Mike's brow furrowed, curiosity and restrained emotion mixing together… thinking:
Why would a criminal book be in a lawyer's office?
Mike stepped closer.
Hand raised—
Without permission.
Without a sound.
And for the first time in years…
That feeling came back.
Curiosity.
And danger.