Aleksander, Wednesday, Sofia, and Enid arranged themselves across a heavy oak coffee table from the local girls.
Sam and Tory sat with their shoulders squared, projecting the combat-ready confidence of seasoned martial artists. Aisha and Moon sat close together, their posture stiff and vibrating with nervous energy.
Enid clicked her pastel pen, poising it over a bright yellow notepad, ready to record. Sofia immediately opened a sleek, encrypted tablet, tapping securely into the Morozova family's private intelligence network.
"Start from the beginning," Aleksander instructed, his voice calm and authoritative. "How did you end up on that specific road?"
Aisha adjusted her glasses, her voice wavering slightly before she forced it steady. "I'm friends with Tory. We were leaving a party in the Hills, and I asked Sam if she could drive us home. Moon and Yasmine are... well, they're the popular crowd. They were pretty reluctant to let Tory and me in the car, but they finally let it go."
"We were driving through a quiet stretch of the Hills," Sam took over, her blue eyes focused on Aleksander. "A black van suddenly cut across the intersection and blocked us in. They didn't just want Yas. They tried to grab all of us."
Wednesday leaned forward, her dark eyes locking onto Tory. "I assume you didn't just surrender. Detail the violence."
Tory let out a sharp, cynical scoff. "I don't play for points. The guy who grabbed me got an elbow to the bridge of his nose. I fight dirty—street style. Knees, throat, whatever it takes to drop them."
"And I used Miyagi-Do," Sam added, sitting up straighter. "Between the two of us, we managed to hold off the first wave. But there were too many of them. They were big, and they started overwhelming us."
"That's when we jumped in," Moon said softly, her voice shaking as she grabbed Aisha's hand. "I was terrified, but we couldn't just watch them get hurt."
"We both carry tasers," Aisha explained, sitting up a little taller, a flicker of pride cutting through her fear. "When they cornered Sam and Tory, Moon and I hit two of the guys from behind. Dropped them like rocks. But then another car's headlights came around the bend. It spooked the crew. They grabbed Yasmine, threw her in the van, and peeled out before we could stop them."
Aleksander processed the tactical breakdown, his expression unreadable. "If you were in close-quarters combat, you saw them up close. Did you notice any distinct identifying marks? Scars? Ink?"
Tory narrowed her green eyes, visualizing the chaotic brawl. "Yeah. I got a good look at one guy's neck right before I kicked him. He had a very distinct tattoo."
"I saw one too," Sam chimed in quickly. "On the forearm of the guy trying to drag Yasmine away."
"Describe them," Wednesday commanded, pulling a small black notebook from her pocket.
Sofia pulled up the search interface on her tablet, her fingers hovering over the digital keyboard. "Give me the exact details. Shape, numbers, anything."
"It was a dark crescent moon," Tory explained, tracing the shape in the air with her finger. "But it was warped. The edge was shaped exactly like a curved surgical scalpel. Right in the middle of the moon, in the negative space, there was a number tattooed in a stark, black font. Seven-three-one."
Sam nodded eagerly, her blue eyes wide as the memory crystallized. "The guy I fought had the exact same scalpel-moon design on his forearm. But his number was different. It was four-zero-four."
"And there were stars," Tory added, her jaw clenching as her street-smarts pieced the grim picture together. "A ring of small, five-pointed stars around the moon. I'm pretty sure they're tally marks. Like they're keeping score of their 'jobs.' While we were fighting, I noticed two of the other guys had the same ink, but they had way fewer stars than the guy I dropped."
Sofia's fingers flew across the tablet screen, cross-referencing the girls' descriptions and the numbers against the Morozova global syndicate database. A few seconds later, the screen flashed red. Sofia's expression hardened immediately.
"I have a match," Sofia said, her voice dropping to a grim, professional register. "The crescent scalpel is a cartel marker. Tory is right about the stars—they are indeed tally marks. Each one represents a successful, high-value extraction operation."
Enid stopped writing, her bright demeanor faltering. "Extraction? Like... kidnapping?"
"Worse," Sofia corrected, turning the tablet so Aleksander and Wednesday could see the encrypted files. "The numbers dictate their specific divisions within the cartel. Code 404 is their sex trafficking ring."
A heavy, sickening silence fell over the room. Moon let out a small gasp, covering her mouth with both hands, while Sam's face went completely pale.
Aleksander's glowing green eyes darkened as he read the second classification on the screen. "And the man Tory fought. The one with 731."
"Division 731," Sofia confirmed, her tone ice-cold. "Organ harvesting. They take high-value, healthy targets, strip them for parts on the black market, and dispose of the rest."
Wednesday's unblinking gaze shifted from the tablet to the terrified local girls. "It appears your friend was not taken for a ransom. She was taken for inventory."
The brutal weight of Wednesday's words slammed into the local girls like a physical blow.
Moon let out a choked, terrified sob, burying her face in her hands. Sam stared at the coffee table, her breath hitching as the horrifying reality of what they had narrowly escaped—and what Yasmine was currently enduring—crashed down on her. Even Tory, usually unshakeable and hardened by the streets, looked visibly sickened. Her jaw locked tight, and her hands curled into fists on her lap, her knuckles turning bone-white. Aisha just stared blankly at Sofia's tablet, the color completely drained from her round face.
Before any of the teenagers could speak, a shattered, agonizing wail echoed from the hallway archway.
The adults had heard everything.
Victoria Sterling-Van Der Woodsen's legs simply gave out. She collapsed, her pristine facade entirely broken by the sheer, unadulterated terror of what the cartel intended to do to her daughter. Richard caught her before she hit the floor, dragging her into his arms. His face was a mask of pure, paralyzing horror. The wealthy socialite who usually commanded boardrooms looked utterly destroyed, his dark eyes wide with panic as he clutched his weeping wife.
Amanda rushed forward, dropping to her knees to help Richard support Victoria, her own face pale and slick with empathetic tears.
Daniel LaRusso stepped fully into the living room, his usual composed demeanor completely gone. His fists were clenched tightly at his sides, his chest heaving. The realization that his daughter, Sam, had been moments away from being thrown into a van meant for sex traffickers and organ harvesters ignited a fierce, protective rage in his eyes.
"They're going to butcher her," Victoria sobbed hysterically into her husband's chest. "Richard, they're going to cut her apart!"
"We won't let that happen," Richard choked out, his voice cracking. He looked up, his desperate, tear-filled eyes locking onto Aleksander. The disbelief he had shown on the porch was entirely gone, replaced by the raw, begging plea of a terrified father. "You know who these animals are. You have their codes. Please, Aleksander. Tell me you can find her before they... before they..."
Richard couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.
Aleksander stood up, his posture projecting a cold, unwavering calm that anchored the chaotic panic in the room. He closed the Van Der Woodsen file and looked directly at the grieving parents.
"We have their division codes, which means we know their operational protocols," Aleksander stated, his voice cutting clearly through the crying. "Cartels don't harvest high-value inventory in a dirty basement. They need sterile environments, cold storage, and private transport lines out of the Valley. We are going to find exactly where they operate."
Sofia stood up next, slipping the encrypted tablet under her arm. "I'm already pinging every unregistered surgical suite, black-market clinic, and private runway in a fifty-mile radius. If they are prepping her for 731 or 404, they leave a digital footprint."
Wednesday rose from her chair, adjusting the cuffs of her black jacket with unnerving precision.
"Dry your tears, Mrs. Van Der Woodsen," Wednesday said flatly. "Weeping wastes hydration and time. We are going to find the men who took your daughter. And when we do, I assure you, they are going to deeply regret leaving their tally marks where we could see them."