The fluorescent lights of the ME room hummed their sterile, indifferent hum. Ben stood with his arms crossed, watching as the doctor spread the file across the cold steel table.
"Seventeen criminals in two weeks," the lady said, her gloved finger tracing down the document. "The vigilante has been busy. And here's the thing—none of these victims have any connections to each other."
Ben cocked an eyebrow, leaning closer to scrutinize the results. "Except for being convicted," he murmured.
"Except for that." She nodded. "But I checked every prison record in a hundred-mile radius. Eleven of them did time, yes—but all in different facilities. The rest?" She gestured to a separate list. "Suspects in robberies, smuggling operations, drug rings. Most wanted. We just never got to them in time."
"So he got to them first." Ben straightened, pressing his index finger to the bridge of his nose, the weight of the revelation settling between his eyes. A ghost cleaning house.
"These bullets," the ME doctor said, drawing his attention to the evidence tray. She picked one up, holding it to the light. "They have a signature. Probably the only real lead we've got."
Ben took the bullet, turning it over in his palm. His brow furrowed as the markings caught the light—intricate, deliberate, not the random scoring of a mass-produced round.
"It's a family crest," he said after a long moment, squinting at the detail. "You recognize it?"
She shook her head. "Can't say I do. Modern-day family crests are rare. Almost obsolete."
Ben's lips curved into a humorless smile. "Not to powerful people. They never go out of style."
The ME doctor was quiet for a beat, then moved to stand beside a draped body. She pulled back the sheet, revealing a heavily tattooed corpse—a gangster, by the look of him. "Yes, Captain. But why aren't we saying the obvious?"
Ben raised an eyebrow.
"This one," she continued, gesturing to the body, "was an intern at Shikongo Industries Health Centre." She waited for that to land. "His name is Luke. Convicted six years ago—drug dealing, I believe. Served his time, did rehabilitation at Samuels Medics, even got a certificate. Turned his life around. Went back to school. Graduated. Was working as an intern." She paused, her jaw tightening. "I contacted my sister—she's a rookie at the Wanahenda Police Station. Luke's name came up as a suspect in a drug extortion case. Port I, specifically."
Ben's eyes narrowed. "What's your point, Ndeshi?"
She met his gaze, unflinching. "This isn't a serial killer, Captain. Look closer. There's no MO. He just kills with a bullet. Single shot, clean. No defensive wounds on any of the bodies—which means either he's taking them out at distance, or catching them so off guard they never see it coming."
Ben finished the thought, the pieces clicking into place. "And it's not personal." A spark of realization ignited behind his eyes. "Thanks, Ndeshi." He reached for one of the bullets, pocketing it carefully. "I'll take these for further analysis. I've got a guy."
He was already moving toward the door, his mind racing ahead.
Ndeshi waited until his footsteps faded. Then, with a furtive glance at the empty doorway, she pulled out her phone. Her thumb trembled slightly as she scrolled to a familiar contact. The call went straight to voicemail.
She spoke low and fast, her voice barely a whisper.
"Dad, I think Paige returned. To finish what we failed to do." A pause. "And tell Roberts to stop by."
She ended the call and stared at the body on the table, her reflection ghosting across the cold steel.
The bunker hummed with the low thrum of hidden machinery. Jonas was laughing—a deep, genuine laugh that seemed utterly misplaced in the concrete tomb. Sara watched him like he'd lost his mind. The captives—Natasha, the others—stared blankly, their expressions caught between fear and confusion.
Simon had just finished debriefing him. The vigilante. The killer using Paige's gun. The stolen AID. The healing serums.
Jonas's laughter echoed off the walls. "You think I stole AID," he wheezed, "and left my forwarding address for you to find?" He wiped at his eye, still chuckling. "AID is worth twenty billion Namibian dollars. You know how hard it is to find a buyer for something like that? And it's coded. Encrypted. The only person on this earth who can unlock it is—"
He stopped. Dead.
The laughter vanished as if it had never existed.
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.
"What?" Natasha asked, her voice cutting through the tension. She'd seen that look before—the moment a man realizes he's been outmaneuvered by a ghost.
"He thinks Paige is alive," Simon finished quietly.
Jonas turned to them, and when he spoke, his voice was deadpan. Absolute. "She is."
The word landed like a grenade. Sara sat up straighter, her irritation replaced by sharp focus. Natasha's eyes widened. Even the captives seemed to forget their ropes for a moment.
"Why are you saying that, honey?" Saara asks concern in here voice
Jonas had talked about his late brother's family many times. About his niece most of all. The one who had almost killed him.
Jonas ran both hands over his face, dragging them down until they clasped behind his neck. When he looked up, there was something raw in his eyes. "That bitch got me into trouble," he muttered, almost to himself. He pressed a remote, and a section of the concrete wall slid open, revealing a hidden passage. "Untie them. I have somewhere to be."
He stepped through, and the wall sealed behind him like a tomb.
The Elder dining room was unusually quiet. Alexander settled into his chair, the wood creaking under his weight as a maid materialized to serve his dinner. Cinthia sat across from him, the twins flanking the table like mismatched bookends. The empty chairs seemed to mock them.
"Where's Grandma?" Alexander asked, frowning at the vacant seat at the head of the table.
Monica shrugged, too focused on her own plate. "Hasn't returned yet." She looked up, a blade hidden in velvet. "Where's your fiancée?"
Alexander's frown deepened. "She didn't come home?"
"No," Daniel replied, sawing at his meat with unnecessary force. "Maybe she finally remembered she has her own house." A pause, a calculated glance. "Or maybe the Vigilante got her. I'm sure Catherine's a criminal at heart. Probably has a record somewhere."
Monica's lips curved. "Wouldn't surprise me."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Enough.
Alexander's fist came down on the table. The impact was thunderous—crystal stemware chimed, cutlery jumped, and Monica flinched despite herself.
"I have tolerated enough, Monica." His voice was low, controlled, and infinitely more dangerous than a shout. "Catherine is my wife-to-be. And I will marry her if only to spite you."
The twins exchanged bewildered glances. They'd never seen their brother like this.
Cinthia raised a placating hand. "Relax, Alex. It's not that deep. I'm sure Monica didn't mean it the way it sounded."
Alexander's gaze never left Monica. "Oh, really? You just wake up one day and wish your best friend dead?"
Monica's confusion was warring with something else—a dawning realization. Alexander didn't have real feelings for Catherine. This was a transaction, a convenience. So why was he so worked up?
"If anything happens to my wife," Alexander said, each word precise, deliberate, "I will make sure you hate me."
Cinthia and Monica exchanged looks. Neither understood what was happening. The air in the room had changed—charged, electric, wrong.
Then, a sound.
Clicking heels on marble, echoing from the entrance of the living room.
Every head turned.
Catherine stood there, framed in the archway like a vision. Corporate attire—sharp blazer, pencil skirt, heels that meant business—a backpack slung over one shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed, pink spreading from ear to ear.
"Oh!" Cinthia recovered first. "You went to work today?"
Catherine didn't answer. Her eyes found Alexander. She walked toward him, her heels striking the floor with purpose. When she reached his chair, she curled a hand through his hair—a gesture so intimate it made Monica's stomach turn—and kissed him. Light. Possessive. Claiming.
Monica rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in their sockets.
Catherine dropped her bag by an empty chair and settled beside Alexander. He signaled the maid, who hurried forward to serve her.
"I worked today, Cinthy." Catherine's voice was light, pleasant, as if she hadn't just marked territory in front of the whole family. She glanced at Monica, held her gaze for just a moment too long. "Working from home... is just really distracting." She picked up her fork and began to eat.
Alexander's lips curved. A slow, satisfied smirk. The look of a man who had just secured a very important deal.
The bar was dark, sticky, anonymous. The kind of place where people came to disappear.
Blue sat in a corner booth, her eyes fixed on a target with the intensity of a predator watching its prey through tall grass.
Manuel Manny.
It was a ridiculous name, really. Almost too on the nose. But it fit his actions perfectly. He lured girls online—always girls—promising to pay their school fees. No strings attached, he'd say. Come collect the money in person. And when they showed up, desperate and hopeful, he'd ask for a "small compensation." Sex. If they refused, they were the lucky ones—though Blue didn't consider that luck, just a bullet dodged. But if they agreed? He'd refuse to use protection. Infect them deliberately. HIV.
Over a dozen girls had filed cases against him. Without evidence, Manuel Manny walked free. Continued his work. He was a pediatrician, after all. Worked at MedPrivate. Who would believe a bunch of desperate girls over a respected doctor?
Blue's lips curled into a slow, dangerous grin.
Manny stood, adjusting his tie, and made his way toward the restroom. Perfect. Easy. A kick to the temple, a punch to the groin in the same motion—that should do the job. Quick. Clean. He'd never see it coming.
She was already rising, already calculating the angle, when a voice sliced through her concentration.
"Hey, Blue!"
Lisa materialized in front of her, blocking her path, arms spread in mock enthusiasm. "Didn't see you there. You know, after fucking my boyfriend?"
Blue's eyes flicked past her. Manny had disappeared through the restroom door. He wouldn't be long. She hadn't come prepared for an audience—this was supposed to be quick, quiet, invisible.
Lisa snapped her fingers in front of Blue's face. "Hello? Earth to the homewrecker? Is Xavier here? Were you going to fuck him again—"
Ahhh—
The sound was cut off by the crack of Blue's palm connecting with Lisa's cheek. The slap echoed through the bar, turning heads, freezing conversations. Lisa stumbled back, hand flying to her reddening face, eyes wide with shock.
Blue didn't spare her another glance. She moved toward the restroom, her focus narrowing to a single point.
But then—
A hand. From nowhere.
Clamping over her mouth.
Yanking her backward into the shadows.