Chapter 2 - The Crimson Shadow on Fourth StreetThe rusted sedan parked outside the decaying brick apartment complex on Fourth Street looked wildly out of place beside a convoy of three matte-black armored Mercedes-Maybachs.
Residents peeked through cracked window blinds, whispering in terror as heavily armed men in bespoke suits poured out of the vehicles, establishing an airtight perimeter around the building.
Vincent Hale strode up the concrete steps of the dilapidated walk-up, his long wool coat sweeping behind him. Behind him walked Daniel, Rachel (trembling violently and clutching little Lily’s hand), and a bewildered private physician carrying a specialized medical kit.
Vincent stopped outside apartment 3B.
The door was flimsy, painted a dull, peeling shade of turquoise. Through the thin wood, muffled sounds drifted into the hallway—the scratch of a pencil on paper and the faint, cheerful hum of a cartoon theme song.
Vincent’s hand hovered over the brass doorknob.
For six years, he had imagined this moment in a thousand different ways. He had imagined storming enemy compounds and finding Ethan tied to a chair. He had imagined a grand, emotional reunion in a hospital room.
He had never imagined finding his son living in a three-hundred-square-foot box, eating boxed macaroni and cheese, raised by a woman who thought he was just another stray soul saved from the dark.
"Mr. Hale," Daniel murmured gently. "Let me clear the room first—"
"No," Vincent cut him off. His voice was thick with emotion he was struggling to crush beneath layers of iron willpower. "This is my son."
Vincent turned the knob. It clicked, and the door swung inward.
The apartment was painfully small, yet obsessively clean. A worn floral sofa sat against one wall next to a stacked pile of textbooks. At a small, wobbly wooden kitchen table beneath a flickering fluorescent bulb sat a boy.
He looked up when the door opened.
Vincent stopped breathing.
The boy—no longer the toddler of four, but a sturdy, bright-eyed ten-year-old—had the exact same unruly brown hair, the same sharp jawline, and the same distinct, pale scar beside his left temple.
Most striking of all were his eyes. Gray-green. The eyes of Claire Hale. The eyes Vincent looked into every time he shaved in the morning.
"Aunt Rachel?" the boy asked, blinking in confusion as he looked past Vincent at the terrifying wall of black-suited men filling his tiny kitchen. "Who are these men? Did we miss rent again?"
Noah stood up, instinctively pushing his chair back. As he moved, his left sleeve slipped down slightly, revealing a dull, scratched piece of silver locked securely around his wrist with a tiny, rusted clasp.
Ethan Hale.
The engraved words were right there, hidden in plain sight for six years.
Vincent took a step forward, his boots heavy on the linoleum floor. He felt tears—hot and unfamiliar—pricking the corners of his eyes, though his expression remained a mask of profound shock.
"Noah..." Vincent choked out, his voice cracking entirely.
The boy stepped back, his eyes narrowing with sudden, defensive wariness. He looked like a cornered wolf pup. "My name is Noah. Who are you? Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Ethan," Vincent corrected softly, dropping to one knee so he was at eye level with the boy. He reached out a trembling hand, stopping inches away from Noah's face, afraid that if he touched him, the illusion would shatter into smoke. "Your name is Ethan. You belong to me."
Noah flinched, backing into the counter. He looked frantically at Rachel, who had just stepped inside with little Lily.
"Aunt Rachel, make them go away!" Noah pleaded, his voice rising in panic. "What do they want?"
Before Rachel could speak, the hair on the back of Vincent's neck stood straight up.
May you like
A high-pitched, metallic whine pierced the night air, followed instantly by a thunderous CRACK that rattled the apartment's single-pane windows.
Sniper fire.
