The heavy wool of Declan’s designer coat swallowed the little girl’s fragile frame as he lifted her into his arms. She weighed almost nothing—like a bundle of dried leaves. She didn't cry. She didn't fight. She only clung to her one-armed doll with a white-knuckled grip, her dark, hollow eyes locked onto Declan’s face as if trying to decipher whether he was a savior or a predator.

Declan didn't sleep. He spent the night locked in his study, tearing through his late wife’s old personal journals and digital archives. Sarah had been a brilliant biochemical researcher before her sudden, tragic death in a hit-and-run two years ago. At least, that was the official police report.

Now, looking at her old research files with fresh, paranoid eyes, Declan noticed a hidden, encrypted folder labeled Project Animus.

Using his own high-level decryption software, he forced the folder open. Inside were medical records, DNA sequences, and a shocking, high-resolution photograph of an infant girl born in a private clinic exactly five years ago.

The baby's name on the birth certificate: Hope Rhodes.

Declan’s breath hitched. Rhodes. Sarah had given birth to a second child—a twin to Ember—in complete secrecy, just months before her death. But why? Why hide a child from her own husband? Why leave her to rot on the streets?

Suddenly, the power in the estate cut out. The grand chandeliers flickered and died, plunging the massive house into pitch-black darkness.

Down the hall, a blood-curdling shriek pierced the silence.

It was Ember.

Declan bolted from his chair, knocking over his desk lamp. He sprinted up the stairs, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Ember! Hope!" he yelled, pulling a licensed firearm from the biometric safe in his bedroom hallway.

He burst into the girls' bedroom. The window was shattered, rain pouring over the carpet. A dark, masked figure was standing over Ember’s bed, a heavy canvas bag in hand. But the intruder wasn't grabbing Ember.

He was dragging Hope toward the window.

"Drop her!" Declan roared, raising his weapon.

The intruder paused, looking back. Through the tactical goggles, Declan caught a glimpse of a cold, scarred face. The man didn't flinch. Instead, he pulled a small detonator from his vest.

"Shoot me, and this entire wing of your house turns to ash, billionaire," the man hissed. "The child belongs to the Syndicate. Her blood is worth more than your entire tech empire."

In a split-second decision, Declan fired—not at the man, but at the heavy wooden wardrobe behind him. The massive oak structure crashed down, pinning the intruder's leg. The man roared in pain, dropping Hope.

Declan scooped up both girls, running out of the room just as the intruder threw a smoke grenade, vanishing into the rainy night through the shattered window.