For the first time in weeks, Adrian was starting to feel like himself again.
As the game progressed, tension unraveled from his shoulders, piece by piece, lost in the rhythm of the crowd, the roar of the fans, the electric energy of Game Seven. For a moment, it wasn’t about VoxGen, secret shipments, or the suffocating paranoia trailing him in the streets.
It was just basketball.
And the Knicks were holding their ground.
By halftime, the arena was alive, the noise pulsing through the rafters as the halftime entertainment took center stage.
Then came the big moment—the half-court shot challenge.
Adrian barely processed it at first. The announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers; excitement laced in every word as the choice was revealed.
And then—his seat number in VIP West echoed through the Garden.
“Tonight’s lucky shooter, stepping onto the court for a chance at fifty-thousand dollars—Adrian Cole!”
Bob laughed, nudging him hard in the ribs. “Well, look at that! Make yourself a legend, Ry.”
Adrian chuckled, shaking his head. The odds of being picked were slim—rigged or random, it didn’t matter. This was his moment.
But as he stepped toward the court, the floodlights swallowing him whole—
Someone else was preparing to take a shot.
Not with a basketball.
Not for the crowd.
But for him.
High above the arena, tucked away in the shadows of the rafters, a figure steadied their aim.
Adrian Cole had been selected.
But not just for the halftime show.
Adrian gripped the basketball tighter, the leather firm beneath his fingers. Focus. Breathe.
He bounced the ball once. Twice.
The roar of the Garden enveloped him—chanting fans, flashing lights, the electric anticipation of a moment that, in any other reality, would’ve been about basketball.
But something nagged at him.
When the announcer had called his seat number, it made sense. Random choice, luck of the draw. But then—he had called his name at once afterward.
No introduction. No handshake. No confirmation.
Just Adrian Cole, standing under the floodlights, holding the ball in his hands like this had been planned all along.
Adrian’s pulse quickened. That wasn’t normal.
His eyes flicked across the crowd, scanning the faces turned toward him, the endless rows of spectators waiting for the shot.
Then—he saw the rafters.
A dark figure. Still. Watching.
Adrian took a breath, bending his knees, adjusting his grip.
Ignore it. Just make the shot.
The ball rolled between his fingers, the weight familiar, grounding.
He launched it—smooth, controlled, perfect.
And then—
BAM.
The sharp crack of a gunshot split through the arena.
The crowd’s roar drowned most of the noise, but Adrian heard it. Felt it.
Something wasn’t right.
Something was very, very wrong.
The gunshot cracked through the air; sharp, violent, almost lost in the roar of the crowd—but Adrian felt it.
Then, impact.
The bullet struck the basketball just as it reached its arc, shattering it mid-air in a spectacular burst of rubber, nylon, and compressed air.
The crowd gasped, confusion rippling through the arena. They saw the explosion—but didn’t know what caused it.
Adrian swallowed hard.
Then, the ricochet.
The bullet, torn off course by the force of the shattered ball, spun wildly, streaking toward the massive digital vision scoreboard suspended over the court.
BAM!
The ricocheted round slammed into the screen, shattering part of the display. Flickering images danced across the glitching scoreboard as sparks rained down toward the hardwood floor.
The Garden erupted in chaos.
People screamed—some out of confusion, some out of fear. Players stumbled, eyes darting toward the wreckage above. Security rushed to assess the situation, their radios crackling as emergency protocols kicked in.
Adrian didn’t move.
He could barely breathe.
That wasn’t just a missed shot.
That was a warning.
And if whoever fired it had meant for him to die—he already would have.
Adrian stood frozen, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. Sparks and shards of glass rained down around him, catching the light like falling stars. The crowd’s roar had shifted—no longer cheers but screams of confusion and panic.
Bob’s voice cut through the chaos.
“Adrian! Move!”
Before Adrian could react, Bob was there, grabbing his arm and yanking him toward the nearest exit. The hardwood floor beneath them was slick with spilled drinks and debris as they stumbled through the chaos.
All around them, spectators surged in every direction, their movements frantic and uncoordinated. Parents clutched their children, fans abandoned their seats, and the once-celebratory energy of the Garden dissolved into pure panic.
Madison Square Garden security scrambled to regain control, their radios crackling with frantic orders. But it was no use. The shooter was gone.
No one had seen where the shot came from. No one could pinpoint the shadow in the rafters.
All they could do was usher people out of the building as quickly as possible, their focus shifting from finding the culprit to ensuring no one else got hurt.
Adrian’s legs moved on autopilot, his mind still replaying the moment the ball exploded in mid-air. The sound of the ricochet. The sparks from the scoreboard. The realization that someone had aimed for him.
Bob tightened his grip on Adrian’s arm, his voice low and urgent.
“Keep moving, Ry. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.”
Adrian didn’t argue.
Because deep down, he knew—this wasn’t over.
Adrian and Bob stumbled through the chaotic streets of Manhattan, the echoes of Madison Square Garden fading behind them. The city pulsed with life—cars honking, neon signs flickering, crowds moving in every direction—but Adrian could barely process any of it.
His mind was still reeling.
The ball exploding. The ricochet. The knowing stares.
That wasn’t just an accident. That was a message.
Bob kept his grip firm on Adrian’s arm, pushing him forward, their pace quickening as they neared Hudson Crossing Apartments—Bob’s home, his safe place.
Bob lived there with his wife and daughter, and normally, Adrian would’ve hesitated about showing up after the madness that just unfolded. But he had nowhere else to go.
The second they stepped inside the lobby, Bob exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
“Damn it, Ry,” he muttered. “What the hell did you get yourself into?”
Adrian swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair.
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
Because whatever was happening—it was bigger than he ever imagined.
The elevator ride up was quiet. The adrenaline from Madison Square Garden had worn off, leaving Adrian with an uneasy stillness in his chest.
Bob was flipping through the stack of mail in his hands as they stepped into the penthouse apartment. The place was unusually silent—Gail and Samantha wouldn’t be back until Sunday afternoon after church—giving the space a strangely hollow feel.
Bob muttered something about forgetting to check the mail before the game, sorting through envelopes like it was any other day.
Then—he stopped.
Adrian noticed the sudden tension in Bob’s posture, the way his fingers hovered over one small package.
It was plain, unmarked—except for one unsettling detail.
A black stain on the bottom.
Bob turned the box over in his hands, staring at it like it didn’t belong there.
Adrian’s pulse ticked up.
Something was wrong.
Something was very, very wrong.
Bob stared at Adrian, his face drained of color, his hands clenched tightly around the phone.
"Call Gail. Now," Adrian urged, voice sharp, cutting through the thick silence between them.
Bob hesitated only for a second before fumbling with his phone, scrolling through his contacts. The ringing started at once—once, twice, three times.
No answer.
Four times. Five.
Still nothing.
Bob’s grip tightened. He inhaled sharply, hanging up before looking at Adrian. Neither man spoke.
But the fear? It was loud enough to hear.
Then, Bob turned back to the box. That damned box.
It sat between them, unmoving, waiting. The black stain on the bottom now felt less like a mark and more like a warning.
Bob swallowed hard, pulled at the cardboard flaps, and slowly lifted the letter from inside.
Something moved.
Something slid underneath it.
Bob peeled the paper away—and froze.
An eyeball.
A human eyeball.
Red. Wet. Still attached to frayed optic nerves and muscle fibers.
Bob barely processed what he was looking at before his body acted on instinct—he dropped the box.
The eye rolled free, skittering across the floor, leaving behind a smear of blood.
Adrian jumped back, a scream ripping from his throat before he even realized it was his own voice.
Bob staggered, backing away, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.
That wasn’t a message.
That was a threat.
And whoever sent it?
They weren’t done yet.
Bob’s stomach twisted violently. The smell. The sight. The sheer horror of it.
He barely made it two steps before doubling over, vomiting onto the floor—onto the bloodied eye rolling helplessly through the mess.
It stopped moving, half-submerged in bile, staring back at him like a grotesque confirmation of their worst fears.
Bob collapsed onto his hands and knees, trembling. His breath came in short, uneven gasps, his mind reeling in frantic loops.
“Who… whose eye is that?” he choked out. He couldn’t look away.
Adrian’s pulse pounded at the base of his skull. The room felt smaller, the walls pressing inward, suffocating.
He swallowed hard. “Read the letter.”
Bob’s fingers shook as he reached for the paper, gripping it with slick hands, forcing his eyes to focus on the words that would change everything.
And as his gaze moved down the page—his face drained of color.
Because now, he knew exactly whose eye had been sent to them.
Adrian moved beside Bob, the weight of the moment pressing against his chest like an iron grip. Whatever was written on that letter—it mattered.
Bob’s hands trembled as he unfolded the paper, the edges smudged with blood from the grotesque delivery that had rolled across the floor moments ago.
Adrian inhaled sharply, his eyes scanning the page as Bob read aloud—his voice barely above a whisper.
“Mr. Rooney— You should’ve kept your friend out of this. You should’ve told him to walk away. This isn’t a warning anymore. It’s a threat.”
A knot tightened in Adrian’s stomach. His pulse hammered against his ribs as his looked from the paper to Bob.
Bob’s breathing was uneven, short and clipped, panic creeping in.
Then, Adrian saw it—the name written at the bottom of the letter.
Gail.
Bob’s wife.
Was it her eye.
Adrian’s blood ran cold.
Bob staggered back, his body shutting down from the realization.
This wasn’t just a threat anymore.
This was personal.
The silence in the apartment was suffocating.
Adrian’s pulse pounded in his ears, his breath uneven as he stared at the gruesome letter in Bob’s shaking hands. Gail’s name. Her eye. The message.
Then—his phone rang.
The sudden vibration sliced through the tense air like a blade.
Adrian’s fingers trembled as he lifted the phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
For a moment, there was nothing. Just empty static.
Then—a raspy voice.
Low. Hoarse. Unsettling.
“You’re too late, Mr. Cole.”
The silence after Adrian’s call was suffocating—a void filled with nothing but dread.
Then—Bob’s phone rang.
He fumbled with it, still shaking, his mind clouded with fear. The caller ID flashed Gail.
Adrian watched as Bob hesitated before answering, his voice strained.
“Honey?”
“Oh, hey,” Gail said, cheerful, oblivious to the horror unfolding in their apartment. “Sorry, I’m running late. I’ll be home in a little while—I’m stopping to grab supper.”
Bob’s blood ran cold.
His breath hitched, his hand tightening around the phone.
Adrian saw it—the exact moment realization hit him like a freight train.
It wasn’t Gail’s eye.
It was Samantha’s.
Bob’s knees buckled. The phone nearly slipped from his grasp.
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “No—no, no.”
Adrian stared, frozen. His own pulse thundered in his ears.
Because this wasn’t just terror anymore.
This was tragedy.
Bob’s pulse hammered as he clutched the phone tighter, his voice barely steady.
“Where’s Sam?” he asked, desperation laced in every syllable.
Gail’s response was calm, too calm compared to the storm raging in Bob’s chest.
“She’s spending the night at a friend’s house,” Gail said, oblivious to the mounting terror on the other end of the call.
Bob’s breath hitched relief and dread colliding in an instant.
“She’s at a friend’s?” he echoed, his voice thin, cracking at the edges. “Gail, you need to call her. Tell her to get home at once.”
A pause.
Gail hesitated. “Bob, what’s going on?”
Bob squeezed his eyes shut. How the hell could he explain this?
Adrian was already moving, grabbing his own phone, searching for any number related to Samantha’s friend.
Bob exhaled shakily.
“Just call her. Please. Now.”
Because whatever was happening time was running out.
Bob hung up without telling Gail anything.
Adrian didn’t wait—he was already flipping through contacts, searching for any number connected to Samantha. There had to be something.
Then—he found it.
Ashley. Samantha’s best friend. Her father, Mike, worked at VoxGen with Bob and Adrian. If anyone knew where Sam was, he would.
Adrian dialed the number.
The call rang—once, twice—then clicked as Mike answered. Adrian put the call on speaker.
"Yeah?" Mike’s voice was sharp, distracted.
"Mike, it's Adrian," he rushed, forcing himself to sound steady. "Where’s Samantha?"
A pause.
Then Mike sighed. "She was here. Stayed the night. But she left early this morning—she got a call from Gail."
Adrian stiffened. "Gail?"
Mike continued, oblivious to the sheer weight of what he was about to say.
"Yeah. Gail told her Bob was hurt in a car wreck. Said to meet her at New York Presbyterian Hospital."
The world tilted.
Bob staggered back, eyes wide, face drained of color.
Adrian gripped his phone tighter, pulse hammering against his ribs.
Because there was only one problem.
Gail had never made that call.
Adrian’s grip tightened around his phone.
Bob had gone completely still—silent, pale, barely breathing.
Gail had never made that call.
Which meant someone else had.
Which meant Samantha was walking into a trap.
Adrian moved first. Fast. Urgent.
“We need to go,” he said sharply, grabbing Bob’s arm. “Now.”
Bob snapped out of his stunned state, his fear flipping into something purely primal.
A father. A protector. A man who had just realized his daughter was in danger.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t question.
He just ran.
Adrian was right behind him, shoving through the apartment door, hitting the elevator button with too much force.
Seconds dragged out like eternity, but when the doors finally opened, they stormed in—two men moving with one singular purpose.
Save Samantha.
Bob’s tires screeched as he swerved onto the side of the road, his hands gripping the wheel like a lifeline.
Adrian’s phone was still hot in his hand, the words lingering in his mind like venom.
“She’s not there. Look at the last known address.”
Bob turned to Adrian, his breath uneven, his panic barely seen.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Adrian’s pulse pounded. He didn’t know if the voice was a warning, a trick, or something far worse—but whoever it was, they knew something.
Adrian exhaled sharply. “It means we’re looking in the wrong place.”
Bob’s expression darkened. “You think she’s actually at the hospital?”
Adrian swallowed. “I don’t know.”
Bob gritted his teeth, then shoved the gear into park.
“We find that address,” he said, voice sharp, determined.
Because whatever was happening Samantha was running out of time.
Adrian's mind was a storm, his thoughts colliding faster than he could keep up.
The voice on the phone had been clear—Samantha wasn’t at the hospital.
That meant she was somewhere else. But where?
He had a choice. He could panic, let fear cloud his judgment. Or he could think, connect the dots, and figure out where she had been taken.
Then it hit him.
Adrian snapped his fingers, his voice sharp. “Wait—I have something.”
Bob turned, desperate for any kind of answer. “What?”
Adrian yanked open his bag, rifling through papers, his breath uneven as he searched. Then—he found it.
A printed spreadsheet—the shipping manifest.
It had been sitting there all along, practically begging for attention. Adrian had pored over the document for weeks, running calculations, cross-checking discrepancies.
And now, it might be the one thing that could save Samantha.
Bob leaned in, eyes scanning the paper as Adrian traced his finger down the list of addresses.
“These are where the compounds went,” Adrian muttered, barely hearing his own voice over the pounding in his head. “The ones that didn’t match the official records. The ones that were off the books.”
Bob’s chest rose and fell in heavy, measured breaths.
Then—Adrian’s finger stopped.
One address stood out.
Different from the others. Different from what had been officially documented.
His pulse quickened.
Could this be it?
Was this where Samantha had been taken?
Bob’s hands curled into fists, his body wound tight with barely held fear.
Adrian looked up at him, his expression grim but determined.
“We need to go.”
Bob didn’t hesitate.
Just as Bob shoved the gear into drive, ready to tear down the streets of Manhattan in search of Samantha—he stopped.
His hand shot out, gripping Adrian’s arm tightly. Not in panic. Not in urgency. But in apology.
His voice was raw. Guilt-lined. Fractured.
"Ry… “I need to say this before we go," Bob murmured, his eyes not just desperate, but haunted.
Adrian turned, confusion flickering across his face. "Bob, we don’t have time—"
"I never thought it would go this far," Bob interrupted, his grip tightening. His breath was uneven now, shaken in a way Adrian had never heard before.
"I never meant for you to get pulled into this. That day in the elevator—" Bob exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Glaven told me to warn you. Just a little warning. Not this. Not this madness."
Adrian stiffened.
Glaven. The name sat heavy in his chest, cold and sharp.
Adrian swallowed. "You knew something was off. And you didn’t say anything."
Bob nodded slowly, his expression twisted with regret.
"Yeah," he admitted. "I didn’t say anything. And now—we’re standing in the middle of something I can’t even begin to fix."
A beat of silence stretched between them—a pause filled with unspoken pain, with the weight of the past crashing into the urgency of the present.
Then, Adrian inhaled, forcing himself to refocus.
"We find Sam," he said. "Then we figure out the rest."
Bob nodded once, shoving the car into gear, peeling into the night.
Because fixing things could wait.
Saving Samantha could not.
At the edge of East 56th Street and Fifth Avenue, standing tall against the city skyline, sat a towering condominium—858 Fifth Ave.
Adrian stared down at the address on the shipping manifest, his pulse quickening.
It wasn’t just on the list once.
It had been entered multiple times—the location tied to VoxGen’s buried transactions, appearing over and over with no clear explanation.
And then—he saw it.
The last entry. The most recent one.
This was the last known address.
Adrian swallowed hard, locking eyes with Bob.
“This is it,” he murmured. “If she’s anywhere… it’s here.”
Bob didn’t hesitate.
He floored the gas, weaving through traffic, heading straight for the heart of whatever lay ahead.
Because if Samantha was inside that building, if the answers were buried behind those walls—they weren’t leaving without her.