Saturday morning arrived, Game Seven of the Eastern Conference Finals. The Knicks had clawed their way back into the series, tied at 3-3, standing on the brink of something historic. The city buzzed with anticipation, every corner lit with conversations about starting lineups, defensive matchups, and the raw energy that would fill Madison Square Garden in just a few hours.
Adrian should have been excited.
He should have been counting down the minutes until tipoff, the way he always did when basketball meant escape instead of survival.
But instead, he found himself walking into The Blarney Stone, an old-school Irish pub with faded green decor, worn wooden barstools, and a scent of whiskey soaked into the walls.
Bob was already there, nursing his first pint, grinning as Adrian stepped inside.
“You made it,” Bob said, clapping a hand on Adrian’s shoulder like nothing had changed between them. Like the warning in the elevator hadn’t happened. Like Adrian wasn’t spending every night watching strange cars pass his apartment on a schedule.
Adrian forced a smile. “Wouldn’t miss it. Knicks in Game Seven? Legendary.”
Bob chuckled, raising his glass. “Plus, can’t beat the deal. Five-cent beers if you bring a friend? That’s theft.”
The bar was alive, filled with fans wearing green and white, talking about nothing but basketball. No corporate espionage, no secret shipments, no quiet threats wrapped in laughter.
Adrian wanted to sink into that normalcy.
But deep down, he knew—tonight wasn’t about basketball.
Tonight was going to change everything.
Adrian sat at the bar, beer in hand, trying to force himself into the rhythm of the night. The scent of stale hops and fried food, the buzz of conversation, the television above the counter flashing updates on pregame analysis—all things that should have felt normal.
But they didn’t.
Something was off.
As he leaned back in his chair, taking in the scene, his gaze flicked across the room.
That’s when he saw them.
People watching him. Not casually glancing, not lost in the background noise—staring.
One man, sitting alone at the far corner of the bar, his eyes barely leaving Adrian’s movements. A woman near the entrance, pretending to check her phone but glancing up just a second too late when Adrian turned his head. Another figure near the booths—not drinking, not talking, just sitting. Waiting.
Adrian’s grip tightened around his glass.
Was this paranoia? Or was this real?
Next to him, Bob let out a low whistle, swirling the beer in his glass.
“You see them too, huh?” he muttered, keeping his voice casual, but his expression tight.
Adrian exhaled slowly, his body tense. “Yeah.”
Bob took a slow sip, barely reacting. “Thought so.”
A beat of silence.
Then—Bob turned toward Adrian, lowering his voice.
“You need to decide,” Bob said, staring straight ahead at the game preview flashing on the screen. “You staying? Or you running?”
Adrian didn’t answer.
Because at that moment, he wasn’t sure which choice was the right one.
Bob reiterated, "You wanna run over to the stadium? We’re gonna miss tipoff."
Adrian blinked, pulled from his own thoughts. "What?"
Bob sighed, grabbing his jacket. "We need to leave now, so we can get to our seats. I don’t wanna miss tipoff."
Adrian hesitated for just a second before nodding. Keep it normal. Keep it casual. "Okay," he said.
The two men got up, heading toward the exit, weaving through the crowd of Celtics and Knicks fans filling the bar. The energy was electric—loud cheers, heated debates over starting lineups, promises that tonight would go down in history.
Then—Bob stopped.
"Hold up," he said. "I gotta hit the head real quick."
Adrian nodded, shifting toward the entrance. He leaned against the bar, waiting, eyes flicking toward the doorway every few seconds. Get to the Garden. Watch the game. Act like nothing’s wrong.
Except, something was wrong.
One of the people who had been watching him—one of the quiet observers scattered throughout the bar—moved.
The man slid over, taking the seat next to Adrian, resting his elbows against the counter with the ease of someone who didn’t need to force confidence.
Then, he spoke.
"You got the time?"
Adrian glanced at him. The man was older—mid-forties. Sharp suit. Clean-shaven. That kind of effortless authority that meant he wasn’t just some random Knicks fan looking for small talk.
"I don’t have a watch," Adrian replied politely.
The man didn’t miss a beat. "Michael Stephens," he said, like his name should mean something. And then, he pulled out his badge.
Southern Division of New York State—District Attorney.
Adrian stared at it, then back at Stephens.
He wasn’t sure what he had expected in that moment, but it certainly wasn’t this.
"Good for you," Adrian said, forcing himself to sound unimpressed. "Now what good is that for me?"
Stephens’ expression didn’t change.
"Mr. Cole," he said, voice steady, measured, dangerous. "I want you to know that we know who you are. We know where you work. And we want to know what you know—"
Then, he leaned in slightly, his voice lowering just enough to make Adrian’s stomach tighten.
"—in regard to VoxGen."
Adrian’s pulse spiked.
VoxGen.
It was just a name. Just a corporate entity. But now—it was a target.
He glanced at Stephens’ badge again, the words District Attorney, Southern Division of New York State etched into polished metal. This wasn’t some low-level cop fishing for loose ends. This was someone with power. Someone who knew exactly what Adrian had been tangled in.
Adrian leaned back slightly, schooling his expression.
“I don’t know what you think I know,” he said carefully, “but I don’t exactly feel like discussing my employer’s secrets over five-cent beers.”
Stephens chuckled, a slow, measured sound.
“Mr. Cole,” he said, fingers tapping against the bar, “I don’t think you have a choice.”
Adrian glanced toward the restroom, waiting for Bob to reappear, for something—anything—to pull him out of this conversation.
Stephens followed his gaze but didn’t move.
“Do you know how deep this goes?” Stephens asked, voice lower now, almost conversational, like they weren’t discussing something that could get Adrian killed. “Do you understand what you’re tangled in?”
Adrian met his eyes.
“Why don’t you enlighten me?”
Stephens exhaled, shaking his head.
“VoxGen is compromised,” he said bluntly. “We’ve been tracking their movements for months. Offshore accounts. Buried contracts. And now, experimental compounds are funneled into residential areas without legal clearance.”
Adrian’s stomach twisted.
They knew.
They knew about the shipments.
His grip tightened on the edge of the bar.
“If you know all that,” he muttered, “then why are you talking to me?”
Stephens gave him a knowing look.
“Because you know something I don’t,” he said simply. “And that makes you valuable.”
Adrian exhaled slowly.
Or dangerous.
Depending on who you asked.
And judging by the way Stephens watched him—he wasn’t sure which side the DA would land on.
Bob reappeared, shaking water from his hands as he approached.
"Alright, let's go," he said, adjusting his jacket, eyes focused on the game ahead.
But Adrian barely heard him.
Because when he turned back toward Michael Stephens, toward the seat where the District Attorney had just been—he was gone.
As if he had never been there.
Adrian’s chest tightened.
Had he imagined it?
The badge. The warning. The piercing certainty in Stephens’ tone as he spoke about VoxGen. It had felt real. It had been real.
But now?
Now there was nothing.
No trace. No lingering presence.
Just an empty seat and the static buzz of Knicks and Celtics fans drowning in their own excitement.
Bob nudged Adrian’s shoulder. "You good?"
Adrian blinked, forcing himself to nod.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Let’s go."
But as they stepped out of the bar, weaving into the crowded streets toward Madison Square Garden—
Adrian couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was still watching him.
Down the streets around Madison Square Garden, a living sea of blue, orange, green, and white, as fans poured into the arena, buzzing about the historic Game Seven showdown.
Adrian felt the electricity in the air—the chants, the excitement, the promise of something legendary unfolding inside. And yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling crawling up his spine.
As he and Bob moved toward the entrance, something caught his attention.
A long black car, windows deeply tinted, slowly rolled down the two blocks behind them.
Was it following them? Or was it just a coincidence, another vehicle forced to crawl through the dense pre-game congestion?
Adrian exhaled, trying to shake the paranoia—but even as he did, something else unsettled him.
The way people were watching him.
Not just fleeting glances, not simple curiosity. Eyes followed them. Followed him.
As they stepped inside the Garden, surrounded by thousands of screaming fans, Adrian should’ve felt invisible, just another spectator in the madness.
Instead, it felt like he was part of the team, like the weight of every stare clung to him with knowing intent.
Someone knew who he was. Someone knew why he was here.
And tonight?
Tonight, it wasn’t about basketball.
Adrian and Bob moved swiftly through the VIP entrance on 33rd Street, weaving between suited executives, celebrities, and high rollers who had secured the best seats in the house for Game Seven.
Security barely glanced at them, scanning their tickets before motioning them forward into the heart of the arena. The air was thick with anticipation—the hum of thousands of fans settling into their seats, the scent of popcorn and beer swirling through the halls, the distant echoes of sneaker squeaks as players warmed up on the court.
But Adrian couldn’t shake the feeling crawling up his spine.
Even inside the chaos, he felt watched.
The same creeping sensation that had followed him from the bar, from his apartment, from the past two years of his life.
Was it paranoia? Or was someone here—inside the arena—waiting for him?
As they reached their seats, Bob clapped him on the shoulder, grinning.
“This is it, Ry,” he said. “Best game of the season. You ready?”
Adrian forced a smile, nodding.
But deep down, he wasn’t sure he was ready for what came next.