Tim Delaney never trusted mornings. They came too quickly, and they always brought something with them—emails, deadlines, coffee that was never strong enough. But today, morning brought something else: pressure.
The kind that sat in his chest like a ticking clock.
His apartment was dark save for the blue glow of his laptop. He'd been up most of the night, combing through the files from the anonymous tip. Half of it was encrypted beyond his skills. The other half made his stomach twist. Lab schematics and brief research logs with words like neurological induction and human resilience testing, all stamped with the Cetus Foundation logo.
And that video.
He couldn't shake it. That grainy footage—rows of pods, human shapes barely visible through frost-covered glass. Sedated? Dead? He didn't know. Couldn't know. Not yet.
But something was happening inside Cetus. Something is wrong.
He closed the laptop slowly, as if sealing away the evidence of a nightmare.
Then he glanced at the old photograph on his desk. Two kids, smiling in the sun. Eva was five in that photo, missing a front tooth and holding onto his hand like the world depended on it. Maybe it did.
Tim stood, ran a hand through his hair, and made for the shower. Today, he had work. Today, he'd pretend to be normal.
And tonight… he'd prepare to break into Cetus.
Khan & Thomas was buzzing when Tim arrived—phones ringing, printers whirring, associates shuffling files like cards in a losing deck. He nodded to a few faces as he passed, slipping into his office, briefcase in hand.
He had just placed his coffee down when Danno Ortega appeared in his doorway, grinning like a cat who had seen something inappropriate.
"Delaney," Danno drawled, "you look like a man who got very little sleep and even less action."
Tim didn't bother to look up. "That line worked better when you had hair."
"You guys hear about that weird blackout at the Cetus warehouse last week?" Maya asked from her cabin.
Danno replied, "Yeah, the place lost power, and some guards swore they saw 'shadows moving.' Spooky stuff."
Ghost stories? From the most powerful pharma company in the world? That's new.
Danno sauntered in and flopped into the chair across from Tim's desk. "So I hear Lex Armstrong's dropping by today."
That caught Tim's attention.
He raised an eyebrow. "Armstrong? As in, Mr. Media Darling of Cetus? Why would he be here?"
Danno shrugged. "Anita said something about consultation on a legal matter. Confidential, of course. But hey—maybe they want to sponsor your next trial. Get yourself a shiny lab coat."
Tim frowned. "Lex Armstrong doesn't breathe without a camera rolling. Why walk into a small firm like ours? Cetus has its legal army."
"Exactly," Danno said. "Maybe he's slumming it. Or maybe…" He wiggled his eyebrows. "He's bored and wants to watch you brood in person."
Tim shook his head and looked away, but the name echoed in his mind. Lex Armstrong was a face he recognized. Not just from headlines and biotech panels, but from his research into Cetus. Lex wasn't just the face of the company—he was a gatekeeper. A man who never got his hands dirty but somehow always walked out clean.
Tim stared at his coffee, lost in thought.
Why now?
The meeting didn't include him. He watched through the glass as Anita Khan led Armstrong and two sharp-suited assistants into the main conference room. Lex was exactly as the media portrayed him—tall, tan, and effortlessly charming. His suit was midnight black, his hair perfectly sculpted, and his smile like it had been cut from marble.
Danno leaned against Tim's desk again, watching the scene unfold.
"You know," Danno whispered, "if I looked like that, I wouldn't be in law."
Tim didn't answer. He was watching Lex shake Anita's hand, watching the way his eyes scanned the room—methodical, predatory.
There was something rehearsed about the man. Every gesture, every smile. Calculated.
Tim's phone buzzed—a message from Harris.
"Meet me on the roof. Now."
The rooftop of Khan & Thomas wasn't glamorous. A patch of concrete, a few benches, and a view of the city that was half skyline, half exhaust vents. Harris was standing near the edge, looking out over the buildings like he could read something in them.
Tim pushed the door open and stepped into the light. "Do you always summon people to rooftops, or am I special?"
Harris didn't turn. "You're not special. Just stubborn."
Tim joined him at the edge, following his gaze. The Cetus building loomed in the distance—sleek, all glass and steel, like it didn't belong among the older, squatter buildings.
"I know that look," Harris said. "I had it once."
Tim glanced over. "When?"
"2004," Harris said, voice rougher now. "I was a cop in Philly. Missing persons. We got a call about a kid—fourteen—who vanished from a group home. Foster placement. No signs of struggle, no witnesses. Just gone. I pulled the thread. Thought I was being smart."
He rubbed his jaw, eyes distant.
"That thread led me to a company funding the group home. Small foundation, then. Medical research, they said. Harmless. Back then, no one had heard of Cetus."
Tim's breath caught.
Harris continued, "I pushed. I got a visit. Two men in suits. Not cops, not Feds. They knew my name, my address, and my wife's name. They told me the case was closed. They made it clear—drop it, or lose everything."
"And you did?" Tim asked, trying to keep the edge from his voice.
"I had a kid on the way. I dropped it." Harris turned finally, eyes hard. "But I never forgot. And when I saw that name pop up again—Cetus—I remembered the kid's name. I remembered how the system erased him."
Tim nodded slowly. "You think they erased Eva, too."
"I think they've been erasing kids for twenty years."
Back in his apartment that night, Tim couldn't sit still. The weight of Harris's words pressed on him like gravity. He paced the room, scanning his notes, maps, and blueprints. This wasn't just about Eva anymore. It was about why. Why would a biotech company want children? What was Cetus doing?
He needed answers. Tomorrow wouldn't cut it.
He needed to go inside.
He began laying out gear on the table: gloves, dark clothes, a lockpick set, a USB extractor, and a small camera disguised as a button. Maya had given it to him during a case once and said it was "for emergencies or recreational spying."
This counted as both.
He reviewed the building's layout again. The service entrance is on 6th Avenue. Night staff rotation—security changeover at midnight. Harris had loop access to the cameras for ten minutes, no more.
He noted everything down—no detail too small.
He couldn't afford a mistake. Not now.
Eva's face lingered in his mind, not as she was now—he had no idea who she was now—but as she was then. A little girl with bright eyes and a laugh that made the world feel okay.
He tightened his fists. I will find you.
The next morning, the office was in its usual rhythm, but Tim felt out of step. Every conversation, every smile, felt like static. He went through the motions, took meetings, and answered emails. But his mind was somewhere else.
Then Danno pulled him aside near the elevators, grinning.
"You'll love this," Danno said. "Guess who Lex Armstrong asked about yesterday?"
Tim raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess. You?"
"Nope." Danno leaned in, voice low. "You. He said he'd heard about your 'brilliant courtroom performance.' Wanted to know what makes you tick."
Tim's blood ran cold.
"Why would Armstrong care about me?" he asked.
Danno shrugged. "Maybe he's scouting talent. Maybe he's just nosy. Either way, you've got his attention now."
Tim said nothing, but inside, gears turned fast. Armstrong knew his name. That wasn't good. That wasn't random.
Cetus knows I'm watching.
By nightfall, Tim's apartment looked like a war room.
He'd cleared his table, laying out every tool with surgical precision: gloves, the camera button, a modified flash drive with a data siphon, a phone Harris had wiped and secured, and a simple black backpack. Everything is quiet, simple, and untraceable.
He checked the time—10:18 PM.
Two hours to go.
He moved to the window, looking out at the city, alive with light and sound. Somewhere out there, in a building wrapped in glass and secrets, were the answers he'd chased for nearly a decade.
Somewhere, maybe… was Eva.
Tim sat heavily at his desk and opened a drawer. He pulled out a small notebook, old and worn, the spine cracked from overuse. Inside were his scribbles, sketches, and even pieces of poetry he'd never admit to writing.
He turned to a fresh page and hesitated. Then he began to write.
Eva—
I don't know if you'll ever read this. I don't know if you're alive, if you're safe, or if you even remember me. But I remember you. I remember every moment—every laugh, every story we made up to escape what came after. You were the only thing that made sense when the world fell apart.
I'm going to Cetus tonight. I don't know what I'll find, but if there's any chance you're in there, I have to try. I can't sit in courtrooms anymore pretending that's enough. I can't live another year not knowing.
If I don't come back… I hope someone finds this. I hope they tell you I never stopped looking. Never stopped loving you.
– Tim
He closed the notebook and tucked it into a drawer. He didn't believe in drama. This wasn't a goodbye.
It was just… insurance.
At 11:47 PM, Tim stood in front of the mirror, dressed in a black hoodie, gloves, and sneakers. Everything is silent, everything is ready. His reflection stared back: sharp lines, focused eyes, and that mustache—immaculate, even now.
He chuckled softly. If I die, I better look good doing it.
He slung the backpack over his shoulder, grabbed the burner phone, and headed out the door. The hallway was quiet, the air heavy with anticipation.
Downstairs, Harris waited in an unmarked car, engine running, eyes scanning.
Tim slid into the passenger seat.
"Are you sure about this?" Harris asked, glancing at him.
"No," Tim replied. "But I'm doing it anyway."
Harris pulled into traffic, the city lights casting fleeting shadows across Tim's face.
The Cetus building loomed ahead, bright and towering, like it had always been there, waiting.
And Tim was done waiting.