AT THE MILITARY POLICE BASE
Scott had been at the base for hours, digging through files, grilling officers who'd served with Damien Quinn—hoping for a spark, anything. But all he got was dust and indifference. Nothing led anywhere.
He stepped back into the station, worn, jaw tight, only to be met by a strange silence and drawn faces.
"What the hell's with the mood?" Scott asked, glancing between them.
"We've been played," Ray muttered, his voice laced with anger.
Scott's eyes narrowed. "Explain."
"The patrol car—gone," Ray said bitterly. "Completely off the radar. And get this—the idiots at the precinct didn't even notice it was missing until we pointed it out."
Frank didn't say a word. He walked straight to the monitor and hit play.
Security cam footage crackled to life.
A hooded figure walked confidently up to the cruiser, hopped in like he owned it, and drove it straight out of the station lot—no hesitation. Then the next footage showed him cruising into a junkyard hours later. Sparks flew. Metal bent. The car was dismantled like scrap.
Scott watched, jaw clenched. "Son of a bitch..."
He turned to Stephanie. "And you?"
She shook her head. "Nothing. No neighbors, no leads. Gibbs' place is cold."
Scott slammed a fist against the wall. "Goddamn it!"
Suddenly, Frank's computer beeped.
He bolted to his chair, face lighting up. "Yes! We got him!"
Scott rushed over. "Talk to me."
"Real-time hit," Frank said, eyes darting across code. "A street brawl outside a convenience store. He dropped his hat mid-fight. Facial ID caught him. Watch this."
The screen showed Damien's face, full-on, blood trickling from his nose, jaw clenched in fury. The footage froze mid-punch.
"Where'd this come from?" Scott asked.
"New facial recognition program I finished last night," Frank said with a grin. "Uploads a photo, scans the entire city's surveillance net. Soon as someone pops up—bam."
Scott nodded, impressed. "Send us the location. Keep the system running."
"We're moving," he barked, already heading out.
The squad loaded up with the patrol division as backup. Sirens pierced the night. They reached the site fast—but Damien had vanished again. Like smoke. A ghost in the streets.
INSIDE DAMIEN'S HELL
The hideout was a tomb. A windowless, airless room thick with pain.
Helena slumped against a cold concrete wall, arms shackled above her. Her hair clung to her bloodied face. The children—bruised, eyes hollow—trembled beside her, their small wrists scraped raw from iron cuffs.
Only a single bulb lit the chamber, and only when Damien was inside. Otherwise, it was black. Silence. Dread.
Doctor Gibbs sat motionless in a rusted chair across from them, wrists bound, chin resting limp against his chest. He hadn't spoken in days—not since Damien forced boiling water down his throat for "talking nonsense" about his mental state. His vocal cords had been scorched to ruin.
"You don't tell me I'm broken," Damien had hissed. "I'm fixing what I lost."
Now, Damien stepped into the room, the door creaking like a scream. He clicked the light on.
Helena jolted. The children cried out, flinching.
"Let's try again," Damien said, voice eerily soft.
He crouched in front of the children, eyes gleaming.
"Are you ready to call me Dad?"
"Please," Helena sobbed. "Please let us go."
Damien stood, trembling with rage. "You're still not listening."
He slammed a belt across the concrete. The snap echoed. The kids whimpered.
Then, in the next breath, he dropped to his knees.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, tears streaking his face. "Daddy's sorry... I just want my family back..."
He turned to Helena.
"Darling... please."
She turned her face away, dead-eyed.
Doctor Gibbs just sat still, barely breathing, barely blinking.
Outside, muffled through the walls, voices and footsteps—so close yet impossibly far.
BACK TO THE SEARCH
Scott stood in the alley where Damien was last seen. His mind raced.
"Frank, you on the line?" he said into his earpiece.
"Loud and clear."
"I've got an idea. That program of yours—can it scan building facades like it does faces?"
"Easily. Why?"
"Damien's old house—the one that burned. Upload its image and scan for anything similar in this area. Same architectural structure, layout, whatever. He's obsessed. He'd recreate the home that burned."
"You think he rebuilt it?"
"I think he needs to believe he never lost it."
Frank was already typing. "Scanning now..."
The silence was tense.
Then—ping.
Frank whirled. "Found one. Twenty minutes away. Isolated, no neighbors within fifty yards."
"Send the address. Now."
Scott turned, barking orders.
"Everyone move in! Full lockdown perimeter. He's cornered now."
As the address relayed, officers stormed the transports, rifles ready. Sirens cut through the streets like knives.
The trap was set.
No more shadows.
Only reckoning.