I followed the arrow down a long, dark hallway, its shadows stretching like they were trying to hold me back.
I heard a muffled scream—it sounded like my sister. Heart racing, I sprinted down the freezing corridor, each step feeling like it took a lifetime.
Suddenly, I dashed through a door and plunged into a pit of darkness.
I woke up, tied to a chair, staring down the barrel of a gun.
My eyes darted around, trying to piece together what had just happened. A figure stood in front of me, face obscured by a mask, silent and unmoving.
"Why am I here?" I demanded, but he gave no answer.
He just lifted his left hand, pulling a notepad from his pocket and flashing it at me. I barely caught a glimpse before he tucked it away—a familiar image: the house where my friend had died by my hand.
As his finger tensed on the trigger, I frantically worked the ropes binding my wrists. Finally, I broke free, lunged forward, and wrestled the gun from his grip, spinning it toward his leg.
The shot echoed as he cried out, clutching his wound.
"Why am I here?" I asked again, voice sharp.
He pulled the notepad from his pocket and tossed it toward me, pleading, "That's why... please, just let me live."
Keeping the gun trained on him, I bent down and grabbed the notepad. Scanning its pages, I found what looked like a contract—some twisted deal.
I pressed him for answers, and he stammered, "Happy birthday... that's the contractor's calling card."
I ripped off a piece of my sleeve and tossed it at him, telling him to bind his leg. "Get to a doctor when you can."
I left the abandoned building and stumbled upon my car—my old Crown Vic, parked like it had been waiting for me.
Had I been out for hours? Days?
I opened the glove compartment, finding a note and a photo clipped to it. The note read, "If you want vengeance for your sister, contact me immediately."
Without hesitation, I stuffed the note into my pocket and drove down the dark highway toward my hometown, Lakewood City.
At a gas station, I found an old pay phone and dialed the number on the note.
The line crackled to life, then silence. I waited, heart pounding, until a voice finally spoke—a man who introduced himself as Henry, an ex-FBI agent with a personal grudge.
He knew who had ordered the hit on me and my sister. He said he'd help me—but I'd have to do something for him in return.
I accepted without a second thought.
The hunt was on.
17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEXZpO6lhzx
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