The Wycliffe house perched on Crestwood's northern ridge, half-concealed by cypress trees and the distant hum of laboratory districts sprawling below. It wasn't a mansion like the Halverns possessed, but it breathed quiet order—the home of someone who once worshiped precision above all else. Degrees in molecular biology and gene therapy lined the hallway in perfect rows, each frame meticulously leveled. Medical journals crowded every shelf, their spines sun-bleached and worn from years of use. Yet woven between these trophies of intellect sprawled a different kind of chaos: toy cars overturned on the rug, colored blocks scattered underfoot, crayon drawings taped haphazardly to the fridge. A life once defined by formulas and sterile labs, now softened by the beautiful noise of family.
In the living room, a seven-year-old boy swung a foam sword at his sister, who danced backward with theatrical gasps that belonged on a stage.
"Come on, hero! You're too slow!" she teased, batting him on the head with a stuffed bear.
The boy squealed with mock outrage, charging again, laughter bursting from him like fireworks. The sound filled the house—warm and alive and utterly ordinary.
Then the phone rang.
The shrill tone sliced through their game like a blade. The boy froze mid-swing, wide-eyed, then bolted toward the dining table where the cordless phone blinked insistently.
"Mom! It's ringing!" he shouted over his shoulder.
Vivian Wycliffe emerged from the kitchen, balancing a sleepy baby on one shoulder. Her cardigan hung loosely, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, hair pulled back with the casual exhaustion of a mother already twelve hours into her day. She reached for the phone, glancing at the screen.
Unknown Number.
Her heartbeat stumbled.
She pressed the button, bringing it to her ear. "Hello?"
Static hissed for half a breath—then a trembling voice pushed through.
"Vivie… it's me. Chloe."
Vivie went absolutely still. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the baby's soft sigh against her shoulder. Memories she'd buried years ago—dark corridors, alarms shrieking, blood pooling on cold floors—rose from beneath her ribs like ghosts clawing their way to the surface.
"Chloe?" Her voice sharpened, turning to ice. "How did you get this number?"
On the other end, Chloe's tone was frayed at the edges, her words muffled by the hum of an engine in motion. "What we went through at Ever Thorne—it's happening again."
Vivie's stomach turned to stone. She could almost smell that place again—the iron tang of fear, the echo of her brother's final scream reverberating down endless hallways. She tightened her hold on the baby until it whimpered, then immediately loosened her grip, guilt flickering across her features.
"No," she whispered, the word barely audible. "No, I left that behind. I have a life now. A family. I'm not part of this anymore."
"You don't get to walk away," Chloe said, her voice rising with desperation. "Whoever did this—they're back. They killed Kalisto. They hacked my systems. They said your name, Vivie. Your name specifically."
Vivie's hands began to tremble. "You need to stop calling me. I'm warning you—"
"You need to meet me," Chloe interrupted, urgency bleeding through every syllable. "Timon warehouse district. Far side of Crestwood. Tonight."
Vivie's throat felt like sandpaper. "And if I don't?"
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Then Chloe's voice dropped, becoming something raw and dangerous.
"If you don't show up… I can't promise your kids will stay safe. You remember what happened to your brother. Don't make me remind you how easily they can reach anyone."
Vivie's breath caught in her throat. Tears threatened to spill, but she swallowed them back with practiced determination.
"Fine," she whispered, the word tasting like ash. "I'll come."
The call clicked dead.
For a long time she stood frozen, phone limp in her hand. Her children watched her from across the room, their play forgotten, instinctively sensing the shift in atmosphere. She forced a smile that didn't come close to reaching her eyes.
"It's okay," she said softly, voice steady despite everything. "Mommy just has to run an errand."
She kissed the baby's forehead with trembling lips, set the little one gently in the crib, and scribbled a note for her husband. The pen left shaky, uneven lines across the paper.
Dusk had deepened into indigo by the time Fredrick Wycliffe's car pulled into the driveway. The porch light flickered on as two small figures barreled out to greet him, all energy and innocence.
"Dad!" the boy cried, launching himself into his father's arms. His sister clung to his coat, laughing with pure joy.
Fredrick smiled tiredly, breathing in the comfort of home like oxygen. "Hey, troublemakers. Where's Mom?"
The girl pointed toward the kitchen. "She left a note."
Fredrick crossed the kitchen threshold, still smiling—until he read the words on the paper.
Went out for an errand. Don't wait up. Be back late. – V
His chest constricted. The wording was all wrong. Too formal. Too detached. Too final.
He folded the note with trembling fingers, jaw clenching. "No," he muttered into the empty kitchen. "No, no, no."
Within minutes he'd called the neighbor from across the street, Miss Penny. She arrived quickly, gentle and puzzled as Fredrick handed her emergency contacts and tried desperately to hide the panic climbing up his throat.
When the kids were safely settled, he slipped into the garage, started the SUV, and tore down the road into the gathering darkness.
The South Crestwood precinct looked more like a forgotten utility building than a police station—weathered concrete walls, humming fluorescent lights, the faint stench of burned coffee that never quite left. Fredrick burst through the doors, clutching the folded note like evidence of a crime in progress.
"My wife's missing," he said to the desk sergeant, breathless and wild-eyed. "She's in danger. I need help."
The officer—a heavyset man with a perpetually bored expression—looked up slowly from his paperwork. "Sir, slow down. Missing how exactly?"
"She left a note," Fredrick explained, words tumbling over each other. "Someone called her—someone from her past. She's walking into something bad, I can feel it in my bones."
The cop sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. "So your wife went out somewhere, didn't say exactly where, and you've got a feeling something's wrong. Sir, that happens all the time."
From nearby desks, two younger patrolmen exchanged knowing smirks. One muttered just loud enough to be heard, "Bet she's just meeting someone else." The other laughed too loudly, adding, "Maybe that's the danger he's talking about."
Fredrick's hands curled into white-knuckled fists. His voice cracked with barely contained rage. "This isn't a joke! She's being threatened!"
The mocking officer stepped closer, puffing out his chest in practiced intimidation. "You raise your voice in here again, and I'll—"
"Enough!"
The room went silent as if someone had pulled the plug on reality itself.
Sergeant Lincoln strode in from the hallway, his presence immediately swallowing the space. Broad-shouldered, gray-eyed, built like a man carved directly from the job itself. He surveyed the room with a single sweeping glance, then fixed his attention on the trembling civilian standing before him.
"What the hell is this circus?" he barked, voice cutting through the tension.
The patrolman stiffened to attention. "Just a misunderstanding, sir—"
Lincoln didn't let him finish. His palm cracked across the man's cheek—sharp, fast, precise. "You think this is entertainment? Apologize. Now."
The younger officer stammered, face reddening. "S-sorry, sir. Sorry, Mr. Wycliffe."
Lincoln turned to Fredrick, his voice lowering to something almost gentle. "Come with me. We'll talk somewhere private."
Inside Lincoln's office, a single desk lamp threw long shadows across mountains of paperwork. He motioned for Fredrick to sit, then leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees in a posture of complete attention.
"Start from the beginning. Don't leave anything out."
Fredrick told him everything—Ever Thorne, the strange call, the veiled threat, the fear that had been gnawing at his chest since he'd found that note. When he mentioned the name Lucian Freeman, Lincoln's expression shifted subtly, a muscle tightening in his jaw.
"So you think the Azaqor killer is involved," the sergeant said quietly, more statement than question.
"I don't know," Fredrick whispered, voice breaking. "But he destroyed her once. If he's back… he won't stop with just her."
Lincoln nodded slowly, understanding passing between them without words. "Alright. You did the right thing coming here." He stood, grabbing his radio from the desk. "I'll get this upstairs. It's above precinct level now."
Fredrick gripped his hands together to stop them shaking. "Please—just don't let her disappear."
Hours later, inside Crestwood HQ's operations floor, the atmosphere hung heavier than smoke after a fire. A live feed from the precinct flickered across a giant screen, showing Fredrick's strained face as he repeated his statement to investigators for the third time.
Detective Nia leaned forward, eyes sharp and analytical behind her glasses. "So Vivian Wycliffe. Survivor of the Ever Thorne incident. Believed to have been contacted by Lucian Freeman. Confirm?"
Fredrick's nod was small but absolutely certain.
At the far end of the room, Anthony Stroud—Agent of the OSI—stood in absolute silence. His reflection gleamed against the glass of the monitor, a ghost watching ghosts. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. Every word on that screen had already set wheels turning in his mind.
Freeman. Again.
Stroud's jaw flexed almost imperceptibly. He'd seen men try to wear Freeman's legend like a borrowed coat before, stirring fear for leverage and power. But this—this felt calculated. Deliberate. Someone was tracing old scars specifically to reopen them.
He adjusted his cufflinks with measured precision, expression completely unreadable.
If Vivian Wycliffe is back in the picture, he thought coldly, then whoever's orchestrating this isn't after money or fame. They're after memory—and blood.
The detectives continued their debate, voices rising and falling like waves. Stroud only listened, his silence carrying more weight than their combined words. In his mind, the storm was already gathering momentum—shadows lengthening over Crestwood once more.
And when it finally broke, he knew with absolute certainty, the city wouldn't just lose sleep.
It would lose pieces of itself that could never be recovered.