The night air pressed against the car like a living thing. Every red light was a countdown, every passing vehicle a potential observer. Dawson drove with calm precision, hands gripping the wheel, eyes scanning every shadow. Clara sat slumped against him, the bullet wound throbbing beneath her sleeve, her breaths shallow and rhythmic, trying not to give away how much it hurt.
"You're lucky you didn't try to argue," Dawson muttered, voice tight, eyes forward. "We don't have time for theatrics tonight."
Clara snorted, even through the pain. "Theater is my specialty. I prefer it dramatic. Adds flair."
Ethan, in the passenger seat, sat rigid, checking the mirrors, counting escape routes. "How bad is it?" he asked. His voice was clipped, controlled, the way it always was when someone else's life hung in the balance.
Clara waved a hand, smirk tugging at her lips. "Flesh wound, hero style. Nothing I haven't handled before. Mostly adrenaline. A little self-induced panic. Totally manageable."
Dawson's jaw tightened. "Manageable or not, we still get you to Calloway. Fast."
The city blurred past, lights painting streaks across the windshield, but high above, Evelyn's eyes tracked them through a combination of drones and remote feeds, every movement fed back to her tablet. Her lips curved into a thin, calculating smile.
"They're moving toward him. Clever," she whispered. "And she's carrying the secret with her."
Embedded in Clara, unknown to her, was a hidden listening device, picking up every word. Evelyn's grin widened. "And now… I hear everything."
The car slid into an unmarked warehouse, tires crunching over gravel. Ethan jumped out first, scanning the perimeter like a predator assessing prey. Dawson shut the doors behind him, then carefully lifted Clara in his arms, her blood warm against his coat, her body trembling slightly.
"Easy," Ethan murmured, guiding them through the shadows. "Calloway's underground entrance is here. Step lightly."
The hatch groaned as Dawson opened it, revealing the spiral stairs descending into darkness. Underground, the air was colder, sterile, and thick with anticipation. This was a place designed for discretion, for secrecy, for survival.
Dr. Calloway stood at the bottom, face composed, hands already ready with a medical kit. "Late again," he said dryly. "I was starting to think you'd lost her somewhere in traffic."
Dawson set Clara gently on a padded chair. "Traffic wasn't the problem," he muttered.
Clara, wincing slightly, grinned through the pain. "You people ever plan ahead?"
"Not under fire," Dawson replied.
Ethan knelt beside her, voice low. "Hold still. We don't have a minute to waste."
Calloway worked methodically, cleaning the wound. The bullet had lodged near the muscle, not fatal, but precise care was necessary.
Unseen by them, Evelyn's cameras zoomed, her fingers tapping rapidly on the tablet. Every movement, every word, every slight hiss of pain from Clara was transmitted live. And then came the sound that froze her:
"…Dawson, hand me the scalpel—Ethan, steady her arm. Precision. Keep it steady."
She froze. That wasn't Ethan's voice. It was James Crowe. Alive. Breathing. Orchestrating the procedure underground. Evelyn's heart skipped, fury and disbelief battling on her face. "Impossible," she whispered. "He should be dead. Every record says he's gone. And yet… there he is. Alive. Controlling them all."
Inside, the scalpel touched Clara's shoulder. Pain flared, and she hissed. Dawson's hand brushed hers instinctively.
"Focus on your breathing," Ethan instructed.
Clara nodded through gritted teeth, not a sound leaving her lips. She couldn't afford to give Evelyn satisfaction.
Minutes stretched like hours. Calloway's hands moved deftly, Ethan's gaze sharp, Dawson's posture taut, ready for any intrusion. Clara's mind raced—planning, counting, calculating her next moves once this ordeal was done.
Finally, the bullet was removed. Calloway bandaged the wound, double-checked her vitals. Clara exhaled shakily. "See? Not as dramatic as expected," she said, smirk trembling, "All part of the plan."
Dawson helped her stand. Ethan placed a steadying hand on her back. James stepped from the shadows, tall and imposing, eyes flicking over the room, checking equipment, confirming everything was sterile.
Clara let herself grin faintly. "I did not miss James actually being dead. That would've ruined my week," she muttered.
Dawson's low laugh echoed. "Some secrets are better kept hidden until necessary."
Above them, Evelyn's fingers hovered, furious. "They think they're safe… but they're not," she hissed. "And that girl… she carries more than just a bullet."
Inside, Clara leaned between Ethan, Dawson, and James, assessing, breathing heavy but measured. Her shoulder throbbed, her pride stung, but her chaotic, fearless resolve was intact.
Calloway adjusted a light, watching their team of survivors, each carrying scars visible and invisible. Ethan met Clara's eyes briefly. "You did good. Pain and all."
Clara winked. "I always do. Besides, if you'd been paying attention, you'd know I like to star in high-risk situations."
James cleared his throat, breaking the tension. "We need to regroup, plan our next steps. Evelyn is watching. She'll act the second we make a move."
Clara's smirk faded into a serious glare. "Let her come. I've got surprises left for her too."
Dawson glanced at her. "You really are insane."
"Yeah, but effective," she said, rolling her shoulders, ignoring the pain.
Outside, Evelyn leaned back, finger pressing a red button. "They underestimated me. They think the underground keeps them safe… but I see everything."
Underground, the room smelled of antiseptic, blood, and adrenaline. The four of them—Clara, Ethan, Dawson, and James—shared a silent understanding. They were prepared for what was coming next.
And somewhere, high above the city, Evelyn recalculated, realizing her game had shifted. She had thought she was orchestrating chaos. Now, she was just one step behind the people she tried to control.
The underground room smelled like disinfectant and old secrets.
Ethan stood just inside the doorway, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on the man seated calmly beneath the dim light. No restraints. No guards hovering. Just presence.
James Crowe.
Alive.
Breathing.
Smirking.
Ethan swallowed.
"It's… an honor to meet you, Mr. Crowe," he said carefully. "I thought you died. The reports said you were in a car accident. The body was recovered, but… the face was destroyed."
James tilted his head, amused. "Reports say a lot of things."
Ethan frowned. "So how did you fake it?"
James's smile widened just enough to be unsettling. "Same way your brother did."
The words landed like a slap.
Ethan's head snapped toward Dawson. "What?"
Dawson didn't flinch. He only met Ethan's gaze, steady and unreadable.
James leaned back in his chair. "Careful planning. Right tools. Right people. And the willingness to let the world believe you're dead."
Ethan exhaled sharply. "You're saying this like it's… easy."
James shrugged. "It is. If you don't mind losing everything."
Before Ethan could respond, Clara spoke.
Soft.
Casual.
"I miss the old days, brother."
The room went dead silent.
Ethan slowly turned toward her. "Brother?"
James blinked once.
Then laughed.
A low, genuine sound that surprised everyone—including him.
"Well," he said, rubbing his jaw, "I was wondering when you'd drop that."
Ethan stared between them. "You're related?"
James gestured toward Clara with a lazy thumb. "Little sister. Loud. Reckless. Always thought she was smarter than she was."
Clara grinned. "And you were always wrong."
Dawson's eyes flicked to Ethan. "You didn't know?"
"No," Ethan said flatly. "I definitely didn't know."
James smirked. "I thought I told Dawson already. Guess it slipped my mind."
Clara crossed her arms. "You disappear for years, fake your death, and forget to mention you have siblings. Typical."
James raised a brow. "You survived, didn't you?"
Her smile faded just a little. "Barely."
The air shifted.
Ethan rubbed his temple. "Okay. So… fake deaths, secret siblings—what exactly is happening here?"
James's gaze hardened. "Someone has been pulling strings."
Ethan stiffened. "Who?"
James didn't answer immediately. He glanced at Dawson first. Then at Clara.
"Someone who prefers screens to faces," he said carefully. "Someone who talks more than he appears."
Ethan's pulse quickened. "The one who's been warning us?"
"Yes."
"You know who it is?" Ethan pressed.
James met his eyes.
"No," he lied smoothly. "But I know what he wants."
"And that is?"
James leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"To see which of us breaks first."
The room felt colder.
Clara scoffed lightly. "Cute. Mysterious. Annoying."
Dawson's jaw tightened. "He knew about Evelyn before we did."
James nodded. "And he knew I was alive."
Ethan's fists clenched. "So someone has been watching us. Testing us."
James smiled without humor. "Exactly."
Silence stretched.
Then Clara sighed dramatically. "Great. Family reunion plus invisible puppeteer. Anyone else want to pop out of the walls?"
No one laughed.
Ethan stared at the floor, mind racing.
Because whoever that voice belonged to—
They knew too much.
And they weren't done.