Mr. Damien Joel walked into Alexander's office during lunch hour.
Alexander was hunched over his desk, drowning himself in paperwork like it was a lifeline—because if he wasn't working, he was thinking. And if he was thinking, he was losing it. He didn't even notice his uncle had entered until the man was already seated across from him.
"Alex… what was that?" Mr. Joel asked, voice tight and controlled.
Alexander didn't look up. His pen kept moving, scratching across the file as if the paper had personally offended him.
"What?" he answered flatly.
"You suspended John," Mr. Joel continued. "For what exactly? His hair?"
Alexander sighed as though the question bored him. He pulled another stack of files closer and flipped one open without any urgency.
"The man is dirty," Alexander said, still not lifting his eyes. "Who even employed him?"
Mr. Joel stared at him, genuinely taken aback. "He's dirty? Are you serious?"
Alexander didn't respond.
Mr. Joel leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice the way adults do when they're trying to correct a grown man acting like a child. "The shareholders are coming tomorrow. We didn't even discuss anything with the board members. We need progress updates from each branch, each department—because you had… well, mood swings."
The pen stopped.
Alexander's gaze snapped up like a blade, and he shot his uncle a look so sharp it could cut glass. Then, without breaking eye contact, he calmly went back to his paperwork—like the glare was the only answer Mr. Joel deserved.
A tense silence stretched.
"Is that why you're here?" Alexander finally asked, lifting his head again. His fingers came together at the tips, steepled in front of his mouth while his chin rested on them. "To tell me about shareholders?"
Mr. Joel hesitated, and it showed. He chose his words carefully, like he was walking on broken bottles. "You know what to do. I just came to remind you."
Alexander's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes hardened.
"Leave," he said, calm as ice.
Mr. Joel exhaled through his nose. He knew better than to push. Right now, with Alexander's temper, he was just one body on that chair—one wrong sentence away from being thrown out.
So he stood, straightened his jacket, and walked out without another word.
Alexander remained seated, staring at the file—but not reading it.
Only he knew how much strength it was taking to get through this cursed day without exploding.
At AID Company, Simon was in the lab, mixing chemicals with intense focus.
He wore a white lab coat, protective goggles, and gloves—the whole serious package. His mind was locked on one mission: a chemical solution he could spray over the crime scene—something that might reveal footprints, traces, or anything the killer left behind.
The lab door opened without warning.
Natasha walked in first, followed by Roberts in official police uniform.
Simon didn't turn. "How about knocking?" he said, voice dry.
"You might want to pause whatever you're doing for this," Natasha replied, holding up a clear evidence bag. Inside it sat a bullet, cold and innocent-looking—like it hadn't been inside somebody's body.
Simon's hands froze. "What do you mean?" he asked, setting the glass down carefully now, suspicion sharpening his tone.
Natasha drew a breath like she was about to perform. "Now hold your balls for this—this is big. This isn't released to the press yet. And not even the police as a whole know—"
"Get to the point," Simon snapped. "Stop playing."
Roberts stepped forward and took over, saving Simon from Natasha's dramatic storytelling. "I requested access to the victim's body at the mortuary. While I was there, I found the bullets recovered from the wound tracks."
He held the evidence bag out. "Here. Take a look."
Simon took it—and the moment he saw the bullet properly, his face changed.
His eyes widened.
His jaw tightened.
"This is impossible," he breathed.
Roberts nodded grimly. "That was my first word too."
Simon shook his head slowly, as if his brain was refusing to accept what his eyes were seeing. "She didn't survive that accident," he said, voice rising with disbelief. "No one did. How—"
He couldn't even finish the sentence.
Because the bullet wasn't just a bullet.
It was from Paige's gun.
Paige—the founder of AID. Paige, who died in that fatal car accident five years ago, along with her family. The only survivor had been the driver.
Natasha bit at her nails, eyes flicking between them. "What if the killer got hold of her gun?" she asked, forcing logic onto fear.
Simon's stare stayed locked on the evidence bag. "How?"
Roberts exhaled, then laid out the thread he'd pulled. "Years ago, when the city was mourning the Samuels Family tragedy, Jonas was interviewed. He said Paige almost killed him. He claimed the gun was still with him."
Simon's head tilted. "And?"
"What if he sold it?" Roberts said plainly.
Simon went quiet for a second, then let out a sharp breath. "Oh. That actually makes sense." He pressed a palm to his chest as if his heart needed grounding. "Yoh… for a second there, I thought Paige was back from the dead."
Natasha's expression tightened with a kind of excitement that didn't reach her eyes. Paige was her best friend. "We just need to find Jonas, ask him who he sold it to, and then we have our killer."
Simon's mouth twisted. "Finally." Then his brows pulled together. "But why does this feel… too easy?"
"It's not easy," Roberts said immediately. "Finding Jonas will be hard. He doesn't run Samuels Group anymore—"
Natasha suddenly cut in, eyes on her phone. "Wait." She frowned, scrolling fast. "It says here Vivian is still in charge until… wait—Samuels Group is in debt?"
Roberts nodded. "Yes. After Jonas and Vivian separated publicly three years ago, Jonas left. Vivian ran the company into bankruptcy trying to lure him back, but Jonas is nowhere to be found."
Natasha looked up, frustration biting through her voice. "So how are we going to find him?"
Simon's eyes narrowed, mind shifting gears. "I have my ways," he said, already reaching for his phone. "If he's still in the country, I can track him down in hours."
Natasha leaned closer to Roberts, lowering her voice. "What if it was Vivian who sold the gun?" she murmured. "Paige literally crafted it. Any bullet fired from that weapon carries her signature. That gun is worth N$20 million. That's a fortune."
Roberts didn't dismiss it. He nodded once, firmly. "You're right. Vivian is easy to find. We question her too."
He pulled out a notebook and began writing.
Meanwhile, Vicky was serving dishes at her eatery—but her mind wasn't in the room.
Her hands moved. Her face smiled when it had to. But something inside her was restless, scattered, and unsettled.
She bumped into a table where a couple was seated, and food spilled across the surface, sliding down onto the floor.
The customers were startled.
Vicky froze, then snapped back to reality. "I'm so sorry," she said quickly, grabbing napkins, her voice strained.
Ever since she heard that news about the victims, her mind hadn't rested. Her thoughts were everywhere—messy, loud, and heavy.
Because the dream wouldn't leave her alone.
In that dream, she wasn't herself.
Or maybe she was—and that was the scary part.
She remembered it clearly: chasing five young men into an alley, her breath steady, her legs moving like she'd done it before. Then the boys slowed down and turned.
They smirked.
Like the trap wasn't for them—it was for her.
"Look around," one of them said, the one in a hoodie. His voice was smug and confident. "You're trapped in here with us."
He pulled out a gun.
And in a swift move—too swift—Vicky flipped backwards, landed clean, bent low, and disarmed them one by one before they could even register what was happening. She recovered every weapon they had tucked in their clothes like it was routine.
They stood stunned, mouths slightly open, eyes wide.
"If you kill us—" one of them started.
SNAP. SNAP.
A silent gun in her hand fired twice—clean, quiet—and they dropped.
All five of them.
Headshots.
No hesitation.
No emotion.
She collected their weapons and walked away like she'd just finished a chore.
Tonia reached her now, guiding her gently into a seat. "Vicky, come. Take a rest," she said, voice soft but firm.
Tonia cleaned up the mess quickly, apologizing to the customers on Vicky's behalf, moving with the steady patience of someone used to managing chaos.
Then she crouched beside Vicky and spoke calmly, almost soothingly. "It's just a dream. You can't even kill a fly."
Vicky's eyes narrowed, suspicion sharpening her stare.
"You seem rather calm about this," Vicky said slowly.
Tonia's face stayed neutral—too neutral. Unreadable.
"What do you mean?" Tonia asked, her tone measured.
Vicky opened her mouth to answer—
But the front door swung open, and Saima stormed in like a whirlwind, interrupting them completely.
"I'm about to slap somebody's son!" Saima announced, loud and furious. "John isn't replying to my SMSes. I texted like a hundred of them!"
Tonia blinked.