Chapter 1
Scott didn’t trust the city.
Not the sharp gleam of glass skyscrapers slicing the sky, nor the slick streets slick with rain and secrets. Not the faces that passed him by—some curious, most indifferent—and certainly not the whispers that clung to his shadow like a warning.
His phone buzzed once more. No messages. The burner he’d bought was silent, but the quiet weighed heavy, like a countdown ticking down to something he wasn’t yet ready to face.
Somewhere in this labyrinth of concrete and lies was the truth he craved—the answer to what had taken someone he loved far too soon. The pills, the vials, the invisible poison wrapped in promises of beauty and hope.
A sudden clang echoed from an alley behind him. Scott whirled—but the only sign of movement was a shadow slipping into the fog, gone before he could call out.
He felt eyes on him—always eyes. This city wasn’t kind to men like him. The deeper he dove, the more he learned that curiosity wasn’t just dangerous—it was deadly.
His next stop was a bar tucked in the city’s underbelly, a place where secrets were currency and trust a luxury none could afford.
Pulling his collar tight against the cold drizzle, Scott vanished into the smoke-filled room. Every step forward was a gamble. Every whispered word could be the key—or the trigger.
He wasn’t just chasing answers anymore. He was chasing justice. And maybe… redemption.
The bar’s door hissed shut behind him, sealing off the rain and the world outside. Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and whispered conversations. Neon signs flickered weakly, casting long shadows across faces worn by secrets.
Scott scanned the room, eyes sharp but careful. He wasn’t here to make friends. Not tonight.
A man at the far end caught his gaze and nodded subtly. The kind of nod that said, You’re expected.
Scott moved through the crowd, every step deliberate, every sense alert. The bartender didn’t look up when he ordered a whiskey—neat, no ice.
“Name’s Jonas,” the man said quietly when Scott sat beside him. His voice was rough, like gravel dragged across broken glass. “You’re poking at things better left buried.”
Scott’s jaw tightened. “I don’t poke. I dig.”
Jonas smirked. “Same difference. You’re looking for Silhouette. They say it’s just a name. But it’s poison wrapped in pretty packaging.”
“Who runs it?” Scott asked, voice low.
Jonas leaned closer, eyes darting. “Melinda. Mel, to the ones who pay enough. Beautiful, ruthless. Nobody sees the cracks—except the ones she lets in.”
Scott nodded slowly, tasting the bitterness of the whiskey and the truth. This wasn’t just business. This was war.
And Scott was already in the crossfire.
