The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Father – stepping inside, loosening his tie, his voice echoing into the hollow stillness:
"Well… it's quiet."
He stood in the doorway like a soldier returning to an abandoned outpost.
"I'm home."
(Beat)
"…Hello?"
Nothing.
A frown tugged at his lips. He slipped off his shoes, placed his keys in the tray, and looked around the dim hallway like it had something to say.
"What the hell?"
Still no reply.
He walked toward his room, each step heavier than the last.
The silence?
It wasn't comforting. It was strategic.
Like the house was hiding something.
Like it knew.
"Hello? Is someone home?"
No answer. Just the low hum of appliances and the gentle creak of old wooden floors.
He showered.
Changed.
Put on a comfortable black T-shirt and sweatpants—the uniform of a man who wasn't in the mood for nonsense.
Still no one.
No footsteps.
No laughter.
No trap explosions.
Just silence.
"...Fine. I'll make dinner for everyone and wait."
He moved through the kitchen with surprising grace—flipping pans, setting the rice, adding spices with the precision of a field surgeon. The aroma filled the house—warm curry, toasted garlic, a little too much pepper.
Comfort food.
Because comfort was clearly lacking.
By 7:30 PM…
Still nothing.
Not a knock. Not a voice. Not even the sound of the cat clawing something forbidden.
He mutterd while washing his hands
"Alright. Time to check the footage. This isn't normal."
He dried his hands, turned down the burner, and made his way to the workroom.
That's when he saw it.
The note taped to the door.
Bold black letters, impossible to miss:
"CAUTION: SECRET FATHER LAB – TRIPWIRE FOR MEMORIES ONLY"
His eyes narrowing
"…Tripwire? Where have I seen this—"
Snap.
Too late.
He stepped forward and instantly triggered the trap.
But he was faster.
He flipped like it was muscle memory, landing in a crouch.
He brushed off his pants
"Tobey. Definitely needs a beating."
He entered the dim room, lit only by the blue glow of idle monitors and the gentle hum of hidden machinery.
The door clicked behind him.
He walks to the central terminal
"Let's check surveillance."
He tapped the panel.
A login prompt blinked awake.
"Hey, Jennifer. Status?"
Jennifer, the house AI—built jointly by Rick and 777—booted up with her usual cool, detached tone.
Jennifer:
"All systems are under control, sir."
Rick:
"Where are Shalit and Tobey?"
Jennifer:
"Location of Tobey and Shalit: Central Park."
He blinked
"Central Park? Why the hell would they be—"
His voice stopped.
Jennifer:
"Unusual behavior detected."
He froze.
The air in the room thinned.
"…Explain."
Jennifer:
"They have not moved for the last six hours."
His voice dropping into steel
"…Shit."
His fingers moved fast—faster than emotion—grabbing his phone from the side tray and dialing. The screen lit up with a name: 777.
It rang once.
Then—
777, far too casual for the situation
"Hey, what's up, bro?"
Rick:
"You free?"
777, yawning through the speaker:
"Been free since yesterday. Emotionally and professionally."
Rick:
"Good. I need you to tap into the city camera grid. I need eyes on Shalit and Tobey. Now."
777:
"Ask Jennifer."
Rick:
"Use your brain. Jennifer can't process multi-sector visual threads in real-time. I don't have that much computing power. You do."
777, sighing:
"Alright, alright. I'm on it. What's the situation? Tracker dead?"
Rick:
"No, but it hasn't moved in six hours."
777, serious now:
"…Last confirmed location?"
Rick:
"Central Park. Just off the south loop."
777:
"Copy that. I'm checking now."
Silence. Just the quiet hum of screens and Rick's clenched jaw. Then—
777, voice tight:
"I found footage of them arriving. Walking in… normal. But the exit cam didn't catch them leaving. After they passed the central fountain... nothing."
Rick:
"Cameras cut?"
777:
"No. Just… blank spots. Like they vanished."
A pause.
777:
"This might be one of those moments, man. A critical one."
Rick, eyes locked on the blinking screen:
"Hell no."
777, already moving:
"I'm heading to your place. I'll bring a mobile rig. We'll get a clearer scan there."
Father:
"Come fast."
Call ended.
The screen dimmed.
And in that low-lit room, surrounded by the quiet hum of machines, Rick just stood there.
Unmoving.
Unblinking.
Rick's thoughts were already twelve steps ahead—his mind halfway inside Central Park, replaying possible outcomes like a war simulation.
The quiet before the storm had passed.
Now the wind was picking up.
—Ding-Dong.
The doorbell rang.
Rick opened the front door.
777 stood there, slightly out of breath, holding a tablet rig under one arm like a sword.
Rick:
"Let's head to the workroom."
777:
"Yes, sir."
They didn't waste time with pleasantries.
Rick's feet moved fast. His mind faster.
Rick, as they moved:
"You bring the multipurpose van?"
777:
"Yeah. It's parked two houses down, disguised as a mobile pet grooming unit."
Rick:
"Perfect. Nothing says covert like a golden retriever on a sticker."
They entered the workroom. Lights flickered on. The AI hum greeted them like a loyal watchdog.
Rick, muttering:
"Shit. I didn't think it would spiral this fast."
777 laid his tablet on the desk and brought up the feed.
777, pulling files onscreen:
"Here's the timeline.
Shalit and Tobey entered Central Park at 1:30 PM.
At 2:19, the tracker went dead.
Then—nothing. No exit logs. No visuals. Nothing."
The screen switched. A black-and-white feed popped up. Grainy. Slightly distorted.
777, pointing:
"This is the last visual of Tobey. He was following a woman through the east-side path. Right after this… he vanishes. No cameras in that zone."
Rick, voice sharpening:
"Description of the woman."
777, zooming in:
"Low-res. Monochrome. But the clothing matches biker gear—tight armor jacket, boots. Helmet in hand. Wolf cut. Real distinct."
Rick rubbed his forehead, pacing.
777, eyeing him:
"You don't know anyone with a wolf cut?"
Rick, distracted:
"Was thinking if any of my old enemies had it… but nah. Not then."
777, shrugging:
"Could've changed styles. People evolve. Even psychos."
Rick didn't answer.
777:
"I told you before—we should've installed inside surveillance. Not just perimeter cams."
Rick, snappish:
"Yeah, and what if someone hacked them? Internal feeds mean internal weaknesses."
777, raising both hands:
"Okay, okay. I get it. You're right. Paranoia's our job."
Rick, exhaling slowly:
"...So what now?"
777, without missing a beat:
"Tell the Bureau."
Rick, deadpan:
"Said like a rookie. No.
We gather first. Evidence. Visuals. Movement trails.
Then we talk."
777, eyes narrowing with a nod:
"Alright. Then first stop—back to the scene. Central Park. Let's retrace Tobey's last steps."
Rick, grabbing his coat:
"Load the van."
The lights of the workroom dimmed behind them. The house silent, echoing like a tomb.
Outside, the night air thickened with tension.
The van rumbled to life.
A case was open.
And this time—
It was personal.
Rick stepped into the van. The interior lights flickered on automatically—cool blue panels illuminating a sleek setup of compartments, drawers, and gear racks like the inside of a mobile war room.
Rick:
"Good. All systems ready."
Then—
777, kicking open a storage panel:
"I brought our suits."
Rick, pausing mid-step:
"The ones from the Bureau? You know I don't trust them."
777:
"Yes. But also—no."
Rick, raising an eyebrow:
"…What?"
777, tossing a folded combat module onto the bench seat:
"Last mission, we wrecked our custom suits. Beyond repair.
But the Bureau had already issued us each a backup set—model 4CP."
He grinned.
"I took those. Upgraded them. Removed tracking, wiped firmware. Now they're ours."
Rick, crossing his arms:
"What did you tell the Bureau?"
777, tapping the side of his nose like a magician revealing the twist:
"That we were wearing Bureau-issued suits. And that they were destroyed. Technically true."
Rick looked at the suit. Lightweight. Reinforced. Familiar.
Danger wrapped in fabric.
Rick:
"Will we even need this much firepower?"
777, already strapping in his gear:
"Who knows.
But if there's one thing I learned working with you—
It's that not being prepared gets you killed."
Rick nodded.
"Fine. I'll suit up."
777, smirking as Rick grabbed his gear:
"Lookin' sharp, Agent Tuxedo."
Rick, dry:
"No time for compliments."
—
The van rumbled through the sleeping streets.
Outside, the sky had dipped into deep indigo. Stars were faint behind urban haze. Streetlights cast long shadows across the sidewalk as the van rolled to a silent stop near Central Park's perimeter.
777, peering out the passenger window:
"We're here. Park's closed."
Rick:
"And the gate's locked."
777, reaching for the glove box and pulling out a small black device:
"Then let's go with Plan B."
He tossed the device to Rick.
Rick, catching it mid-air:
"Silent override chip?"
777:
"Nah. Lockpick set. The override's too loud. Stealth mission, remember?"
They both stepped out of the van, the doors clicking softly shut behind them.
No street traffic. No voices.
Only the wind brushing through treetops—
Like whispers from the past.
The tall park gates loomed before them.
Black iron. Unmoving.
Rick, kneeling by the gate:
"Give me ten seconds."
777, casually leaning against the post like they weren't breaking city ordinance:
"Take eight. We're on a schedule."
Rick worked fast—click. click. click.
A soft clunk.
The gate creaked open.
Rick, standing up and slipping inside:
"We're in."
777, following with a grin:
"Showtime."
The park swallowed them whole.