"Sorry?" Liam tried his best to keep calm, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him.
"You heard me right," Knight said, eyes glinting behind the mask. "One hundred thousand. High-value target."
A bead of sweat slid down Liam's cheek.
"No need to look so nervous." Knight's smirk was audible even behind the fabric. "I don't know his real name—that's the tricky part. You'll have to work with this."
"I'm sorry—"
Before Liam could finish his sentence, Knight pulled a photo from his coat and slid it across the table.
The picture was grainy, clearly snapped without the man's knowledge. But Liam recognized him instantly.
Brandon. From the game.
"What was that?" Knight asked, catching the flicker of recognition.
Liam's first instinct had been to say no—to stop the spiral right there. But his brain, calculating as ever, saw an opening instead. He swallowed the denial back down.
"…Who is he?" Liam asked, voice low.
Knight leaned back, pleased. "An enemy of the underground. Calls himself Renegade. Used to run with a big syndicate, turned traitor, and took half their secrets with him. Now he's a prize catch."
Knight didn't have any more details—bur Liam didn't need more anyways. Liam already had all he required: the face, the place, the method.
"So?" Knight pressed, savoring it.
"I…" Liam's voice faltered. "A week."
Knight tilted his head. "A week? You did the last job overnight."
"A week," Liam repeated, firmer this time.
Knight gave a shallow nod. "Fine. A week. Same thing, succeed or not, we'll meet again." He rose from his seat, back straight, mask shifting into his usual polite façade as he headed for the door.
Liam watched him go, his stomach knotting with dread and disgust.
"Shit…" he hissed under his breath.
After fully processing the decision he had made, he grabbed his phone and dialed the number Alex had given him. 212 767 4019.
It rang once. Twice.
"Hello, this is Benny's Burgers. What can I get for you today?"
"Uh…"
—
Samantha fired off another text. No answer. She'd tried calling too—nothing.
"Come on…" she muttered, exasperated.
"He's still not responding?" Heather asked.
"No."
"Then let's ask around," Heather suggested.
Samantha groaned inwardly—back to square one, searching for Liam by asking around, she's done this once already. But luck, this time, was on her side.
"Excuse me," she asked a student near the scene, "do you know where Liam—"
She froze mid-sentence. Standing just behind the student was a middle-aged man she hadn't expected to see.
He seemed to recognize her too. "Aren't you Samantha?"
"…Huh?"
The man scoffed, glancing at Caitlyn, who stood nearby, shifting her weight awkwardly.
"He a player now?" he asked sharply, making Caitlyn's face flush red.
"You're…" Samantha realized. "You're Liam's father."
"Where is he?"
Heather leaned in, confused. "Who is this?"
"His dad," Samantha answered quietly, then turned back to the man's question,"I'm looking for him too,"
"That kid…" He spat the words like they tasted foul.
"I'll call him again!" Caitlyn blurted, fumbling with her phone. She dialed—again, no answer. Just ringing into the void.
"He should come back eventually," Samantha said.
"He'd better," Liam's father snapped.
Not far away, by the campus gate, a man in a face mask and sunglasses stood watching the entrance. He glanced at the photo on his phone, then at the building.
"This is it." He said.
He was Brandon.
—
"Uh…"
The voice on the other end repeated, flat and polite: "We've got cheeseburgers, chicken or beef. Bacon and eggs is also on our breakfast menu."
Liam hesitated. "Um…uh… what about a private investi—"
The line went dead. No confusion this time—he understood immediately. A code. One he didn't know.
A cop like Alex had known about this number. Probably had used it. A cop… with a line into the underground. Liam's gut twisted.
But Liam didn't care more. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the goal: end the game. Use every tool. Pay any price.
"Hey."
A woman stepped up beside him in the café. No uniform—just plain clothes, plain tone.
"Come with me."
She turned and walked out without looking back. Liam followed her out, down a couple blocks, to a car with tinted windows.
"Get in."
Inside, the car smelled faintly of stale coffee and leather. The woman climbed in beside him, started the engine.
"First time?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"You're lucky I was close. We don't have eyes on every street. If you'd botched that call, we'd have ditched you."
"Sorry. I didn't know the code."
"Doesn't matter now. Five grand for a week's service."
"…What?"
"Five thousand," she repeated. "Cash only."
"This is for private investigators, right?"
She gave him a sideways look—half-amused, half-annoyed. "Yeah. Sure. 'Private investigators.'"
Five grand for a week. Liam hadn't expected it to cost that much.
"…How much for a hitman?" he asked bluntly.
She paused, then barked out a dry laugh. "Kid—five grand is for a professional. They'll investigate, dig, watch, or kill—whatever you want done, you've paid for the week."
"Oh." That justified the price.
Liam handed over Knight's briefcase. She cracked it open, counted the stacks with swift, practised hands, then snapped it shut.
"You can call me V." She pocketed the case. "Want me to start by clearing out your stalkers?"
"Huh?"