"You went back alone?"
Rachel's voice came sharp through the phone, slicing through Olivia's lingering adrenaline.
"Yes," Olivia replied, tugging her coat tighter as she stepped into the precinct's lobby. "No backup. No warning. I know it was reckless."
"Reckless?" Rachel hissed. "That house is an active crime scene and you—God, Olivia—what if they'd hurt you?"
"They didn't."
"But they could have. Next time, you don't walk into the dark without a badge beside you. Promise me."
Olivia hesitated. Then lied. "Promise."
Rachel sighed. "I'll call later. We've got a hit on the symbol. Preservation Guild records from the '80s. Your father submitted it with a personal project. I'm having the file pulled."
"Thank you," Olivia said, voice softer now. "Truly."
Rachel hung up.
---
Outside, the cold Boston air bit at Olivia's cheeks. The sun hadn't risen fully yet, casting the city in a haze of orange and steel. She made her way toward the café across the street—needed something strong. Needed her hands to stop shaking.
But someone was already there.
Ethan.
He was seated at a small table near the window, nursing a black coffee like it was the only thing anchoring him to the morning. His eyes were ringed with exhaustion, hair slightly disheveled, as though he hadn't slept.
She approached without a word and sat across from him.
"You're bleeding," he said quietly.
She glanced down—her palm, scraped from falling into debris at the brownstone, was crusted with dried blood. She hadn't even noticed.
"I'm fine," she muttered.
"I heard you went back."
She met his gaze. "Who told you?"
"Marcus. He intercepted a dispatch report. Said you triggered a silent alarm."
"So you were watching me?"
"I was protecting you."
Olivia leaned back, tired and defensive. "You can't protect me from something you won't name."
Ethan didn't respond immediately. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, silver square.
A keycard.
She frowned. "What is that?"
"To a private archive. Caldwell Foundation. My family's vault of designs and prototypes. Most are incomplete, dangerous… or forbidden."
"Why are you giving this to me?"
"Because if I keep hiding things, you're going to die chasing them down."
Olivia took the keycard. "You're finally choosing transparency."
"I'm choosing you."
That hit harder than she expected.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The space between them buzzed with an unspoken charge. Not quite affection. Not quite desire.
But something.
Then her phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number
> "Check your inbox.
Not everything you're building is safe."
A cold pit formed in her stomach.
She opened her email. A single video file had been sent, timestamped just thirty minutes ago.
She pressed play.
Ethan's face appeared on the screen—inside a dimly lit room, speaking into a camera.
> "This was all a mistake.
The beams. The signatures. Olivia was never supposed to find out.
I told you I could handle her."
The clip ended.
Silence.
Olivia looked up. "What the hell is this?"
Ethan's eyes widened in confusion. "I've never seen that before."
"That's your voice. That's your face. It was sent from an encrypted server."
"I didn't record anything."
"You're telling me it's fake?"
"Yes."
But doubt flickered across her expression like a shadow.
Ethan leaned forward. "Olivia, listen to me—"
She stood. "I don't know what you're hiding, but this—this is too much."
He reached for her wrist, gently. "Don't walk away."
She froze.
His hand was warm. Firm. Desperate.
And despite everything—despite the blood, the secrets, the wreckage—she still wanted to believe him.
"I need time," she whispered.
Then she pulled her hand away and left him sitting in the café.
---
Later that night, Olivia used the keycard.
The Caldwell Foundation archive sat beneath an old museum—abandoned, rarely visited. Dust lined the halls. She passed shelves of architectural models, scale replicas of buildings that no longer stood.
And then she found it.
A vault labeled "E.C. – Private Commission."
Inside: a blueprint wrapped in velvet.
She unrolled it slowly.
It wasn't a house.
It was a replica of her childhood home.
Same layout. Same garden. Same cellar.
But beneath it—an extra floor. Hidden. Engineered with extreme care. Labeled "Retribution Chamber."
Her heart stuttered.
She remembered the nightmares. The ones that felt too real.
A metal door. Screaming. Her father locking blueprints in a red case beneath the stairs.
She backed away. Breathed too fast.
Then—footsteps.
From behind her.
She turned.
But the corridor was empty.
On the wall behind her, someone had scrawled words in chalk:
> "YOU'RE NOT INVESTIGATING A KILLER.
YOU'RE UNDOING A FAMILY CURSE."