Before the incident, at Dranred's home…
He overheard his grandfather arguing with his men in the study. The old man's voice was sharp and furious.
That police lieutenant — James's father — was still investigating him. Worse, the police now had evidence that could destroy everything.
"The election's in three weeks," his grandfather hissed. "If this leaks to the media, I'm finished. Do you understand? Finished!"
Dranred froze behind the door. He could hear the clinking of glasses, the low hum of anxious voices.
"Send the boys," the old man ordered. "Make sure that officer remembers who he's dealing with."
A chill ran down Dranred's spine.
When the men emerged later, they were armed — assault rifles slung over their shoulders, magazines clipped to belts.
That's not a warning… he thought. That's an execution squad.
Without thinking, Dranred grabbed his motorcycle keys. He slipped out of the house through the side gate, his heart hammering.
The night air bit against his skin as he sped through the streets, tailing the black SUVs carrying his grandfather's men.
But by the time he reached James's neighborhood, it was already too late.
Gunfire ripped through the air — sharp, relentless.
Ahead, he saw the glow of headlights, the flash of muzzles. The car — James's car — swerved across the road, bullets tearing through its body.
"No!" Dranred shouted, skidding his motorcycle to a stop in the middle of the street. He ripped off his helmet and ran toward them.
One of the gunmen recognized him.
"Stop! That's the boss's grandson!" the man barked. Instantly, the shooting ceased.
But before Dranred could speak, a deafening crash echoed through the night.
He turned — and his heart stopped.
James's car had slammed into a truck on the opposite side of the road. The front was completely crushed, smoke rising from the hood.
The gunmen exchanged glances, then sped away, their vehicles disappearing into the darkness.
Dranred ran. His legs felt heavy, his chest tight.
"Call an ambulance!" he shouted at the truck driver, who stood frozen in shock.
He yanked open the car's back door — and froze.
Estelle was slumped forward, her head bleeding against the shattered window.
Their mother's lifeless body was sprawled across the floor.
Rosette lay motionless on the seat, blood trickling from her temple.
Dranred's breath caught.
He lifted Rosette gently, carrying her out and laying her on the grass. Her small hands were cold.
Then he returned for Estelle, shaking her shoulder softly. "Hey, wake up… please…"
When she didn't respond, he looked toward the front seat — where James sat, pinned, blood running down his face.
His leg was caught under the crushed dashboard.
"James!" Dranred shouted, pulling at the door, but it wouldn't budge. He could hear sirens in the distance — or maybe it was just the ringing in his ears.
He looked down at his bloodstained hands, his breath trembling.
This was his grandfather's doing.
And no matter how much he wished otherwise — it was his bloodline that caused this.
Dranred sank to his knees beside the wreckage, his chest heaving. The smell of gasoline and burnt rubber filled the air. Every breath burned.
Rosette lay on the grass, her breathing faint. Estelle hadn't moved since he pulled her out. And James—
James was still trapped behind the wheel, his head slumped forward, blood streaking his cheek.
"Hold on," Dranred whispered, his voice trembling. He pressed a hand to the car's twisted frame, desperate for a way to pull his friend free. "Please, James… just hold on."
He could still taste metal in the air. The street was eerily quiet now, the gunmen long gone, leaving only the echo of violence behind.
The truck driver was pacing nearby, phone pressed to his ear. "Yes—yes, there's been a crash! Several injured! Send an ambulance right away!"
Dranred barely heard him. His vision blurred as flashing images replayed in his mind—the armed men, the headlights, the moment the car hit the tree. And behind it all, his grandfather's voice, calm and ruthless: Make sure the officer remembers who he's dealing with.
"This is my fault," he muttered, gripping his hair. "If I'd gotten here sooner…"
A soft cough pulled him back. Rosette stirred weakly on the grass, her small hand twitching.
Dranred crawled toward her, brushing the blood and dirt from her face. "You're okay… you're safe now," he said, though he wasn't sure he believed it.
Sirens began to rise in the distance — faint at first, then louder. Red and blue lights flickered against the trees, painting the scene in colors of tragedy.
Two police cars pulled up, followed by an ambulance. Officers ran toward him, weapons drawn, shouting orders.
"Step away from the vehicle!" one of them called.
Dranred raised his hands slowly. His clothes were stained with blood, his expression hollow.
"I'm… I'm the one who called," he said numbly. "They need help. Please—help them."
Medics rushed past him, cutting through the twisted metal to reach James and the others. One officer pulled Dranred aside, questioning him, but his words barely registered.
All he could do was watch as the bodies were lifted from the car — James still alive but unconscious, Estelle carried on a stretcher, Rosette whisked into another ambulance.
When they finally covered the mother's body, Dranred turned away. He felt the weight of the world pressing down on him.
Then he heard an officer's voice behind him, sharp and familiar.
"Who found them first?"
Dranred turned.
It was his grandfather's security chief — one of the men he'd seen leaving the house earlier that night.
Their eyes met.
The man froze, recognition flashing across his face — followed quickly by fear.
And in that single, heavy moment, Dranred understood:
No one would believe his side of the story.
Not the police. Not James. Not anyone.
The blood on his hands — literal and otherwise — would never wash clean.
The hospital corridors smelled of disinfectant and rain-soaked earth.
Dranred sat alone on a cold metal chair, the sleeves of his jacket stiff with dried blood.
He had given his statement hours ago — yet no one had told him anything about James or his sisters.
A young officer finally approached.
"Mr. Masterson, the chief wants to see you."
Dranred stood, numb, and followed him down a narrow hallway to a dimly lit office. Inside sat two men in uniform. One of them — Major Reyes, the head of the regional investigation — greeted him with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Sit down, son."
Dranred obeyed silently. The chair's metal legs scraped the floor.
"You were the first to arrive at the scene?" Reyes asked, flipping through a folder.
"Yes, sir. I followed… I followed the men who attacked them."
The other officer, a stocky man with a clipped mustache, leaned forward. "Followed them? Why?"
Dranred hesitated. His pulse quickened. "Because… I overheard them at my grandfather's house. They were armed. I thought they were going to scare the officer — but I didn't know they'd…"
His voice faltered.
Reyes's gaze sharpened. "Your grandfather. That would be Congressman Masterson, correct?"
"Yes."
"Do you have proof of what you heard?"
Dranred looked down. "No. I just—"
"Then let me give you some advice, son." Reyes's voice softened, almost kindly. "Be very careful with what you say. Powerful people don't appreciate being accused without evidence."
Dranred stared at him. "Are you telling me to stay quiet?"
"I'm telling you to think about your future," the Major replied smoothly. "If your grandfather's men were involved, the police will find out. There's no need to make things harder for yourself… or for your friend's family."
A long silence hung between them. The hum of the fluorescent lights seemed deafening.
Finally, Dranred stood. "You're not going to investigate, are you?"
Reyes didn't answer. He simply closed the folder. "You can go now, Mr. Masterson. We'll call you if we need anything further."
Dranred left the office, his heart pounding. Outside, the rain had started again — thin, cold streaks against the glass.
He looked down the hallway toward the emergency ward, where James and his sisters were being treated. A uniformed officer stood guard at the door.
For a moment, Dranred thought about walking away. He thought about pretending none of this had ever happened.
But then he remembered James's mother's body in the car.
He remembered the sound of gunfire.
And he remembered the look of fear in the eyes of his grandfather's men when they saw him alive.