Albert's footsteps echoed down the long corridor, each step deliberate, unwavering. The sterile white walls swallowed the sound, yet his presence carried far beyond the reach of his shadow. Overhead, the flickering lights pulsed in erratic intervals, casting fractured silhouettes along the floor. Those who crossed his path stilled, hushed whispers trailing in his wake. Albert rarely left his office, and when he did, unease followed him like a specter. Tonight, that unease rippled outward, a silent warning carried by the air itself.

  He reached the front desk, where the receptionist stiffened, eyes widening as though caught in the act of breathing too loudly. Albert paid her no mind. There was no need for pleasantries. A guard by the entrance jolted to attention, his movements sharp with urgency as he rushed to open the door.

  The cold night air struck Albert as he stepped outside, but he barely registered it. The city stretched before him, swallowed in eerie silence. The streets lay deserted, the skeletal structures of homes looming like abandoned husks, their windows hollowed out by the dim, dying glow of streetlights.

  “Thanks,” Albert muttered absently, already striding toward the nearest gate post, his coat billowing slightly in the crisp night breeze. There was no time to waste.

  As he reached the gate, the guards stationed there snapped to attention, their spines stiffening beneath the weight of his gaze. He scanned their faces, his expression void of anything but cold calculation.

  These were men who had seen violence, who had stood in the face of chaos. But none of them had ever hunted something like Edwin.

  "Listen well," Albert began, his voice smooth, measured, laced with something sharper than steel. "I want every post on lockdown-all of them except for this one." He extended a gloved hand, gesturing toward the gate before them. His eyes darkened, a storm brewing beneath their surface. "We'll guard the others heavily, and force him to come here. And when he does, be ready. He knows how to fight." A pause.

  Then, colder: "So gear up, men."

  The guards exchanged glances, their nods quick and firm. Abri, the youngest among them, straightened, the tight coil of tension in his shoulders loosening at the clarity of the orders. "Right away, sir!" His voice rang sharp in the still air, and within seconds, the others moved, their radios crackling to life as commands passed through the network like wildfire.

  The atmosphere shifted, no longer waiting-only acting.

  Albert stood unmoving, watching as the facility coiled into action around him. His jaw tightened. His son had always been defiant. Always convinced he could outrun the inevitable. But Albert had been waiting for this moment for years.

  “Whoever catches him will be rewarded,” he called out, his voice slicing through the chaos like a blade. Heads turned. The air itself seemed to still. “I want him back—with no more than two bullets in his legs and one in his lower spine.”

  Apstra, the senior guard, squared his shoulders, his expression grim. "Understood, sir." A beat. Then, with more weight: "Thank you for your orders, Councilor Albert."

  Albert turned without another word, his coat sweeping behind him as he strode back toward the compound. There would be no more mercy. No more chances. This was the end of the chase.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  This time, his son would not escape.

  ———///////———

  The low hum of machinery clashed with the distant echoes of human suffering-the muffled wails of the broken, the relentless grinding of gears, the metallic shriek of something too rusted to move but forced to anyway. The walls, thick with peeling paint and grime, seemed to absorb the cries, swallowing them whole until all that remained was the suffocating silence that followed.

  The air was thick, cloying, laced with the acrid stench of sweat, blood, and something worse— the sour, rotting scent of hopelessness. It clung to the skin, settled in the lungs like a poison, turning every breath into an act of defiance.

  This was no place of refuge. It was a tomb for hope, a graveyard of whispers and forgotten names. Here, secrets were buried as deeply as the bodies that fed Albert's growing empire, their voices silenced beneath layers of concrete and cruelty. The walls did not simply contain prisoners; they consumed them, devouring flesh and will alike.

  This was where conspirators vanished. Where the dangerous and the unwanted were locked away, wrung dry of their usefulness, or broken apart until they spilled the truths Albert sought.

  And those who had nothing left to confess? They became another piece of the foundation, another ghost in the dark.

  And yet, here, in the dim glow of a flickering light, three figures remained.

  In the shadowed corner of a forgotten locker room, Robert and Doctor Lilith Cenilera sat in silence, their breaths measured, their bodies wound tight with exhaustion and the knowledge that their survival teetered on a knife's edge.

  Between them, Edwin lay motionless atop a dented metal bench. His too-thin frame barely stirred, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. His face, pale and gaunt, was a map of suffering carved into young, fragile skin.

  The deep bruises along his arms, the dried blood at his temple-each told a story of agony, of stolen time, of a nightmare that did not end when his eyes closed. Even in unconsciousness, his brows remained furrowed, his fingers twitching as though still bracing for the next blow.

  Robert stood with his back to the wall, arms crossed over his chest in a display of strength that barely concealed the restless energy thrumming beneath his skin. His fingers flexed at his sides, betraying the tension he refused to name. He was listening, always listening. To the hum of the facility. To the distant clang of boots on metal grating. To the murmurs beyond the heavy door, low voices speaking in clipped tones. His jaw tightened.

  "We did it," he murmured, though there was no triumph in his voice. It was a statement, nothing more. Hollow, brittle. His eyes flicked toward the door again, his pulse a slow, steady drumbeat of wariness.

  Doctor Cenilera exhaled, a slow and measured breath that did little to steady her frayed nerves.

  She sat with her elbows braced against her knees, fingers laced together, as if she could hold something solid between them-something real, something untouched by the nightmare unfolding around them. But her hands trembled, a betrayal of the years she had spent honing precision and control.

  "For now," she said, voice low, words measured.

  Her gaze drifted back to Edwin, lingering on the sharp angles of his malnourished body. "But how long until Albert finds us?"

  The question lingered between them, settling into the room like a specter. There was no need to answer. They both knew.

  Albert didn't need cameras to find them. He didn't need wires or monitors or guards. His reach was woven into the very fabric of this place. His presence was a weight that pressed against their chests, unseen but undeniable.

  The room, already cold, seemed to grow smaller, more suffocating.

  Robert pushed off the wall, pacing now, his boots heavy against the floor, each step an unspoken curse, a demand for action when there was none to take. His movements were sharp, restless, his mind likely cycling through every possible outcome, every possible escape route.

  But they both knew-there were no good options.

  Lilith watched him for a moment before her gaze dropped back to Edwin. And then, unbidden, the memories came.

  They rushed in like a tide, pulling her under, dragging her back to a time before the world had twisted itself into this living nightmare.

  Before the walls of the compound had become chains.

  Before Albert had become something to fear.

  She had trusted him once. Admired him, even.

  And now, the man she had once believed in was hunting them.