Jia's world had shrunk to the size of her room.
Days passed in a blur of dim light, unread messages, and the taste of stale air. She barely moved. Barely ate. The curtains stayed shut, trapping her in the same hollow silence that pressed against her skull. Even her own thoughts felt foreign—disjointed, slipping through her grasp like water.
Outside her door, her parents whispered, their voices thick with exhaustion.
"We need to do something."
"She won't even look at us."
"Maybe she just needs time."
Time wasn't the issue.
Jia's stomach churned, but not from hunger. The memory gnawed at her—the sickening crack of bone, the splatter of blood on pavement. The twisted corpse of a man who would never drink again. But most of all—
You saw him.
Not Cain.
Him.
Jia sat up, her pulse hammering. She had been so fixated on Cain's smile, so haunted by his expression, that she had ignored something far more important.
There was someone else there that night.
A shadow standing just beyond the chaos. Unmoving. Unbothered.
Watching the whole thing unfold as if he already knew about it.
Her breath hitched. The realization slithered down her spine, cold and sharp. How had she not seen it before?
Her hands trembled as she reached for her phone. She needed to—
A knock at the door.
She flinched.
"Jia, sweetheart?" Her mother's voice was thick with emotion. "Please… just eat something. You don't have to talk. Just—just open the door."
Jia stared at the handle.
A long silence.
Then, slowly—click.
---
Holloway's Vigil
Holloway was wasting away in the front seat of his car.
The streetlights buzzed faintly above, casting his world in a dull, flickering glow. Empty coffee cups piled in the passenger seat. The air inside smelled of sweat and stale exhaustion.
Through the windshield, he could see her.
His daughter.
She was curled up on the couch, phone in hand, laughing softly at something on the screen. Safe. Untouched by the horrors that had ripped his life apart.
Holloway exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face.
Every night, he told himself this would be the last time. That he would go home. That he would try to sleep in a real bed, try to forget.
But he knew better.
Some shadows never left. And sooner or later… they always came back.
His phone vibrated.
He glanced at the screen, expecting another useless update from his old contacts.
Emma.
His stomach twisted.
He picked up. "Emma?"
A pause. Not her.
Kath's voice, raw and shaken. "Mr. Holloway… it's Alex."
Holloway sat up straight. "What happened?"
"He—he's been hurt. Badly." Kath's voice cracked. "He tried to protect Emma, and now he's in critical condition. She's not handling it well. She won't stop crying. She won't leave his side." A shaky breath. "We don't know what to do."
For a long moment, Holloway said nothing. His grip tightened around the wheel, knuckles turning white.
Then—he glanced back at his daughter. Still smiling. Still safe. Still oblivious to the monsters just outside her door.
For years, he had kept his distance. Had told himself that getting involved again would only bring more pain.
But now—
He closed his eyes. Exhaled.
"I'm on my way."
Holloway found Kath just outside the hospital room.
Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow. The moment she saw him, her shoulders sagged with something between relief and exhaustion.
"Where are they?" he asked, his voice gruff.
Kath said nothing, just turned and led him down the hall. The fluorescent lights hummed, casting sickly shadows over the sterile white walls. The air smelled of antiseptic, but underneath that—blood. The remnants of something violent.
When they reached the door, Kath hesitated. "She—she's not okay," she whispered.
Holloway pushed it open.
Inside, Emma sat hunched over the hospital bed. Her fingers clutched at Alex's unmoving hand, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. He was pale, wires and IV lines tethering him to the machines that kept him alive.
The sight of it twisted something deep in Holloway's gut.
Emma barely reacted to his presence at first, only tightening her grip on Alex's hand. But then, without looking at him, she whispered—
"Children."
Her voice was raw. Shattered.
Then she turned to him, eyes brimming with tears, face streaked with anguish.
"They use children, Mr. Holloway." Her breath hitched, her fingers digging into Alex's sheets. "How could they?"
Holloway didn't answer.
Because he already knew.
He knew the depths of human depravity. He knew what desperation could drive people to do. He had seen it before—cases where children weren't victims, but weapons. Where innocence was twisted into something monstrous.
And now Emma had seen it too.
For the first time, he saw something different in her. A crack in the armor. She wasn't just an officer anymore. She wasn't just chasing a case.
This had changed her.
She met his gaze, searching—desperate for something. An answer. A reason. Anything.
But Holloway had none to give.
He exhaled, stepping closer. Rested a firm hand on her shoulder.
"We find the ones responsible," he said. "And we make them pay."
Emma swallowed, her fingers still trembling. But she nodded.
She wasn't just crying anymore.
She was angry.
And Holloway knew that kind of anger. It burned. It didn't fade.
It only led one place.
Vengeance.