The elevator whispered up the spine of ValeCorp Tower, smooth and silent. Inside, Vera Vale adjusted her cufflinks, her reflection fractured across the mirrored walls. No matter the angle, her face was unreadable — composed, restrained, perfected through years of surviving rooms where mercy was weakness.
When the doors opened, Leonard was waiting in the boardroom — sharp suit, silver hair, smile like a wolf's. He didn't stand. Men like him never did.
"Vera," he said, voice soft but cutting. "You've been busy."
She crossed the room, heels tapping against marble. "I don't recall needing your permission to breathe."
He smirked. "Not permission. Guidance."
The folder before him was already open. Surveillance photos — Alice Pierce leaving the Elysian Room. Vera blurred in the background, wine glass mid-tilt.
Leonard tapped a finger against the image. "You've been meeting with the detective. Arthur's girl."
Vera's jaw tensed for half a heartbeat. "She came to me."
"Curious," he said. "You didn't send her away."
"She's asking questions," Vera replied, voice cool. "If we control what she learns, we control the narrative. That's strategy, Leonard — not rebellion."
He studied her, amused. "Always the diplomat. The Martins could use more of that."
"The Martins," she repeated quietly, "use too much blood and not enough thought."
Leonard's eyes sharpened. "Careful."
Vera turned to the window, watching the rain smear the skyline. "Arthur was your mistake, not mine. He walked away because you left him nothing else."
"He walked away because he forgot who he was," Leonard countered. "A Martin doesn't choose strangers over family."
Vera didn't turn. "He chose his daughter."
Leonard rose, smoothing his tie. "And that's precisely why she's a liability. If she keeps digging into us, you'll have to deal with her — properly this time. The family expects it."
That landed like a cold blade. She let the silence stretch before answering. "Alice Pierce is a detective, not an assassin. She's useful, disciplined, and observant. She's her father's daughter."
"It seems you don't know much about your so-called niece. Before she entered the detective job, she went off the grid for up to 4 years, and during those same 4 years, multiple people were taken out by a new assassin," Leonard said, heading for the door. "Make sure she sticks to her detective work and ensure that her curiosity doesn't become contagion."
When he left, the room felt too wide, too quiet. Vera stayed still, the city glittering beneath her feet like a thousand lies reflecting back.
Arthur's daughter.
Her brother's blood.
Her last regret.
She pressed her fingers against her temple, exhaling slowly. She could still remember Arthur's voice, rough with defiance — If I stay, she dies with me. If I run, she lives free.
He'd been wrong about the second part. No one ever really escaped the family.
---
Her office lights dimmed as she sat at her desk. The hidden drawer slid open with a soft click. Inside, a photograph — a young Arthur with his arm around Vera, a woman beside them cradling a little girl. Alice.
Vera's fingers traced the edge of the image, the faintest tremor in her hand.
"You always thought you could save her," she whispered. "I'm just trying to keep her alive."
Her phone buzzed.
A message. No name.
She's close to the Vale files. Handle it. You know what happens if you don't.
Vera stared at the screen for a long moment. Then she deleted the message, poured herself a drink, and downed it in a single swallow.
Her reflection stared back from the dark glass — elegant, deadly, and tired.
"Family first," she muttered. "Always family."
But her voice cracked just enough to sound human.
---
The precinct smelled like burnt coffee and rain. Alice sat in Rhodes's office, elbows on her knees, jaw tight. The blinds were half-closed, slicing light across the old detective's face.
Rhodes didn't say anything for a long while. He just watched her — the way she rubbed her temples, the way her eyes flickered when she thought no one was looking. He'd seen that look before. It was the look of a cop about to shatter.
Finally, he sighed.
"Do you even sleep anymore, Pierce?"
Alice gave a small shrug. "On the job, sometimes."
"Funny." Rhodes leaned back. "Not ha-ha funny — more like, Jesus, she's turning into me funny."
She didn't smile.
He reached for a folder on his desk. The edges were frayed, old. "I've been going through the Broker files. You notice what these all have in common?"
Alice's eyes narrowed. "Enlighten me."
He flipped a page, tapped a name. "ValeCorp. Popped up twice. Then there's a subcontractor — Martin & Vale Holdings — that shows up in an old trafficking case from fifteen years back. You were still in school then."
Alice froze, just for a breath — but that was all it took. Rhodes caught it. The cop in him always did.
"These cases," he said quietly. "The Broker ring, ValeCorp, even that mess on the docks last month — they all spin around the same drain. And somehow, you're always the one circling it."
Alice's jaw flexed. "So what are you saying?"
He studied her, voice gentler now. "I'm saying whoever your old man was… he left footprints in the same dirt you're walking through. And if you keep chasing ghosts, you're gonna end up right where he did."
She looked away. The blinds rattled as a gust of wind hit the window. "You think I can just stop? Walk away and pretend I don't see it?"
"No," Rhodes said. "I think you're too much like him to quit. But I also think you're not him. And that's the only reason I'm not pulling your badge."
He slid a small card across the desk.
"Take a few days, Pierce. Talk to this woman. She's a shrink. Good one. Ex-FBI, so she won't waste your time with kumbaya bullshit."
Alice glanced at the card but didn't take it.
Rhodes nodded to the door. "Go home. Before you forget what home looks like."
Alice didn't argue. She never did — not with Rhodes. She just stood, the chair scraping softly against the tile, and took the card without a word.
It felt heavy in her hand. Heavier than her badge.
Outside, the precinct buzzed with tired voices and flickering fluorescents. Officers passed her, muttering, laughing, living. The normalcy grated. She walked through it like a ghost, down the hall, past the evidence lockers, out into the rain. Chicago's streets were slick, black mirrors under the sodium lights. The city always smelled like rust and regret after a storm.
Alice leaned against her car for a moment, the cold metal seeping into her palms.
She looked at the card again. *Dr. Evelyn Moore — Forensic Psychology Consultant.*
The corner was bent, like it had been in Rhodes's wallet for years.
He'd been saving it for someone just like her.
She slipped it into her pocket, got in the car, and started the engine. The wipers dragged across the windshield with a slow, mechanical sigh.
Halfway home, she took a detour. The city bled by — neon, rain, and old ghosts. She parked near the riverfront where she used to train with Marcus, back when he still laughed. Back when she still believed he was just a man trying to do good. Now, every memory carried a shadow. She sat there, letting the rain wash the noise from her head. Then she opened the glove compartment — pulled out the envelope, the burner phone, and the faded photo.
Marcus. Vera. The Martin crest.
Her pulse steadied, but her throat tightened.
Rhodes wasn't wrong. She was circling the same drain.
She powered on the burner phone, half expecting it to be dead.
It wasn't.
One new message blinked on the screen.
Unknown: "Are you free? Vera Vale, 8 p.m. Don't be late."
The timestamp was from three hours ago.
Alice looked up at the sky — the city's lights bleeding through the low clouds — and whispered to no one,
"Guess I'm not the only one who can't quit."
She tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, started the car, and drove.
The rain followed her all the way home.