Victor's mansion loomed behind iron gates like a fortress guarding secrets. Adrian pressed the intercom, waited. A buzz, and the gates swung open with a mechanical hum. He walked up the gravel driveway, boots crunching on the stones in the thick evening air. The house was old money stone walls, tall windows, lights on inside but no sound leaking out. Adrian felt eyes on him from somewhere. A camera. A guard. Didn't matter.
The front door opened before he knocked. A suited man, bigger and wider than Victor, stood there expressionless. His hands were thick, knuckles scarred. "This way."
Adrian followed him down a long hallway lined with paintings of unfamiliar faces. Old men. Dead men. Their eyes followed him. The man stopped at double doors, pushed one open, and stepped aside with a practiced gesture.
Victor sat behind a massive dark wood desk, a lamp casting a glow on his face. He didn't look up as Adrian entered, eyes fixed on something in front of him. A document. A photo. Adrian couldn't see.
Adrian dumped the bag of money on the desk. Cash spilled out bands of dirty bills scattered across the polished surface.
"There you have it. It's complete."
Victor's gaze flicked from the bag to Adrian. "You're bleeding."
Adrian touched his side; his hand came back red and sticky. The cut must have happened during the fight. He hadn't noticed until now. "It's nothing."
Victor's smile was slight, impressed.
Adrian looked straight into his eyes. "Count it." His voice was flat.
"I don't need to. If you say it's all there, I believe you."
Silence hung for a moment, thick as the shadows in the room. Adrian could hear his own heartbeat. Then Victor reached into the pile, pulled out a stack, and tossed it across the desk. "A thousand. Go fix yourself."
Adrian eyed the money but didn't touch it. "The clue."
Victor leaned back, steepled fingers tapping against each other. "You did well, Adrian. I have high expectations." He produced a folded paper from his drawer and slid it across the desk like a cardsharp dealing a hand.
Adrian unfolded it an address in the old warehouse district. Abandoned building. "What's there?"
Victor didn't answer. Instead, "Have you checked the Voss house?"
Adrian frowned. "What house?"
Victor's smile returned, small and knowing. "The house. Your family's house. Where you grew up."
Adrian's chest tightened like a wire pulled drum-skin tight. "I don't have a house."
"Check it," Victor said, voice dropping to a suggestion. Not an order. A test.
Adrian's jaw clenched. "This isn't getting me anywhere. This address, that house it's nothing. Pieces."
Victor's expression turned to stone. His voice dropped, cold and deep as a grave. "Information comes at a cost."
Adrian held his gaze, then stood, pocketed the address and the thousand bucks, and walked out without looking back. His side throbbed with every step. The hallway felt longer now. The paintings watched him leave.
The injury hit two blocks from Victor's gate.
Adrian's side burned like fire. He stumbled, grabbed a lamppost, missed, and hit the concrete hard. The world spun. His vision blurred. He tried to push up, but his arms gave out. Cold seeped through his clothes. Rain or sweat, he couldn't tell.
He woke to white light and beeping. A hospital. Ceiling tiles. The smell of antiseptic. A clock on the wall said two days had passed.
The nurse came in. Tired-eyed. She'd seen too many men like him. "You had internal bleeding. Someone called an ambulance. You were unconscious on the sidewalk."
Adrian swung his legs off the bed. The room tilted. He steadied himself. "I need to leave."
The nurse backed off, wary. She'd learned not to argue with men who woke up like this. Adrian signed discharge forms with a shaky hand. His signature was a scrawl. He didn't care.
He walked out into late evening air. The address was still in his pocket. He unfolded it. The warehouse district. But first, the Voss house. He needed to see it.
The address led him to a burnt-out house in a street where houses died. Charred wood, soot-black windows, partially collapsed roof. The front lawn was overgrown, weeds pushing through cracked pavement. A for-sale sign hung sideways, rusted.
This was his family's house? He didn't remember. He'd been eight. But still nothing felt familiar.
Inside, ash and old smoke clung to everything. The floor groaned under his weight. He searched room by room, careful where he stepped. A living room with a collapsed ceiling. A kitchen with a blackened stove. Upstairs, bedrooms with no doors.
In a back study on the first floor, half-buried under debris, he found a fireproof box. Small. Black. Scorched but intact.
He pried it open.
Inside, a half-burnt letter. The edges were crispy, but the words were still there.
"... I promise to fix this my beloved... looking for a cure... hold on… just for a little….. we are getting close I can feel it….."
Adrian's eyes locked on the words. *Allison Voss, his mother, and Starfield Project.Clearly, there was more to the plant than met the eye. What illness did his mother have? That question lingered in his mind, cold and heavy.
He folded the letter. Tucked it into his pocket next to the address.
The phone vibrated Victor's burner.
"Find anything?" Victor asked.
"Nothing meaningful," Adrian lied. His hand tightened around the phone.
Silence. Then, "Come to my place. I have another mission."
Adrian's jaw tightened. "What is this?"
Victor's voice was cold. "You want clues about your family or not? Information comes at a cost."
Adrian snapped the phone shut and headed Victor's way, shadows swallowing his steps. The burnt house sat behind him, empty and dark.
A new mission awaited....