SILVER EYES IN THE DARK

Blackwell Tower stood tall and cold, looming over Manhattan against the night sky. This city got ruled as much by Damian Blackwell as by the mayor, or so people said. For most folks, he was untouchable. But this one man had answers, answers about her father, for Alina Cortez. Her dad vanished ten years back while digging into some case tied to Blackwell Industries. Everyone kept telling her to drop it. The cops scowled at her, her own family shot her those sideways looks like he just up and walked out, and the reporters at her paper basically humoured her questions like it was all a joke. But Alina couldn't let it go, you know. She was nineteen when he disappeared, and all he left behind was a few files, some unpaid bills, and this wound that never really healed. Ever since, she vowed to herself, one day, I'll look Damian Blackwell right in the eye and demand those answers. And tonight, with a fake press badge pinned to her dress, she was stepping into his world. The memory of her father's last words hit her hard as she got closer to that gleaming tower. "Promise me, Lina," he'd said in one of their final talks, his face all twisted with worry, red from exhaustion. "Promise you'll never stop asking questions, even if the answers hurt badly." She was too young back then to get how heavy that promise was, but now it drove every single step she took. Her apartment turned into this shrine to his memory and her obsession, basically. Newspaper clippings plastered every wall, red string linking dates, names, locations in a big web that always pointed back to one thing: Blackwell. She'd spent countless nights going over his notes, trying to make out that cramped handwriting of his, hunting for clues nobody else spotted. The police closed the case after six months. Missing persons turned into cold cases, cold cases into forgotten files. But Alina remembered it all. She stepped into the marble lobby, her footsteps echoing like hammers on the floor. A charity gala was underway, full of glitter, gold, champagne, the whole reeking mess. Waiters slipped through the crowd with crystal glasses. Millionaires, movie stars, and politicians bumped shoulders, their laughter as shiny as their diamonds. Alina hated these types. Hated how entitled they acted, how their privilege wrapped around them like some kind of armour. They were just like Damian, untouchable. She despised the way they bought their way out of consequences with cash. But tonight wasn't about her hate for the rich, not really. Tonight was about getting to the truth. She smoothed her dress, took a deep breath, and straightened her shoulders. Focus. Blend in. Smile if you must. She'd rehearsed this a dozen times, though it felt weird every go. Still, sweat beaded on her forehead from the weight of that recorder hidden in her little clutch bag. The ballroom looked like a palace of wealth and power. Crystal chandeliers threw rainbows over marble floors, silk curtains in deep burgundy draped floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city's sparkling lights. The air buzzed with talk of mergers, political campaigns, and charitable donations that were just tax write-offs. Alina slipped into the crowd like a ghost, invisible to these industry giants who only noticed what they wanted. Weeks before, she'd studied the guest list, memorizing faces, names, and connections to Blackwell Industries. Senator Morrison, whose environmental bills always favoured Blackwell's shipping interests. Judge Patterson, whose son got a full Harvard scholarship from the Blackwell Foundation. Commissioner Hayes, who oversaw the closing of her father's case personally. And there they all were, circling the man in the centre. She touched him before she even saw him. Damian Blackwell. Something hushed behind his footsteps, conversations softening to polite murmurs. He wasn't the short, balding businessman type she'd imagined, but tall, broad-shouldered in a trim black suit that probably cost more than she made in a year. His features were sharp, unyielding, strong jaw, blazing blue eyes, and a mouth set as if it rarely smiled. He moved through the crowd like he owned it, which, in a way, he did. Men stepped aside as he approached, women straightened up, and laughter faded on lips. He was like gravity, pulling everyone into orbit. Alina's stomach tightened, not exactly from fear. This was him. The man she'd been chasing her whole adult life. The name in every file her father left behind. She'd planned to sneak in, spy around, and get out quick. But Damian Blackwell didn't seem like a man short on anything. He gave off this aura that wrecked even the best-laid plans. Then their eyes met. The air thickened, you know. His gaze cut through the crowd, hitting her with this intense, sick feeling. That stare made her feel exposed, like he saw right through her fake facade to the desperate daughter underneath. He started moving toward her, slow and measured. The crowd parted, quieting, stealing glances. They watched him with awe and a bit of fear. The whole room seemed to hold its breath as he stopped right in front of her. "You don't belong here," he said. His voice was rich, authoritative, the kind that made grown men back down. Alina lifted her chin. "Excuse me." "Who sent you?" His eyes flicked to the press badge on her chest. "That's fake." Her heart pounded like crazy, but she kept her face neutral. "I'm a journalist. With The Sentinel. Covering the gala." His mouth curved, maybe in amusement, but his eyes stayed cold. "Liar." Alina's breath hitched. "Do you interrogate all your guests?" "Only the troublemakers," he said, leaning in a bit closer. His cologne was sharp and clean, but under it, something wilder, like wind through trees or a storm coming. She was about to fire back when a waiter tripped into her, splashing champagne all over her dress. Glass shattered at her feet. She knelt to pick up the pieces, embarrassment turning to shock when she spotted something: a folder that slipped from under the tray. Curiosity won out over caution. She grabbed it, tilted it to peek at the first page. A list. Dozens of names. Heading at the top: Pack Registry. Her heart stopped. Then it raced. At the bottom: Cortez. Her father's name.