Hard Reset
1651 Words
The playground sat in complete darkness.
The front gate was chained shut.
Edith grabbed the iron bars without hesitation. Spencer followed immediately. They climbed fast, shoes scraping against stone, then dropped into the playground with a hard thud.
Both froze the second their feet touched the ground.
Watching.
Listening.
No guards.
No movement.
Only the slow creak of a swing moving in the wind.
“Move,” Edith whispered.
They hurried toward the old tunnel slide near the back corner.
The opening was ridiculously small for adults, but they forced themselves inside anyway, shoulders pressed painfully against the plastic walls.
Edith turned toward Spencer, her eyes sharp in the darkness.
“I called you here because I want the truth.” Her voice was low but dangerous. “What is happening right now? What is my father hiding?”
Spencer let out a quiet breath. “I honestly don’t know. Your father is impossible to read.”
“He’s hiding everything from me,” Edith snapped. “And I still can’t remember anything about the gala.”
Spencer stared at her.
“What?”
“When I woke up, I was in a hospital.” Her voice tightened. “They told me I was sick. That’s all.”
His expression shifted instantly from confusion to shock.
“You don’t remember the gala?”
“No.”
“That’s impossible,” Spencer said under his breath. “You looked perfectly fine that night. More than fine.” He swallowed. “You looked beautiful.”
“Spencer.”
“Right. Sorry.”
Edith rubbed her temple in frustration. “I don’t remember being there at all.”
“You talked to me that night,” Spencer said carefully. “We were together for most of the evening.”
Edith leaned closer immediately.
“Then tell me what happened after the gala. Why was I hospitalized?”
Spencer frowned. “I don’t know. I thought you went home. I heard your father say he ‘sent you back,’ but that’s it.
Edith let out an irritated breath.
“You are unbelievably useless.”
Spencer’s eyes narrowed instantly.
“I’m risking my neck sneaking with you right now,” he shot back quietly. “And somehow I’m still the useless one?”
Before Edith could reply, his expression darkened.
“But something changed after that night.”
Her attention sharpened immediately.
“What changed?”
“You disappeared from the office completely. Your father locked the entire estate down.” Spencer lowered his voice further. “Extra guards. Extra surveillance. Restricted floors. Half the staff are terrified to even speak.”
Edith’s stomach twisted.
“And?”
“He’s signing documents for you now.” Spencer looked directly at her. “And he ordered everyone not to contact you unless he personally allows it.”
Edith slowly looked away.
Then suddenly she looked back at him.
“My sister. Where is she?”
Spencer shook his head. “No idea. I heard she left for some art exhibition overseas. She never attended the gala.”
A moment of silence settled between them.
Then he added, lower this time, as if he regretted saying it.
“And there’s something else…” He hesitated. “I think this has something to do with Lucien.”
Edith’s eyes snapped toward him instantly.
“Lucien?” Her voice hardened. “The cartel king?”
Spencer nodded once. “Yes… maybe his men hurt you that night. That’s why you ended up in the hospital.”
“And may be that's why…” his voice lowered, quieter but heavier, “you’re under protection now.”
Edith’s pulse began to pound harder.
“It feels like there’s something missing from my head.” Her voice trembled with anger now. “Something important."
Then she grabbed Spencer’s wrist.
“You’re the only one I can trust right now.”
For a second, Spencer forgot how to breathe.
“Please,” Edith whispered. “Find out what’s going on.”
He exhaled slowly. “Well… now that I’ve officially been called useless, I guess I don’t have a choice.”
A faint smile touched Edith’s lips.
Then, suddenly, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "Thank you Spencer."
Spencer froze completely.
His entire face turned red.
Edith pulled back like nothing happened. “I should go.”
Spencer opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He simply nodded.
Minutes later, they climbed back over the wall separately.
Edith slipped back through the narrow hole hidden in the estate wall—the same one she had escaped earlier—while Spencer disappeared down another path into the darkness.
she reached the laundry room.
Without wasting a second, she grabbed a servant’s food tray and lowered her head before stepping into the hallway.
Calm.
Controlled.
Invisible.
The guards barely looked at her.
None of them realized the servant carrying food upstairs was Edith herself.
Inside the bedroom, Mia was already waiting.
The second Edith entered, they switched clothes with practiced speed.
Moments later, Mia exited the room carrying the empty tray while Edith remained inside.
Outside the door, the guards stood motionless.
Completely unaware they had just been fooled.
⸻
Vernon had suspected it for weeks.
Someone inside the organization was leaking routes, burning operations, turning every shipment into a m******e waiting to happen.
Too many raids.
Too many ambushes.
Too many men ending up dead.
Someone was feeding information to the outside.
Or worse—
To Adrian.
But suspicion meant nothing without proof.
Then the Silveridge shipment got hit.
And Vernon finally found it.
Not from intel. Not from strategy.
From a drunk whisper in a low-end bar where Lucien’s men moved scraps for cash.
The owner didn’t hesitate.
“It’s Luka.”
⸻
The rain over the Silveridge Industrial Park was thick and oily, turning the soot-stained concrete into a mirror.
Inside a dark SUV parked across the yard, Vernon sat motionless.
Watching.
A silver sedan rolled up near the perimeter fence—sleek, expensive.
The driver stepped out beneath a black umbrella.
Luka.
Vernon’s eyes narrowed.
From the shadows of Warehouse Twelve, another man emerged.
Hood up. Face hidden.
The meeting was quick.
Luka reached into his coat and handed over a small glowing device.
Vernon immediately recognized it.
A dead-drop transponder.
Military-grade.
Once activated, it could cut through cartel jammers and transmit the compound’s weakest entry point directly to an incoming strike team.
A guided path straight into the heart of the operation.
A death sentence for everyone inside.
Vernon’s grip tightened around the steering wheel until the leather creaked beneath his hand.
Rain crawled down the windshield in violent streams as he stared at Luka through the storm, something cold and lethal settling behind his eyes.
Then he reached for his phone and dialed a secure line.
The call connected instantly.
“Bruno.”
His voice was flat enough to kill with.
“Deep clean the warehouse.”
A beat of silence.
“Every corner.”
Thunder cracked across the industrial yard as Vernon kept his eyes locked on Luka.
Then he said the words that sealed a man’s death warrant.
“I found the rat.”
⸻
The Neon Snake was a dive bar that smelled of stale beer and desperation—the kind of place where high-end dealers like Luka felt like kings because they were the only ones wearing watches that cost more than the building.
Luka sat in a corner booth, sliding a briefcase across the table to a buyer. Loose. Comfortable.
Invisible—or so he thought.
He didn’t notice the man in the charcoal jacket at the bar.
"The shipment's short, Luka"
Vernon said, his voice slicing clean through the thumping bass.
All color drained from his face. “Vernon! I—I was just finishing a private deal. You’re early for the pickup.”
“I am here to pick up,” Vernon said, slow, precise, “but not the stuff."
A pause—sharp, suffocating.
“You.”
“The Silveridge shipment was intercepted three hours ago,” Vernon continued, his voice dragging like steel over stone.
Luka froze, his pulse slammed against his throat. “Vernon! Hey, man—the Silveridge job… look, the port authorities were crawling all over the pier.”
He continued, "It was a freak occurrence.”
Vernon didn’t blink.
He leaned in, eyes cold, unyielding—locking Luka in place.
“Your car was logged leaving the Silveridge industrial park ten minutes before the raid,” he said.
The accusation landed heavy enough to crush.
“You didn’t just leak the route…”
His gaze sharpened.
“You sold the warehouse.”
The words didn’t land—they cut. "You made a bad call."
Vernon reached for the whiskey glass on the table and slammed it against the edge of the booth.
The crack exploded through the air.
Glass shattered—splintering into jagged teeth in his grip.
He brought it up—slow, steady—until the broken edge hovered just an inch from Luka’s throat.
Luka’s breath hitched—then stalled completely.
“I’m here,” Vernon said, his voice dropping into something darker—quieter, more dangerous, “because you’ve made a very ugly mess.”
The glass pressed closer. Not enough to break skin.
Just enough to promise it could.
“And now…” he murmured, eyes locked onto Luka’s, "I have to bury your mess before it buries us.”
“Get up,” Vernon snapped, dragging him up by the collar. “We’re going to see the boss.”
Luka stumbled, panic flashing across his face. “Vernon, please—listen, I can fix this—”
“You’ll fix this,” he said coldly. “Right now…you made me look bad. That’s not something you walk away from.”
His grip tightened as he dragged him out of the bar.
- Writer
