"What are you doing?" I asked as I approached the kitchen, my eyes growing wide at seeing my surprisingly 27-year-old friend who had the impulsive curiosity of a toddler.
"Well…can't be sure if I'm either burning the kitchen or cooking," she said with a sheepish smile, flour dusting her cheeks.
I ripped my eyes from my phone screen to behold a disastrous spectacle of kitchen destruction—a winter blizzard of flour covered every inch, the torn pieces of my formerly useful blender scattered across the floor, and globs of bright purple smoothie dripped in a steady beat from my bumpy ceiling. Most heinous of all, angry tendrils of black smoke poured out of my oven, which could erupt into flames at any second. With racing heart, I left my phone sitting on the marble table and sprinted towards my kitchen—my ailing patient in urgent need of emergency treatment. I swung open the oven door, releasing a smoke billowing cloud of vile-smelling fumes that choked my eyes as I pulled out the blackened, unidentifiable piece of flesh that was once a roast. Gray smoke quickly filled up the room, so I had to dive over to the windows and fling them open to let in that fresh outside air. As I slowly turned to confront the view, my eyes narrowed in anger, turning into piercing daggers that were pointed straight at the destruction-causing monster before me. She was playing with her fingers, tapping the hem of her flour-speckled shirt nervously, and I could see how uncomfortable and agitated she was on the inside.
"Why're you to staring at me like that?" The chaos and confusion she was trying to maintain were completely at odds with the ridiculously sweet smile that twisted up in Illiana's mouth as she snapped back.
"I am wishing you would spontaneously combust," I snarled with teeth bared, venomous rage dripping from my words.
"Hey, at least I didn't kill anyone today," she trilled in unnerving brightness.
I stiffened rigidly, my mouth agape in stunned gaze at her, this foul cold shiver creeping up my spine like cold fingers. 'Kill'?! Oh God, I have to admit I always wonder what precisely would have happened if I had stayed in my warm and heavenly bed for just one minute longer than I had planned.
"What happened here?!"Astra inhaled softly, her throat heavy and clogged with the lingering remnants of sleep as she hauled herself uncertainly into what had previously seemed to be a fully operational kitchen. Aweary, she rubbed the bloodshot eyes with the backs of her hands, her eyes flickering rapidly in an effort to adjust not only to the blinding morning light pouring through the windows but the stifling mayhem that met her in complete disarray. As the reality of the situation first started to creep onto her sleepy face, her wide-eyed gaze naturally deflected in a reproachful manner towards Illiana, closer by with her best effort—and worst ever effort at that—at maintaining a façade of innocence in the midst of the mangled culinary devastation that surrounded them both.
My two best friends had invaded my apartment for our sacred Saturday night ritual—terrible movies, excessive junk food, and wildly unpredictable conversations. Illiana, a morning person against all logic, always attempted to "nurture" Astra and me with breakfast, despite her well-documented culinary disasters. Given the scorch marks from past attempts, one more snooze and my apartment might have become another statistic in "death by well-intentioned breakfast."
Before long, the three of us were confronted with the chaotic mess of Illiana's latest culinary disaster, as we set out on a brutal battle against the overwhelming battlefield that consisted of flour-coated countertops, syrup-coated utensils, and the persistent, lingering scent of something that was quite definitely burnt. Having survived the ordeal and finally managed to get the kitchen to a liveable state, Astra and Illiana were off on their respective activities and commitments, and I was left alone in the peaceful quiet hum of my apartment, where I could finally sit and reflect. I took a final sip of my much-needed coffee before grabbing my bag, preparing to step into the structured chaos of my job as a lawyer at Harrison & Wolfe LLP.
"Good morning, Robert" I said as I approached his able after he called me for an important task in his office "good morning, Reina," Robert says, folding his hands together. "This case just landed on my desk, and I need someone… thorough."
I raise an eyebrow. "That's usually code for 'dangerous.'"
Robert exhales sharply. "A witness has come forward—someone willing to testify against a powerful crime syndicate." He slides a file across the desk. "But they're terrified. And they have every reason to be. The last two lawyers who handled this case backed out. One of them disappeared entirely."
I pick up the file, flipping through its pages. Redacted names, police reports, scattered evidence. Then, one word jumps out at me: The Syndicate.
I meet his gaze. "You want me to protect this witness?"
"And build a case that will hold up in court," Robert says. "If we get this right, we could dismantle half the city's organized crime network. But it won't be easy."
My pulse quickens. Cases like this—ones that could shake the city—don't just land on anyone's desk. Robert wouldn't offer it to me unless he thought I could handle it.
Or unless everyone else was too afraid.
I glance back at the file. Something about it unsettles me. The evidence is too thin. Too clean, like someone scrubbed it before it ever reached me.
Still, I square my shoulders and nod. "I'll take it."
Robert watches me for a long moment. Then, with something that almost sounds like resignation, he says,
"You always do."
A knock on the door jolted me from my thoughts. I turned, pulse quickening.
It was past midnight. I was sitting on my living room sofa, papers scattered all over the table—documents related to the new crime syndicate. The best security firm in the city, Hudson Security, had barely any intel on them. No one should be here.
Cautiously, I rose, my hand tightening around the edge of my desk as I approached the door. I peered through the peephole—nothing. The hallway outside my apartment was empty.
I exhaled, shoulders relaxing slightly. Probably just my nerves playing tricks on me again.
Then I saw it.
A small, white envelope. Slipped under the door.
I hesitated before picking it up. My name was scrawled in red ink across the front. No return address. No markings. Just two words:
Stop digging.
My stomach twisted. Someone knew.
I tore the envelope open, my fingers trembling slightly. Inside was a single slip of paper.
It had a name.
One name.
Lorenzo Hudson.
My heart pounded as I read it again, trying to make sense of what I was looking at.
I had spent the day tracking Syndicate activity, gathering what little information I could from past lawyers who had worked on similar cases. But Lorenzo Hudson? I knew that name. Ex-leader of the gang. Vanished years ago. Some said he was dead. Others said he had turned on them.
What did he have to do with this case now?
And why the hell was someone warning me to stay away from this?
Every instinct in me screamed to stop. To back off. To pretend I never saw the note.
But I never backed off.
I grabbed my coat and keys, slipping the note into my pocket.
If Lorenzo Hudson was somehow tied to this—if he had information that could take the Syndicate down—then I needed to find him.
Before they found me first.