The van rolled to a slow stop near the edge of the park.
777, peering out the passenger window, narrowed his eyes: "We're here. Park's closed."
Rick, squinting at the iron gate looming ahead: "And the gate's locked."
777 popped open the glove box with a flick of his wrist and retrieved a slim, matte black case. He tossed it to Rick like they'd done this routine a thousand times.
Rick caught it mid-air without blinking. The latch clicked open with a practiced flick.
"Silent override chip?"
"Nah," 777 replied, already stepping out. "Too noisy. Lockpick set. Ghost mission, remember?"
The van doors clicked shut behind them—soft, precise, final.
The silence on the street was unsettling. No footsteps. No chatter. Just the occasional rustle of wind cutting through skeletal trees.
It was too quiet.
The park ahead loomed like a sleeping beast—gates tall, wrought iron, laced with rust. They didn't creak. They stared.
Rick dropped to one knee at the base of the lock, already working with a precision born of repetition.
"Give me ten seconds."
777 leaned against the post like it wasn't illegal, like they weren't ghosts slipping through the cracks of a city built on lies.
"Take eight. We're on a clock."
Rick's fingers moved like poetry—
Click. Clink. Tap. Turn.
Then—
Clunk.
The lock surrendered with a breath.
Rick stood, dusting off his palms.
"We're in."
"Showtime," 777 murmured as he followed.
The gate closed behind them with the softest sigh of metal.
Like a secret exhaling.
And just like that, the shadows swallowed them.
The park, once warm with memory, was now a cathedral of darkness.
Leaves whispered. Tree limbs swayed with ghostlike grace.
The path ahead stretched endlessly into gloom.
Rick's voice was a whisper: "Step one. Did you loop the cameras?"
777 tapped a small remote tucked into his wrist: "Clean. All feeds frozen. We're phantoms."
Rick's nod was barely visible, but full of weight. "Step two. Move to the last known tracker ping."
They slipped between hedges and overgrown shrubs, feet soundless on gravel.
"There's a problem," 777 said as they crouched near a bush.
Rick didn't stop moving. "Security guards?"
"Yeah. Two-man patrol. 30-second passes. Flashlights sweeping wide."
Just then—
A beam of light swept through the trees.
Rick froze against a tree trunk.
777 dropped into the shadows behind a bench.
The flashlight passed—slow, searching.
Bootsteps echoed like war drums muffled by leaves.
Then—gone.
They moved.
Rick suddenly paused near a lamppost.
Something glinted.
He crouched.
A silver hair clip. Simple. Familiar.
The kind Shalit wore when she didn't care who noticed.
Rick's jaw tightened. "Found Shalit's tracker."
777 checked his signal reader, which glowed faintly green in the dark: "Tobey's tablet—four o'clock from here. Just past that bench."
Rick moved.
Another glint.
He crouched again and picked up the cracked tablet.
The screen barely lit.
A child's scrawl of stickers clung to the back, partially torn.
Cold to the touch. Slightly damp.
Rick, grim: "No Tobey. No Shalit. Just breadcrumbs."
777 opened a portable screen strapped to his chest.
"Checking shed cams now."
Static.
Empty paths.
Branches swaying.
Nothing.
"No sign of anyone," 777 muttered.
"Any blind spots?"
"A few. But none wide enough to stash two people."
Rick's voice dropped. "Step three. Fall back."
Another sweep of the flashlight. Another breathless second.
They didn't move until the beam passed.
Then—
Out.
Back through the whispering gate.
Back into the van.
Inside, Rick exhaled sharply, finally letting the tension settle into his bones.
"Now," he said, starting the engine.
"Take me to the last camera spot. Where Tobey was seen."
"Yes, sir."
The van purred forward.
A few blocks down—
"Stop," Rick ordered.
777 halted the van in front of an old general store.
"You going to interrogate the old man selling gum?" he quipped.
"No," Rick deadpanned. "I need an energy drink."
"You haven't eaten?" 777 asked, shocked.
"Nope."
Without a word, 777 handed over a cold, black bottle from the cooler behind the seat.
Rick examined the odd label: "…What is this?"
"Energy drink. Full meal inside. Contains protein, caffeine, and something that's probably illegal in three countries."
Rick took a swig. It bit like lightning.
Sharp citrus. Carbonated sting.
His eyes flickered awake like high beams switching on.
"Alright. Let's roll."
The van slid into the deeper part of the city's edge.
The streetlights grew farther apart.
The houses fewer.
Darkness encroached with each mile.
Then—
"Stop."
Rick opened the door and stepped out.
The wind met him like an old rival.
Beside a dumpster, half-concealed under a slanted light, lay a small belt.
Duct tape. Wire. Loose screws. A tangled mess of creative genius.
"Tobey's DIY belt," Rick muttered.
He picked it up, inspecting it. A child's fingerprints smudged the side.
Beside it, nestled in the dirt—
A small spray bottle.
Label:
"SLEEPING POTION"
Rick exhaled slowly through his nose.
Back inside the van:
"We're here," 777 said, eyes on the GPS.
They pulled up beside a rusted gate that led into forest.
Not just trees—
A wall of shadow. A forgotten wilderness.
Something primal.
Rick stepped out first.
Branches creaked above.
A crow cried from deep inside.
Leaves rustled, not from the wind, but something else.
The air was heavier now. Damp.
Every breath tasted like old stone and wet moss.
"This is it," Rick said.
"Last known location."
"Looks like a forest," 777 muttered.
Rick crouched near a tree, fingers trailing the earth.
Two sets of tracks.
One small. One adult.
But the child's prints stopped suddenly.
Vanished.
Rick stood.
Voice cold.
"This isn't a park. It's something old. A graveyard of secrets."
He stared into the black canopy ahead.
"Maybe military. Maybe worse."
777 ran his scanner—
"No signal past this point. Total blackout."
Rick held up the spray bottle again.
"My son was here. He left this."
777, smirking despite the tension: "He really is your kid."
Rick, eyes locked on the path ahead:
"…That's what I'm afraid of."
The wind shifted again.
Colder.
Carrying with it a scent Rick couldn't place.
Metal.
Dust.
And something… synthetic.
Something waited in that darkness.
Something smart enough to erase its trail.
And bold enough to take his family.
But Rick was done playing defense.
He dropped the bottle into his coat pocket.
And took the first step into the dark.