Elk exhales sharply as he steps out of the Principal's office. The door clicks shut behind him. His footsteps echo down the quiet corridor, the walls lined with vacant classrooms—each one a silent witness to the chaos left behind.
He'd just finished a tense conversation with the principal madam.
He'd visited the boy named Archer earlier at the hospital. His mother had been in tears. His father barely contained his rage. The child's condition had stabilized, but stabilization meant little when the boy lay unconscious, face mangled—nose broken, teeth knocked out, stitches spread across his cheekbones like a map of violence.
He had lost a significant amount of blood.
And the perpetrator was still missing.
The police were on alert. So were Elk's own field agents. Even if Rhean wasn't his biological child, Elk had grown to care for him. Deeply.
He steps outside into the school compound of Sunflower Junior School.
A janitor sweeps leaves into a brittle mound. Above, thick grey clouds churn across the March sky.
A sudden gust scatters leaves across the ground, along with dust and dry debris.
The janitor curses under his breath and sweeps again with growing frustration. March had been volatile—windstorms, hail, flash chills.
The last bout of rain had only just begun to dry. And it looked like another was on the way.
At the parking lot, Elk unlocks his red Jeep with a sharp beep, the headlights flickering to life. He climbs into the driver's seat and starts the engine, heart heavy.
He says a silent prayer: Wherever Rhean is... let him be safe.
---
Later, Elk sits in his office, discussing intel briefs with his assistant and Agent Knight.
The air is sharp with urgency, but their conversation is focused—until a knock interrupts them.
"Come in," Elk calls.
The operator has already informed Elk of his arrival.
Even if Elk is engaged in a high-level intelligence briefing with another agent, this man's presence carries enough authority—and trust—to be granted immediate access.
The door opens.
A tall figure steps in, head lowered.
When he looks up, the room falls silent. Three pairs of eyes lock on his face.
"Welcome back, Czar," Elk says, offering a dry half-smile.
Rhett has returned from an overseas operation—two weeks gone, no downtime.
"Good to see you, Czar," the assistant adds, rising and offering him a seat.
Rhett gives a curt nod and enters. Knight doesn't rise. He leans back, arms crossed. A silent protest against hierarchy.
Without a word, Rhett sets a matte black briefcase on the desk.
"It's all in here?" Elk asks, reaching for it.
He takes a seat.
"Yes," Rhett replies, voice flat.
"Understood. You should take some rest. The next assignment can wait."
Rhett leans back, eyes bloodshot, jaw tight.
He looks like he hasn't slept in days.
His stare is distant, unreadable—until it sharpens with a single question:
"Any updates on her?"
The room tenses.
Elk exhales slowly and leans forward, clasping his hands on the desk.
"Czar… I want you to hear this without misinterpreting my intent. This isn't personal—it's about your mental well-being."
Rhett narrows his eyes. "Get to the point."
Elk meets his stare. "Two months ago, I officially closed the investigation into your wife's disappearance."
Silence.
Rhett doesn't move. His voice, when it comes, is quiet. Lethal.
"Repeat that."
Elk straightens. "We've spent years chasing dead leads. No trace. No credible intel. Nothing. At some point, you have to accept—"
Elk is cut off by motion.
Rhett's out of his chair in a second, grabbing Elk by the collar and lifting him half out of his seat.
Knight bolts upright. The assistant stands frozen.
"Czar, stand down!" the assistant says urgently.
Rhett's grip tightens.
"You had me running across continents, chasing rumors and hearsay. And now you sit there and tell me to move on?" His voice is a low snarl.
Elk doesn't flinch. "We exhausted every avenue. The agency committed personnel, funding, even off-grid resources. There's nothing left to uncover. We have to accept that possibility—"
"You shut the file without telling me."
"It was classified need-to-know. My call," Elk says, with professional detachment.
"You weren't in a state to make that decision rationally."
Rhett slams him back into the leather chair. The frame squeaks, lurching against the floor.
Elk exhales shakily but doesn't retaliate. He adjusts his collar.
"Why?" Rhett asks, his voice broken now. Not angry. Just exhausted. "Why would you do that?"
Elk's jaw tightens. "Because after years with zero leads, we have to consider the statistical reality. We're hemorrhaging resources on a cold case. You know how thin our teams are spread. I made the call."
Rhett shakes his head. "That's not good enough."
Elk's tone hardens.
"Then tell me what's good enough. Another year? Two? Ten? How long do we divert manpower to an emotional dead end? You know the demands on this agency."
"Or maybe," Rhett says darkly, "you're just another bureaucratic parasite covering your failures."
Elk clenches his jaw. His face is red now.
"If you think you can do better, find her yourself."
"Oh, I will."
Rhett turns for the door.
"One more thing," Elk says, just as his hand touches the knob. "Your son caused an incident at school. He's been missing for two days."
Rhett freezes. Turns.
"And you're telling me now?"
"We deployed a team—"
"Your 'team' couldn't find a child in broad daylight?" Rhett's voice is rising again.
He yanks the door open and storms out, slamming it behind him with a deafening crack.
The room is quiet again.
Elk slowly exhales and sinks back into his chair.
"I messed that up," he mutters.
His eyes soften—just for a beat. He had done everything he could to find her. Even the Agency's off-grid surveillance division had come up short. And now, the boy had just vanished without a trace.
"You did," the assistant says, not looking up.
"Shut up." Elk clears his throat. "Anyway, where were we?" He brushes it off as he opens a file.
Knight just rolls his eyes.
Bussiness as usual.