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PROLOGUE

Evangeline

THREE WEEKS AGO

The clock on my laptop reads 2:47 A.M. Another sleepless night. Another post to the void.

Michael’s last selfie stares back at me from the screen—grinning, carefree. A face I haven’t seen in six weeks. Behind him, Horizon Tech’s glass towers glint in the sunlight, the company logo sharp against the skyline. The photograph was posted the day before he disappeared. Since then, I’ve heard nothing but deafening silence.

I hover over the keyboard, reading and re-reading my latest post on the missing persons forum until the words start to blur together. Then I type the same message I’ve posted dozens of times before.

Michael Porter, 24, missing for six weeks. Last seen at Horizon Tech. Please help.

The same plea. The same desperate hope. The same crushing silence.

I press post anyway, because what else can I do?

The cursor blinks at me, a steady rhythm that feels like mockery. I slam the laptop shut, the sound too loud in my small apartment, and press my fingers against my temples. My head pounds, a dull rhythm behind my temples. Each blink feels like sandpaper against my eyes. Empty tea cups litter my coffee table, testament to another night spent searching for answers that don’t seem to exist.

Every forum I’ve visited, every search I’ve run, every phone call I’ve made has led nowhere. The police dismissed him—another young professional who couldn’t handle the pressure. His friends stopped returning my calls weeks ago. Concern faded into awkward silence. Horizon Tech’s HR department sends the same automated response to every email.

‘ We take all employee matters seriously, but cannot discuss any information relating to Michael Porter’s work with the company.’

The walls of my apartment feel like they’re closing in, the silence so complete it rings in my ears. Books line my shelves, their spines a rainbow of colors that used to bring comfort. Now they just remind me of all the stories that end with answers, with resolution. Unlike my reality.

He wouldn’t just leave. He wouldn’t.

The thought circles my mind for the hundredth time tonight. Michael loved his internship. He called me the night before he disappeared, excited about some breakthrough with his research. His voice had been animated, full of that infectious enthusiasm that made people gravitate toward him.

Something happened. Something no one wants to investigate.

I open the laptop again and refresh the forum. Nothing. My inbox is empty except for the usual junk—promises of help from scammers who only want money. I’ve already fallen for that twice, depleting my savings on ‘private investigators’ who disappeared as soon as I paid their retainer. I’m not making the same mistake again.

But then, a notification pings. A private message.

My heart jumps, though I try to squash the instinctive hope. Different username, same scam. That’s how it always goes.

T3ch4L1f3: “Saw your post. Are you okay?”

I frown. Most messages start with a scam. A demand for money. This one … doesn’t. This one feels … different . Uncertain. Almost human.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. Every instinct screams that engaging with strangers online is dangerous. Haven’t I learned my lesson? But something about the simple question breaks through my defenses.

Eva: Who is this?

The response appears almost immediately, as if they were waiting.

T3ch4L1f3: Just someone who knows what it’s like to lose someone. Thought you might want to talk.

I stare at the screen, suspicion curling in my gut. It could still be a scam. Another dead end. But the words tug at me—at the raw, fraying edge of my desperation.

Eva: How do I know this isn’t a scam?

Another ping echoes through my silent apartment.

T3ch4L1f3: You don’t. But I’m not asking for money. I just thought you might need someone who gets it.

My hands shake as I consider a response. It’s probably stupid, replying to a stranger like this. Dangerous, even. But what do I have to lose? My brother is already gone. My hope is running on fumes.

Eva: Michael is my brother. He disappeared six weeks ago after starting an internship at Horizon Tech. No one will help me.

There’s a pause this time. Longer than the others. For a moment, I think they’re gone, like all the others who promised to help and disappeared when I pressed for answers. The silence stretches until familiar disappointment flows through me.

But then the message appears.

T3ch4L1f3: I’m sorry. That must be hell.

The words hit harder than I expect, breaking something inside me that I’ve been desperately trying to hold together. No one else has said that—not the police, not Michael’s friends. Not even me. Everyone just keeps telling me to move on, to accept that he’s gone. But this stranger—their words feel real. Genuine.

Eva: It is.

I wait for the next message, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. When it comes, it’s simple.

T3ch4L1f3: Do you want to talk about him?

My throat tightens, and I blink back tears. I don’t trust this person. I don’t even know who they are. But for the first time in weeks, it feels like someone’s listening. Someone understands the weight of this silence, this waiting, this desperate search for answers.

I stare at the screen. This is stupid. Dangerous.

But hope is already tightening its grip, just like every time before.

Maybe that makes me the perfect target. Or maybe, just maybe, someone finally sees how lost I am. I take a deep breath, and begin to type.

Eva: Yeah. I think I do.