Elk exhales sharply as he steps out of the Principal's office, the click of the door echoing behind him like a final verdict. His shoes strike the empty corridor—each footstep swallowed by walls lined with vacant classrooms. Silent but not innocent.
Every desk, every scuff mark on the floor a mute witness to the storm Rhean left behind.
The conversation with the principal had been tight, clipped.
The visit to Archer's hospital bed earlier—worse. His mother's face wet with grief, her voice catching over every word. His father, a statue of rage barely holding shape. The boy's condition had "stabilized"—a word that sounded almost insulting when the child lay unconscious, face a ruin of swelling and stitches, nose shattered, teeth gone, blood loss still heavy in the air.
And Rhean… still gone.
Police were already looking.
So were Elk's own field agents. Officially, Rhean wasn't related to him by blood.
But years of quiet responsibility had carved something deeper. Elk cared. Too much, perhaps.
Outside, Sunflower Junior School lies under a restless March sky.
A janitor sweeps brittle leaves into a neat mound, only for the wind to undo it seconds later—sending leaves, dust, and stray paper skidding across the courtyard. The man curses softly and starts over. The air smells of damp concrete and the last rain's ghost. Another storm is brewing.
At the lot, Elk's red Jeep beeps open. He slides into the seat, engine rumbling to life. His hands rests on the wheel longer than necessary.
He says a silent prayer: wherever Rhean is… Lord, keep him safe.
---
Hours later, Elk's office is thick with urgency. He and his assistant are deep in intel briefs with Agent Knight when the knock comes.
"Come in," Elk calls.
The operator has already warned him.
Even in the middle of a classified 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 air shifts instantly.
Three sets of eyes fixes on his face.
"Welcome back, Czar," Elk says, offering a dry half-smile. Rhett—two weeks on an overseas op, zero downtime—looks like hell.
"Good to see you, Czar," the assistant says, rising. Knight stays put, arms crossed—a silent protest against hierarchy.
Without ceremony, Rhett sets a matte black briefcase on the desk.
"It's all in here?" Elk asks, already reaching.
"Yes," Rhett says flatly.
"Understood. Get some rest. Next assignment can wait."
Rhett leans back. Eyes bloodshot, jaw taut, a stillness around him that feels more dangerous than movement. His gaze cut through the room.
"Any updates on her?"
The question freezes the air.
Elk clasps his hands, leaning forward. "Czar… hear me before you take it the wrong way. This isn't personal. It's about your stability."
"Get to it," Rhett says, voice low.
Elk meets his stare. "Two months ago, I officially closed the investigation into your wife's disappearance."
"Repeat that," Rhett says, almost whispering.
Elk straightens. "We've spent years chasing dead leads. No trace. No credible intel. Nothing. At some point, you have to accept—"
Then the chair scraps back. Rhett is across the space in a blink, fist gripping Elk's collar, dragging him half out of his seat.
Knight surges to his feet. The assistant freezes.
"You had me running across continents on rumors—and now you tell me to move on?" Rhett's snarl is low, close enough for Elk to feel the heat of his breath.
"We tried everything. Even off-grid," Elk says evenly, though his pulse spikes. "There's nothing left to find."
"You shut the file without telling me."
"My call. You weren't in the state to decide."
"Why?" Rhett asks, and now his voice cracks—not with anger, but with the weight of something hollow—something dead.
"Because at some point we have to accept reality. We're stretched thin, Czar."
"That's not good enough."
"Then tell me what is. Another year? Ten? You know what the job demands."
"Or maybe you're just another bureaucratic parasite covering failure."
Color flares in Elk's face. "If you think you can do better, find her yourself."
"Oh, I will."
Rhett turns for the door.
"One more thing," Elk says. "Your son caused an incident at school. Missing two days now.
Rhett stops. Turns.
"And you're telling me now?"
"We deployed a team—"
"Your 'team' couldn't find a child in daylight?"
The door slams hard enough to shake the frame.
The room goes still.
Elk lets out a slow breath, staring at the wood paneling.
"I messed that up," he admits.
"You did," the assistant says without looking up.
"Shut up." Elk opens a file, forcing his voice steady. "Now—where were we?"
Knight just shakes his head.
Business as usual.