Shadows in the Club
The night was thick with smoke, neon lights flickering like broken stars across the crowded club. Music pounded through the walls, heavy and merciless, drowning out every rational thought. To most people, it was just another wild Friday night. To Detective Lee, it was another lead—another chance, however slim, to uncover the truth about his brother's death.
Dressed in a dark hoodie and cap pulled low, Lee blended easily into the crowd. His eyes, sharp as blades, missed nothing. Every flick of a lighter, every whispered conversation, every suspicious exchange—he catalogued them all. His expression was cold, unreadable, the mask of a man who had trained himself to trust no one.
Outside the club, his secretary tapped at a laptop balanced on the dashboard of a car. Fingers moved with precision over the keys as he hacked into the club's private network, feeding Lee real-time data through a tiny earpiece.
> "Cameras are down on the east side," the secretary murmured.
"You've got a three-minute window before the system restarts."
"Noted," Lee replied curtly, slipping deeper into the throng.
He moved like a shadow, scanning the room for the gang members tied to the case. It had been thirteen years since his brother's death, yet every lead, every mission, still circled back to that unsolved wound. He wasn't just chasing criminals tonight—he was chasing ghosts.
Then it happened.
A sudden bump against his chest. Lee staggered a half step back and turned sharply. A girl—young, delicate, with long dark hair shimmering under the colored lights—stared at him with wide, startled eyes. Her friends had disappeared somewhere into the crowd, leaving her alone and out of place. She wore a sleek, fitted dress of deep red that caught the light with every movement. Her beauty stood out even in the chaos of the club, though her expression was clouded with confusion.
In the brief collision, Lee's hand had brushed against her chest. She gasped, her face flushing with outrage.
"You—!" she snapped, shoving his arm away. "What do you think you're doing?!"
Lee's jaw tightened. He hadn't intended it, but explaining himself wasn't in his nature. Silence was his shield.
The girl's voice rose above the music, drawing attention. "You're trying to molest me!"
Heads turned. Even the gang members Lee had been watching now shifted their focus toward him, curiosity gleaming in their eyes. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to see his face.
"Lower your voice," Lee muttered, his tone icy, but it only fueled her suspicion.
"Then show me your face!" she demanded, reaching for his cap.
In that instant, the men around them grew restless. Someone whispered, "Who is he?" Another muttered, "He's hiding something…"
Tension snapped like a live wire. The gang circled closer, suspicion turning to aggression. The leader snarled, "Take off the cap. Let's see who you are."
Lee's lips curled in disdain. He didn't respond. Instead, the first punch came flying.
The club erupted into chaos.
Tables flipped, glasses shattered, screams pierced through the music. But Lee was already in motion—fast, calculated, deadly. Every strike he landed was precise, every movement the product of years of training. One man lunged at him with a knife; Lee twisted his wrist and sent the blade clattering to the floor before driving a kick into his chest. Another swung a bottle, but Lee ducked, countering with a brutal elbow to the ribs.
The girl—Emily, though Lee didn't know her name yet—froze in shock. Her night of adventure had turned into something out of a nightmare. The man who had accidentally touched her was now fighting off half the club with terrifying skill.
Heart racing, she scrambled behind him, clutching his arm despite the cold indifference in his eyes.
"You caused this!" she shouted desperately. "So you have to protect me!"
Lee didn't even glance at her. His face remained expressionless, his movements sharp and merciless. To him, she was just another distraction, another complication in a life already burdened with too many.
Yet even as he ignored her, his body shifted ever so slightly, ensuring no strike landed too close to where she stood. Emily didn't notice—but perhaps, somewhere beneath the ice in his heart, Detective Lee had already chosen to protect her.
The last of the gang members hit the floor with a groan. The club was a mess of broken bottles, overturned chairs, and unconscious men. The music had cut off, leaving behind only heavy breathing and the sharp ring of silence.
Lee adjusted his cap, calm as if he hadn't just fought his way through a dozen men. Without a glance at Emily, he slipped through the back exit.
"Ray," he murmured into his earpiece. "Bring the car around. Now."
Moments later, a black sedan pulled into the narrow alley, its paint chipped, its frame dented like it had been through too many battles. To anyone else, it looked like a forgotten relic of the streets.
Lee yanked the door open and slid inside. Ray, tall and lean with sharp glasses perched on his nose, shot him a quick glance from the driver's seat.
"Everything clean?" Ray asked.
"For now," Lee muttered.
Before the car could move, a voice rang out.
"Wait! You can't just leave me here!"
Emily stumbled into the alley, her heels clicking against the pavement. Her hair was tangled from the chaos, her red dress slightly torn at the hem, but her eyes blazed with fury and fear.
"You dragged me into this mess!" she shouted, running toward the car. "Are you really going to abandon me in a place like this?"
Ray frowned and turned to Lee. "Boss… she's right. Leaving her here isn't exactly… decent."
Lee's eyes flickered with annoyance. Silence stretched for a moment before he finally exhaled sharply through his nose. With a tilt of his head, he gave permission.
Emily yanked the back door open and climbed in, gasping slightly as she looked around. Her eyes widened.
The shabby, beaten-down car on the outside was nothing like the interior. Smooth leather seats stretched across the back, glowing panels lined the dashboard, and hidden compartments gleamed with polished steel. The air smelled faintly of cedar and something sharper—expensive, dangerous.
Emily's mouth fell open. "What… what is this? Who even are you?"
Lee ignored her, his eyes fixed out the window as Ray drove.
For the rest of the ride, Emily couldn't stop staring at him. The longer she looked, the more details emerged—his chiseled jaw, the smooth line of his nose, the sharp arch of his brows. When the shadows shifted, his eyes, cold and piercing, caught hers, and she found herself breathless for a moment.
How can someone look this perfect… and still act so horribly? she thought bitterly.
The car slowed as they reached her neighborhood. Without turning his head, Lee finally spoke, his voice low and detached.
"Have a good night. I hope we won't cross paths again."
Emily bit her lip, part of her wanting to argue, part of her simply stunned by his presence. She stepped out, but before closing the door, she cast one last look at him, trying to memorize every detail of his face.
Then the car was gone.
---
Back at the mansion, towering gates swung open at the sight of the sedan. The Lee estate rose against the night sky—grand, elegant, and untouchable, a testament to the wealth of the Milton Company.
Lee stepped inside, peeling off his cap as servants moved quickly to take his coat. His expression hadn't changed, still cold, still composed, but inside he was bracing himself.
The dining hall was already full. His mother, Mat Lee, sat at the head of the table, lips pursed in disapproval. His father, Mark Lee, remained unreadable, sipping his wine. Maryline, his elder sister, glanced at him knowingly, the only one who didn't look entirely displeased.
"You're late again," Mat snapped. "Do you think the whole family should wait endlessly for you?"
Lee pulled out his chair without responding. He was used to this routine—accusations, expectations, and the ever-present reminder of the brother he had lost. But tonight, for the first time in a long while, his thoughts drifted back to the girl in red, her fiery glare and her stubborn demand that he protect her.
And that unsettled him more than any fight ever could.
The mansion was silent, but Lee wasn't resting. Long after the family dinner ended, he retreated to the sanctuary hidden beneath his bedroom floor—a secret basement only he knew existed.
With the press of his fingerprint against a concealed panel, the hardwood flooring shifted. A section slid open, revealing a narrow staircase that spiraled downward into darkness. Lee descended without hesitation, the door sealing shut above him.
The air was cool, metallic. The basement walls were lined with monitors, shelves of case files, and maps pinned with red strings connecting names, dates, and places. Photographs of suspects, blurry security footage, and classified reports covered a massive board like a chaotic web. At the center of it all: a single image of his elder brother, smiling in a suit, forever frozen in the past.
Lee's jaw tightened. Thirteen years, and still no justice.
He pulled off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair, stepping toward the evidence he had gathered from the club. On the table lay a bloodied knife wrapped in cloth, a gang insignia patch ripped from a jacket, and a small flash drive he had swiped during the fight.
The knife gleamed under the fluorescent light. "Same cut pattern," he muttered, comparing it to photos of old wounds found on victims tied to his brother's case. The insignia—a coiled serpent—was marked with a faded number beneath it. His eyes narrowed.
And the flash drive. That was the real prize. He plugged it into his encrypted system, lines of code spilling across the monitors as he hacked past its weak defenses. Files opened—transactions, hidden ledgers, coded messages about shipments. But one phrase stood out:
"Project Silver Fang."
Lee leaned closer, scanning the details. The project had been active around the time of his brother's death. His heart, usually steady and unreadable, thudded once in his chest.
"Finally… a lead," he whispered.
The sound of footsteps jolted him. He shut down the screens, sweeping the evidence into hidden compartments. By the time the basement door opened behind him, he was already ascending the staircase, expression blank.
"Lee?"
It was Maryline. She leaned casually against the doorway of his bedroom, arms crossed, her calm smile softening the sharpness of her features. Unlike the others, she didn't scold or demand. She simply watched him, as though she could see through every wall he built.
"You left the dinner early," she said lightly. "Mother's still fuming. I thought the chandelier would fall from all her yelling."
Lee smirked faintly—rare for him. "And Father?"
"As always, silent. Pretending not to care, but watching you more closely than he admits." She stepped further inside, lowering her voice. "You know… you don't always have to carry it all alone."
He didn't answer right away. Maryline was the only one who could draw him out, the only one whose words didn't scrape against his pride.
Finally, he sat on the edge of his bed, leaning forward. "It's not about carrying it. It's about finishing it."
Maryline sighed, taking a seat beside him. "Thirteen years, Lee. I know you loved him. We all did. But how long will you punish yourself like this?"
Lee's gaze flicked toward her, cold and steady, but not unkind. "Until I know the truth."
The silence between them stretched, heavy but not hostile. For a moment, the cold detective was just a younger brother, sitting with the only sibling who could still reach him.
Maryline touched his hand briefly, her eyes warm. "Just… don't lose yourself completely, alright?"
Lee didn't respond, but his eyes softened for a heartbeat—then hardened again, as if locking away the moment in a vault no one else could touch.