Frank's office was a compressed, airless space—a cage perpetually humid with the stench of sweat, cheap cleaner, and the faint, bitter smell of something medicinal. Riley stood before him, the five thousand dollars she had hustled for the previous night now a miserable, worthless heap on the floor.
"You'll do as you're told, little girl," Frank rasped, his eyes bloodshot and fixed on a point just over her shoulder. His voice was a low, terrifying growl that carried the finality of a death sentence. "The payment was just your cover. This is the real job. I need you on the docks tonight. A pickup—something bigger than fish or pills. Something that demands 'Alex's' delicate touch."
Riley's posture, usually rigid, trembled slightly. Her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. "No," she said, the word barely a whisper, yet firm. "No, no, no. I brought you the money, Frank. I upheld my end. I told you I'm done with the street. The last time... it nearly cost me my life. And I'm not doing your dirty work anymore."
Frank chuckled, a dry, grating sound that scratched at the edge of her sanity. He grabbed a pair of industrial shears from his desk and pointed the cold, metallic blades at her. "You want to forget? You want to be Riley? Fine! From the moment you were a child, I put pants on your legs, put the hustle in your hands, and scissors to your hair. You were going to be the son I never had! My right hand!"
She remembered the humiliation, the sheer brutality of it all. At seven years old, while other girls worried about dolls and bedtime, she was being trained to lift wallets and run drop-offs. He had denied her any chance at education, forcing her instead to learn how to steal and hustle, justifying it by saying he needed his "boy" to help him at the market. The memory was a sharp, physical pain that traced the contour of the scar around her left eye, the one she always hid behind her glasses. It was a memory of pure, malicious violence, caused by a bottle of liquor he had thrown in a fit of rage because she failed a mission.
"Alex is dead, Frank!" Riley hissed, her eyes blazing with a mixture of terror and hatred. She stepped back, shaking her head. "I'm not doing this. I won't. I don't care if you hand me over to the contract man!"
Frank sneered. "Oh, you will care. This deal is about White. He's looking for the Ledger, and I need you to do the delivery to settle a very old debt. You mess this up, and White's men will tear you apart looking for that Flash Drive. You think I'm bad? White is a butcher, and the contract man? He's far worse than I am. You will go to the warehouse tonight."
Riley stood motionless, paralyzed by the sudden rush of fear, the knowledge that the past was irrevocably entwined with the present danger. She knew she was trapped.
She backed out of the office, the walls of the squalid room feeling like they were collapsing on her. Riley needed air, space, and a voice of reason. She needed her mother.
Riley hurried to the annex, closing the door on the chaos of the main house. She needed to feel the comfort of her past, the presence of the woman who had managed to escape Frank's clutches. She pulled out her battered phone, scrolling to the one contact she rarely dared to dial: Victoria (Mom).
She leaned against the cool wall, her heart hammering an uneven rhythm against her ribs. She was desperate to hear the warmth of a mother's voice, a single word of genuine affection that wasn't tinged with guilt or obligation.
The phone rang twice before a smooth, professional voice answered.
"Hello? Riley? Is everything alright? You don't usually call on weekdays," Victoria asked. Her tone was measured, calm, and utterly lacking in the urgency Riley desperately needed.
Riley bit back the desperate plea for help. She forced her voice to be steady. "I... I just wanted to call. I haven't heard from you in a couple of months. I just wanted to see how you were doing, Mom."
There was a noticeable pause, a beat of professional calculation from the other end. "Oh. I see. Thank you, dear. I'm fine. Busy with the university, of course. Are you... is everything fine with the tuition payments? Did Frank need something?" Victoria's concern seemed rooted entirely in logistics or the fear of a financial complication.
Riley felt the cold, familiar knot of loneliness tighten in her stomach. She swallowed hard, struggling to keep the bitterness from her voice. "No, Mom. Everything is fine. I just... I was thinking, are you coming to L.A. soon? I know you're busy, but I just thought maybe we could talk."
Victoria sighed gently. "Sweetheart, you know how demanding my schedule is. I'm traveling to Europe next month for a conference. I can't promise anything. Maybe later this year, dear. Is there anything specific you needed me to handle? I can send you money for books, or perhaps some clothes."
The words felt like a physical slap. Riley realized the truth she had always known: to her mother, she wasn't a daughter to be cherished, but a debt to be paid, a misstep from the past that required occasional maintenance and a generous financial contribution. Their conversations, she realized with burning shame, were always about her needing something or her mother fulfilling an obligation.
"No, Mom. Nothing at all," Riley whispered, the hope draining out of her. "I'm fine. Just checking in. Goodbye."
She hung up, the silence in the room now louder and more crushing than the background noise of Frank's house. She was alone. Truly, irrevocably alone.
She walked to the only sanctuary she had: the dusty utility closet in the annex. As she changed into the Alex persona—donning the heavy jeans, the leather jacket, and the agonizing chest binder—she focused on the pain, anything to distract from the gnawing fear. Shedding the soft femininity of Riley was a necessary ritual to survive the upcoming mission, the transformation into the tough, emotionless hustler.
The Ledger. That was the key. Frank's sudden demand to go to the warehouse, White's men asking about the Flash Drive—it had to be the same thing.
She remembered the day Frank forced the glasses onto her. Not only did they hide the visible damage to her left eye, but they were also the perfect container for a secret. Frank had told her to keep it safe, to guard it with her life. It was his leverage, the Flash Drive that contained proof of the entire operation, worth millions. It was the one piece of evidence that could buy him safety from White, or seal his doom.
Riley reached up and removed the vintage, heavily-tinted glasses. Her reflection was startling—the slight discoloration in her left eye, the tiny scar barely visible. With surgical precision, she used the edge of a small knife to pry open a seam in the arm of the frame. There it was: a tiny, almost invisible Flash Drive. The Ledger.
She slipped the Ledger out and held it—a small, innocuous black rectangle that held the power to destroy White's empire, and now, her life. This was why Frank was desperate. This was why White was looking for 'Alex.'
She had to go to the warehouse. Not for Frank, but for herself. She had to ensure that if Frank was caught, this Ledger—her only potential leverage—didn't fall into the wrong hands. She was now the custodian of her father's deadliest secret.
(Location: An abandoned, dimly lit industrial warehouse district near the Port of Los Angeles. 11:30 PM.)
The air in the deserted district was cold and thick with the smell of brine and diesel. Riley sat hunched in the cab of Frank's battered pickup truck, dressed as Alex, her hands clammy on the Ledger hidden deep in the lining of her jacket. Frank was pacing nervously outside a massive, graffiti-covered loading dock, clutching a worn leather bag.
"Stay put," Frank snapped, his voice tight. "If anyone asks, you're the lookout. But don't you dare move until I tell you."
Riley watched from the shadows as a heavy, black SUV—the type Gareth White's men drove—pulled up silently. Four men, all dressed in dark clothing, stepped out, their faces hard and unreadable. Frank rushed toward them, his body language a mix of arrogance and barely contained fear.
"Where is White?" Frank demanded, his voice thin.
The tallest man, a burly figure, simply smiled, a chilling expression devoid of humor. He pointed a silent, metallic finger at Frank's chest.
"You failed the last drop-off, Frank. The boss is canceling your contract. And he wants what you stole."
Frank's face twisted into a snarl of desperation. He made a fatal mistake: he reached into his jacket.
Riley's breath caught in her throat. She knew that move—Frank had a small pistol hidden there.
Before Frank could even clear the fabric, the sound exploded: Tlok! Tlok! Tlok!
The shots were deafening, the echoes bouncing off the concrete walls. Frank staggered back, his arms flying up, the leather bag dropping to the ground with a soft thud. He collapsed, his body already lifeless, hitting the cold concrete with sickening finality. Blood—Frank's blood—began to spread quickly, glistening darkly under the harsh streetlights.
The four men calmly retrieved their casings, then turned to the pickup truck.
Riley had not screamed. She was frozen, the horror of the scene playing out in slow motion before her. The sight of the spreading blood, the crumpled body of the man who was both her captor and her father, shattered the last fragments of her composure. She saw her life flashing before her eyes—a terrifying vision of her seven-year-old self being abused and taught to steal, ending with her own demise.
Before the men could reach the pickup, a second vehicle—a quiet, dark sedan—slid in from the adjacent street and pulled up alongside the truck. The passenger door swung open.
"Riley! Get in! Now!" a frantic, urgent voice commanded.
It was Ben. He had followed her.
Riley didn't hesitate. She threw herself out of the truck and into Ben's sedan, scrambling over the gearshift into the passenger seat. She was still dressed as Alex, but her body was shaking uncontrollably.
Ben slammed the car into drive and spun the wheels, speeding away just as the heavy, dark SUV was reversing. "They saw you!" Ben hissed, gripping the wheel until his knuckles were white. "They saw Alex! You can't go back there!"
Riley collapsed against the seat, clutching the hidden Ledger. The fear was a physical, choking thing. She could only stammer, the memory of her father's death and the brutal coldness of the crime scene overwhelming her.
"T-They killed him, Ben... They killed Frank... Oh God... they killed him!"
Ben took a sharp breath, his voice rough with fear. "Listen to me, Riley! You didn't see anything. You were never here. You go back to the annex, you change your clothes, and you lock yourself away. No one knows you were out, understood? If they find out you witnessed this, White will come for you next!"
He drove her back to a hidden spot two blocks from the annex. Riley stumbled out of the car, her legs shaking, the image of Frank's body burned into her retinas.
She scrambled back to the apartment, the world a terrifying, silent blur. She was now completely, utterly free of Frank's control, but at the cost of being hunted by the far deadlier hand of Gareth White. She rushed through the utility closet, ripping off the Alex disguise, not caring about the pain of the chest binder or the cuts on her hands. She threw herself onto her thin mattress, pulling the blanket over her head, and mercifully, the exhaustion, the terror, and the sheer weight of the blood she had seen pulled her into a deep, desperate sleep.
Riley was no longer running from Frank. She was running for her life.