The glass of the boardroom table felt cold under my palms, but it was nothing compared to the icy fury radiating through my chest. Ethan had just left my office after giving me the debrief.
Detective Sarah Vance had been to the hospital. She had interrogated Emily.
"She touched the one thing she shouldn't have," I whispered to the empty room. My voice sounded hollow, like it was coming from a stranger.
I stood up and walked to the window, looking down at the street level fifty-five stories below. Somewhere down there, Vance was probably sitting in a cramped precinct, pinning photos of the 'Hotdog' notes onto a board. She was smart, but she was making a fatal mistake: she was treating this like a game of cat and mouse. She didn't realize that when you corner a ghost, the ghost stops playing.
My phone buzzed. A message from Emily.
"Ethan is walking me to the car. Don't worry, Oliver. I'm fine. See you at the manor."
I gripped the phone so hard the casing groaned. "I'm fine." How many times had I said that to her while my knuckles were bleeding? How many times had I lied to protect her? And now, because of my restlessness—because I couldn't stay in this suit and pretend to be just a CEO—the police were breathing down her neck.
"Sir? The car is ready for your departure," my assistant's voice came through the intercom.
"Cancel it," I snapped. "I'm taking the service exit. Tell the security team I'm already gone."
I didn't wait for a response. I moved with a frantic, focused energy. I went to the hidden panel in my study and grabbed the black bag. I didn't need the 'Hotdog' gear for a mission tonight. I needed it for a message.
If Vance wanted a lead, I would give her one. But it wouldn't be the one she wanted.
I changed into my dark clothes in the back of a nondescript SUV I kept in the basement garage. I pulled the black cap low over my eyes. I felt the weight of the carbon-fiber mask in my pocket. As Andrew Parker, I was a protector. As Oliver Thompson, I was a provider. But as Hotdog... I was a warning.
I drove toward the 13th Precinct, parking three blocks away in a shadow-heavy alley. I knew their rotation. Ethan had taught me how the police think, how they move.
I scaled the brick wall of the building adjacent to the precinct's parking lot. From the roof, I could see them—the detectives, the patrol officers, the tired souls of the city. And then I saw her.
Sarah Vance was leaning against a pillar, lighting a cigarette. She looked exactly as Emily had described: sharp, restless, and dangerous. She was holding a file—my file.
A red haze clouded my vision. She had no right to look at my life. She had no right to bring Emily into this filth.
I waited until she turned her back to head inside. I dropped from the ledge, landing silently on the pavement like a cat. I moved through the rows of parked police cruisers until I found hers—the grey sedan Ethan had identified.
I didn't break the glass. I didn't slash the tires. That was for thugs.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, jagged piece of metal—a part of a shipping crate from the pier. I used it to scratch a single, clean line into the driver's side window.
Then, I took out a fresh note. This one didn't say 'Hotdog was here.' I tucked it under her windshield wiper. In neat, precise handwriting, it said:
"Stay away from the hospital, Detective. Some ghosts don't like being followed."
As I slipped back into the shadows, my heart was thumping a steady, rhythmic beat. I knew Ethan would be furious. I knew this would make Vance even more obsessed. But the overprotectiveness I felt for Emily was a living thing now, a beast that refused to be caged.
I was Oliver Thompson by day, but tonight, the city needed to know that the shield around Emily Rose wasn't made of money or lawyers.
It was made of shadows and blood.
I was back in my study, the black hoodie replaced by a silk robe, but the adrenaline was still humming under my skin. I poured myself a drink I didn't intend to finish, staring at the phone on my desk.
Exactly twenty minutes later, it rang. I didn't have to look at the caller ID.
"Are you insane?"
Ethan's voice wasn't just low; it was vibrating with a controlled rage I had rarely heard. I could hear the background noise of the precinct—sirens, muffled shouting, and the frantic energy of a hornet's nest that had just been kicked.
"I assume you saw the windshield," I said, my voice eerily calm.
"Saw it? Oliver, the entire 13th Precinct is looking at it! Vance didn't just find the note; she found the scratch on her window. She's standing in the middle of the parking lot right now, white as a sheet, staring at that paper like it's a death warrant."
"It's not a death warrant," I countered. "It's a boundary. She crossed it when she went to Emily."
"You just handed her exactly what she wanted!" Ethan hissed. I could hear him moving into a quieter space, likely a stairwell. "She was guessing before. She was playing with theories. Now? Now she knows Hotdog is personal. She knows he's protecting someone at that hospital. You didn't push her away, Oliver—You invited her in like a mongoose into a snake's burrow."
I gripped the edge of my desk. "She was scaring Emily, Ethan. I saw the look on Emily's face in my head. I couldn't just sit here in a suit and let a detective grill her like a criminal."
"And what do you think Vance is doing now?" Ethan's voice was cold. "She's not scared. She's obsessed. She just told the Captain she wants a full surveillance team on the Aegis Medical Wing. She thinks Hotdog is either a staff member or someone very close to the Thompson family. She's connecting the dots faster than I can erase them."
I felt a cold drop of sweat slide down my neck. I had wanted to protect Emily, but I had inadvertently painted a target on her back.
"What's her next move?" I asked.
"She's going back through every forensic report," Ethan replied. "And she's requested a meeting with the Commissioner to bypass my 'liaison' status. She doesn't trust me anymore, Oliver. She saw the way I defended Emily in that office. She thinks I'm compromised."
Silence stretched between us. The gravity of my impulsive move was finally starting to sink in.
"Stay away from her car, stay away from her precinct, and for the love of God, stay away from the mask for a while," Ethan warned. "I'm going to try to lead her toward a cold lead—some old gang records from Queens. But if you move again, I can't help you."
"Ethan," I said before he could hang up. "Thanks for looking out for her."
"I'm not just doing it for you, Oliver," Ethan said, his voice strangely flat. "Emily doesn't deserve to be a pawn in your war."
The line went dead.
I looked at my hands. They were steady, but the weight of the Golden USB, the Thompson legacy, and the 'Hotdog' mask felt like they were finally starting to crush me. I was the CEO of a global empire, but tonight, I felt like that six-year-old boy again—watching a fire I started, unable to put it out.
I stood up and walked to Emily's room. I stood outside her door, listening to the quiet sound of her breathing. She was safe for now. But as I leaned my forehead against the cool wood of the door, I knew the 'hunter' Ethan described wouldn't stop until she found what she was looking for.
And I was the one who had given her the scent.