The drive from the FBI to Foxy's apartment was a three-layer shadow game. In front, Foxy rode her motorcycle with defensive aggression, cutting through traffic as if trying to outrun the very air. Behind her, at a surgical distance, Michael drove his gray sedan, staying always two cars back, blending into the urban flow with the skill of someone who masters social invisibility.
And watching both, the Stalker.
From atop an overpass, he saw the movement. His brows furrowed under his hood. He recognized the motorcycle, but the gray sedan was a new variable. He didn't know who the driver was — to him, Michael was just a blur behind the windshield — but the persistence of that car annoyed him. The Stalker decided to hold his position, sliding across rooftops and side alleys, observing the predator that was following his prey.
Foxy went inside her home, but didn't relax. She locked all three locks and pressed her forehead against the door, breathing deeply. The apartment's silence felt too heavy. She needed movement. She needed to burn off the adrenaline choking her.
She changed out of her uniform into dark running clothes. Before she left, Michael — already positioned in the building hallway, pretending to check a service panel's wiring — stepped forward as she opened the door.
— Agent Foxy? Still awake? — Michael asked in his gentle voice, holding a small tool. — There was a short on the lower floor; I'm checking if it affected yours.
— It's fine, Michael. I'm just going for a run — she replied, curt, brushing past him.
In the brief brush, Michael's agile fingers slipped a micro-tracker, the size of a grain of rice, into the lining of her compression jacket collar. An imperceptible move, executed with a magician's cold precision.
— Be careful. The night is treacherous — Michael said, watching her go down the stairs.
The Silent Attack:
Foxy started running through the park adjacent to the building. Cold sweat ran down her skin, and the rhythm of her footsteps was the only thing she heard. She entered a denser area where the trees blocked the streetlamp light.
That's when the world stopped.
She felt the displacement of air to her left. Before she could reach for the tactical knife at her waist, a strong arm wrapped her in a technical rear chokehold. Foxy tried to elbow him, but the attacker was taller and more experienced.
— Quiet — whispered a voice distorted by effort.
A metallic glint appeared in the Stalker's hand. A syringe. With cruel precision, he injected the sedative directly into the side of her neck. The cold liquid burned for a second before Foxy's nervous system collapsed. Her knees gave way and darkness claimed her before she even hit the ground.
The Stalker caught her in his arms and vanished into the shadows, unaware that a few blocks away Michael was watching a red dot pulsing on his phone screen.
The Collectors' Basement:
When Foxy regained partial consciousness, her vision was a blur of yellow light and the smell of mildew. She was tied to a wooden chair in an abandoned warehouse at the docks.
In front of her, three men in dark suits were waiting. They weren't police, nor Institute agents. They were collectors — men who handled debts that blood couldn't pay. Each of them held a hunting knife, the metal reflecting the single bulb on the ceiling.
— Your father owes us a lot, agent — said the man in the center, running his thumb along the blade's edge. — He thought the FBI would protect his daughter forever. But time's up.
Foxy tried to speak, but her tongue felt like lead. The sedative still clouded her senses.
The Stalker watched everything from a beam on the ceiling, motionless like a gargoyle. He had delivered the "package," but something was holding him there.
Outside, Michael's gray sedan parked silently. He turned off the engine and looked at the warehouse. He had no firearms, no backup, and no rush. He just adjusted his glasses and checked the tracker.
— Three men, three knives, and a ghost on the ceiling — Michael murmured to himself, a dangerous glint appearing in his eyes. — The stage is getting too small for so many actors.
Foxy's night had just become the center of an inevitable collision between her father's past and the future Michael had planned. And Michael wouldn't allow anyone to ruin his masterpiece.