The Abduction of His Parents

The living room lights were still on, casting a stark glow over the scene of disarray. Shattered glass littered the floor, the coffee table overturned, and the decor lay in complete disarray—evidence of a recent and violent struggle. Ethan slumped against the sofa, his head still throbbing. A police officer stood before him, asking routine questions, while the apartment manager, a short distance away, provided his own account of the incident.

"Can you identify them?" the officer asked.

Ethan feigned deep thought before shaking his head. "No, I've never seen them before. They stormed in, tied me up, and kept asking bizarre questions."

The officer frowned, clearly unsettled by the attack. Though Ethan's responses were consistent, the intruders' actions bore no resemblance to those of an ordinary criminal gang.

"We'll take you to the hospital for a check-up," the officer said, closing his notebook. "Your injuries aren't severe, but it's best to keep you under observation for a day."

Ethan was about to protest when hurried footsteps echoed from the hallway.

"Ethan!"

A familiar voice, laced with worry, rang out as his mother, Laura Cross, rushed into the apartment, followed closely by his father, Jonathan Cross. They were still in their work attire, faces tight with concern.

"We just heard about the break-in! Are you alright?" His mother clutched his hands, scanning him anxiously from head to toe.

Ethan rubbed his temple, trying to sound nonchalant. "Just a hit to the back of my head. It's nothing serious."

"Nothing serious?" Jonathan's brow furrowed. "The police are here, Ethan. That's hardly 'nothing serious.'"

Ethan knew if he didn't calm his mother down, she might break into tears right there in the living room. He patted her hand reassuringly. "Really, I'm fine. The police just want me under observation for a day. I'll be home tomorrow."

His mother hesitated, worry still etched into her face, before sighing. "Alright. We'll go with you."

The officer nodded. "That's a good idea. Safety comes first."

Ethan exhaled, resigned. Though the police hadn't outright accused him of hiding anything, he knew this was far from over.

And what troubled him even more was the mysterious black card still tucked inside his pocket.

The Fury of the Men in Black

Meanwhile, in a dimly lit, abandoned building on the other side of the city, a group of men in black sat around a battered table, the air thick with tension.

"The target escaped. The mission failed," the leader spoke in a low, icy voice, his sharp gaze sweeping over his subordinates.

"Damn it," one of them muttered. "That kid called the cops before we could take him. The boss won't be happy about this."

"Worse," the leader continued, his voice colder still, "the man is missing. We don't even know if he's alive or dead… And if he's alive, we run the risk of our plan being exposed."

"So what now?" someone asked, scowling. "We had a chance to grab him, but because of that damn student, we had to abort."

"That brat—" another man ground his teeth. "If the cops hadn't arrived so quickly, I would've made sure he learned his lesson."

The leader's gaze darkened. "We'll watch him for a few more days. If he's just a regular student, we'll leave him be. But if he's not…" He let the sentence hang ominously. "We'll decide how to deal with him then."

The Calm Before the Storm

Ethan spent a day under medical observation before returning to his normal routine. On the surface, everything seemed to have settled.

But he knew better.

The black card remained his secret. Not even the police knew about it. He had turned it over in his hands a hundred times, pondering its meaning. The phone number printed on it was untouched—he wasn't sure he was ready to make that call.

For the next few days, he went to school as usual, chatted with friends, even met up with Isabella a few times. But not once did he mention that night. He refused to drag her into this.

The fragile peace lasted exactly three days.

When Ethan returned to his apartment one evening, schoolbag slung over his shoulder, he reached for his keys—then froze.

The front door was ajar.

A chill ran down his spine.

Cautiously, he pushed the door open. The apartment was dark, swallowed by shadows, save for the faint light from the streetlamps filtering through the window, barely illuminating the room.

Something felt wrong. The silence was unnatural.

The living room was a mess. Chairs overturned, shattered glass on the floor—clear signs of a struggle.

Where were his parents?

"Mom? Dad?" Ethan called out. No answer.

His pulse quickened. He hurried inside—then stopped abruptly.

A single piece of paper lay on the coffee table, weighted down by a broken glass.

His fingers trembled as he picked it up. The handwriting was rough, hurried—but unmistakably clear.

"Do not call the police, or you will never see your family again.

Come alone to Warehouse 9 at the docks. Tonight at 10."

Ethan's grip tightened around the note, fury seething within him.

They had taken his parents.

His mind raced. Call the police? That could put them in even greater danger. Go alone? He had no idea how many of them there were or what they truly wanted.

Then, instinctively, his hand slipped into his pocket—his fingers brushing against the black card.

He stared at the number printed on it, heart pounding.

A gut feeling told him this was his only lifeline.

There was no time to hesitate.

Ethan took a deep breath, pulled out his phone, and dialed the number.