The phone rang twice before the line clicked, and a grumpy but smooth voice came through, low and alert.
"Well, damn. Liam Thompson? This better not be about game night."
Liam let out a dry chuckle, the first real one he'd had all day. It felt strange in his throat—rusty, forced—but real enough to surprise him.
"No games today, buddy," he said, his tone dropping into something more serious. "I need a favor."
There was a brief pause on the other end, followed by the familiar sound of fingers tapping rapidly across a keyboard. Greyson Grant, Liam's old war buddy and one-time tech support for their recon unit, had always been the guy you called when you needed something digital… or impossible.
They hadn't spoken in nearly a two years.
"You calling me cold out of nowhere after more than year," Greyson said, "and it's not about a drink, a woman, or a fight. Must be serious."
Liam didn't answer right away.
He looked again at the card on the coffee table.
"Been a while since we cracked open your brother's file," Greyson continued, more focused now. "What changed?"
Liam took a breath. "I found a note. At my mom's grave."
"A note?" Greyson's voice was sharper now.
"A card, actually. Left in a bouquet. Handwritten. Said one word on the front—'Peanut.'"
The line was quiet for a beat. Then Greyson exhaled, long and low. "You serious?"
"You remember what I told you about that name."
"Yeah. I remember."
Peanut. A nickname only used by Margaret Thompson to address Ethan. It was a private thing, one nobody else used. Not even their father could call him that.
"So you think he's alive," Greyson said.
"I don't think," Liam replied, pacing slowly near the window. "I know he is. And I think he's closer than I ever imagined."
Greyson let out a low whistle. "Man… alright. I'm in. Let's pick up where we left off. I'll recompile the data from our last search, pull the archives, dig into old traffic cams. You still got the last known coordinates?"
"I'll send everything I have. Including a picture of the card."
"I'll run facial recognition, I'mma scrape darknet forums, ping my old contacts—hell, I'll even check chatter from the merc boards. But Liam…" Greyson's voice lowered. "If Ethan's been off-grid this long, there's a reason. People don't vanish unless they want to."
Liam stared out the window. The night sky had darkened, clouds rolling in over the distant rooftops. His reflection hovered in the glass—older than he remembered, wearier, with lines that hadn't been there before.
"I don't care about why he left anymore," he said, jaw tight. "I just want to find him."
Greyson didn't push further. He knew better. "Alright. Sending a secure link. Drop all the files there."
The call ended, but Liam didn't move. The silence in his apartment pressed down like a weight. It was different now—not just heavy with loneliness, but charged with something else.
Hope.
He stood in the quiet for a moment longer, then went to his desk and pulled out a worn folder—his Ethan file. It was messy, disorganized. Full of dead ends, newspaper clippings, blurry photos, and location pins that led nowhere. At the bottom was an envelope with his own military records, partially redacted.
He uploaded everything to Greyson's link—scans of the card, timestamps, the photo of the bouquet, even the school's CCTV footage he'd managed to quietly download from the gate camera earlier that day. He included Millie's resignation notice too, just in case. Something about her disappearance felt too sudden.
Once the files were sent, he slumped back into the couch. His muscles ached, but sleep was the last thing on his mind.
He thought about Ethan—not the man he might be now, but the boy he once was. They'd been opposites. Ethan was bold, impulsive, wild-hearted. He had a smile that always spelled trouble and a gift for slipping out of anything—school, punishment, even handcuffs once. Liam, on the other hand, had been the rule follower. The protector. The one cleaning up the messes Ethan left behind. And now, he might be doing it again.
But there was love there. Unshakeable, even after everything. Even after Ethan disappeared.
The last time Liam saw him, they were standing by the stairs, Ethan had looked different then—hollowed out by their mother's death. They spoke—wasn't really an argument.
A note. No trace.
Until now.
Liam's phone buzzed. It was a message from Greyson:
Got a partial hit on the handwriting. Will confirm soon. Also, you were right to look at Millie. Background checks didn't match. Doesn't seem like she's who she says she is. Working on a trace. Stay put.
Liam's stomach dropped.
He reread the message three times.
Doesn't seem like she's who she says she is.
Everything inside him tensed. He hated the fact that she might actually be different from what she thought—deep down, he'd felt the way her eyes sometimes held things she didn't say—but hearing it confirmed still shook him.
Who the hell was she really?
He stared at the message for a long time, then typed back:
Find out everything you can. Fast. I think we're running out of time.
Greyson's reply came a few seconds later: Already on it. And Liam—watch your back. If Ethan's in hiding, there's more to this than just family drama. He wanted to be gone. And he might not be done yet.
Liam turned off the phone and let his head fall back against the couch. His heart was pounding. The room felt colder now.
Outside, the wind picked up, whistling silently.
Something was about to happen. Something big. And for the first time in years, Liam felt like he was finally chasing a shadow that could lead to the truth.
---
Across town in the quiet, at Ethan's mansion, the night was filled with movement of two weird men. Royce leaned against the doorframe of the training room, arms crossed and a familiar smirk on his face. Ethan stood before a mirror, tying the laces of his tactical boots. His hair was damp from a from shower, his eyes focused but a little heavier than usual.
"You know," Royce began, his voice easy and worn like an old leather jacket, "most folks hate Mondays 'cause of the helly stress. Meanwhile, you out here gettin' ready like you 'bout to take down a cartel in Guatemala."
Ethan shot him a sideways glance. "That's oddly specific."
Royce let out a low chuckle. "'07. Don't ask. There was a monkey, three landmines, and one very pissed-off Russian."
Ethan laughed despite himself. "How many stories do you have?"
"Enough to make Netflix cut the check," Royce replied. "Tonight's drill's a stealth-retrieve. No bodies unless you got no choice. Infiltrate, grab the kid, and bounce. You got thirty minutes. Solo run."
Ethan picked up the tablet, skimming the layout—guards, laser grids, proximity mines from a satellite footage.
"Feels light," he muttered, raising an eyebrow.
Royce shrugged. "You lucky I took out the robot dogs."
Ethan gave him a look. "That supposed to be a joke?"
Royce just smirked. "You'll see."
Ethan locked eyes with him. "You ever get tired of this, Royce? The drills? The quiet after?"
Royce's smile slowly washed off. He rested a hand on Ethan's shoulder. "You do it so you don't fall apart. Stop moving? That's when all them old bastards start looking out for the less privileged."
Ethan nodded slowly. "Thanks, old man."
Royce let out a dry laugh. "Old? Boy, I oughta slap you for talkin' like that 'bout your elders. Especially when I still run laps 'round you."
Ethan pulled on his gloves, strapping the silenced pistol to his thigh. "See you in a few hours."
"Only if you come back in one piece," Royce said, his tone low with warning.
The garage doors creaked open. Ethan hopped onto his matte black bike.
The night swallowed him fast, engine growling into the dark. Royce watched him go, pride and worry tugging at him like an old ache.
"One day, kid," he murmured. "You gon' have to stop runnin'."