Chapter 2

Elizabeth POV:

Five years after that flight took off into the night, I was back in New York—not by choice, but because my mother's will had finally cleared probate, and the only way to claim the apartment she'd left me was to sign the papers in person. The familiar wail of Manhattan sirens greeted us as I wheeled two cartoon-printed kids' suitcases out of the cab and into a hidden apartment in Queens.

I walked toward the open kitchen to pour some water while my five-year-old son, Zane, sat cross-legged on the living room rug, his fingers flying across a sticker-covered micro-laptop on his knees.

My twin daughter, Lily, hugged a worn-out hockey mascot plushie and trotted over to my leg, tilting her porcelain-pale face up to me.

"Mommy, hug! Lily wants apple juice."

I tousled her shoulder-length light brown curls and handed her a warm cup of juice, though my eyebrows knitted together as I caught sight of the complex code flashing on Zane's screen.

Walking over, I tapped the edge of his laptop screen.

"Zane, we just landed in New York. Don't hack into any dangerous nodes and bring trouble to our door."

Zane raised his cold, blue eyes—an exact replica of Brock's—his expression far too mature for a five-year-old as he snapped the lid shut.

"Relax, Mommy. I'm just checking the local traffic map."

I stared at him skeptically for a few seconds before Lily gasped, accidentally spilling her juice onto the rug, which sent me hurrying back to the kitchen for a rag.

As I knelt to wipe the carpet, I saw Zane's reflection in the glass coffee table; he flipped his screen back open, hit the enter key with a sly smirk, and muttered under his breath.

"That bad captain bullied Mommy. He's going to pay."

At the same time, the living room TV was broadcasting live from the Griffin Sports Group headquarters in Midtown Manhattan, where the board was finalizing the Empire's multi-billion-dollar broadcasting rights.

While scrubbing the rug, I listened to the sports anchor excitedly praising Brock for leading the New York Empire to three consecutive Stanley Cup championships.

Hearing his name made my hand freeze, the thin callus on my right index finger from years of holding a scalpel rubbing against the rough rag.

Sensing my stiff posture, Lily dropped her plushie, toddled over, and wrapped her soft little arms tightly around my neck.

I took a deep breath to push down the suffocating memories, hugged my daughter back, and coaxed her to watch cartoons.

Suddenly, the live broadcast from the headquarters flickered weirdly on our TV, and the highlight reel cut to pitch black.

Startled, I stood up and clicked the remote's channel buttons repeatedly, only to find every single public network hijacked by the same dead signal.

In the corner of the sofa, Zane's eyes glinted as his small fingers typed one final command, locking the remote terminal of the boardroom's giant wrap-around screen.

On our TV, the live feed from the boardroom showed the financial spreadsheets shattering into static while the executives in suits panicked in the background.

A second later, a massive pixelated cartoon penguin popped onto the broadcast screen, swinging a hockey stick and smashing it straight onto the head of a little figure labeled "Captain."

Stars spun around the cartoon captain's head as bold red letters flashed across the screen: "Bad Captain smells like rotten cheese!"

Staring at the violent penguin on TV, I instantly remembered the doodle Zane had drawn on the plane last night, and my heart leaped straight into my throat.

I whipped my head around to glare at Zane, who was casually stuffing his laptop into his backpack as if nothing had happened.

Marching over, I slammed my hand down on his backpack.

"Zane, explain yourself right now!"

Zane blinked innocently, trying to bluff me with tech jargon.

"It's just a widespread server outage from the New York ISP, Mommy."

"The scratch marks on that penguin's hockey stick match your drawing millimeter for millimeter," I said coldly. "Cut the connection immediately."

Realizing he couldn't fool me, Zane reluctantly opened the laptop and tapped a few keys to release the hijacked broadcast feed.

The TV picture returned to normal, showing a sweating news anchor apologizing for an unknown hacker attack.

I let out a shaky breath and gripped Zane's shoulders.

"Listen to me, Zane. This is New York, and that group's cybersecurity team is ruthless. What you just did could expose us!"

Zane pouted, muttering under his breath.

"Their firewall is made of wet paper. I didn't even use ten percent of my power."

My temples throbbed with a sudden headache.

"You're grounded from all electronics for a month. Hand over your core flash drive."

Watching her brother get punished, Lily nervously bit her index finger and shuffled in front of Zane, using her tiny body to shield him.

Looking at the two little troublemakers who were my entire world, I sighed helplessly, a cold dread creeping up my spine.

I walked to the window and yanked the heavy blackout curtains shut, blocking out the distant Manhattan skyline where the Griffin Tower stood.

Five years had passed, yet a single broadcast was enough to shatter my composure.

Right then, Zane's confiscated laptop on the coffee table let out a faint beep, and a red skull icon began flashing frantically in the bottom right corner of the screen.