At 2:13 a.m., Noah Carter dropped to the floor beside his bed, gripping his stomach and

The Oakhaven industrial district was a sprawling graveyard of rust-belt manufacturing. Crumbling brick warehouses stood shoulder-to-shoulder with dilapidated shipping yards, the air thick with the smell of stagnant river water and old engine oil.

Arthur navigated his SUV through the pothole-riddled streets, the afternoon sun casting long, skeletal shadows through the chain-link fences. He found the commercial storage park nestled at the end of a dead-end road, surrounded by razor wire and overgrown weeds.

He parked a block away, not wanting to announce his arrival. He walked the remaining distance on foot, pulling up the collar of his jacket against the biting wind coming off the river.

The front gate was secured by a heavy padlock, but the chain-link fence was sagging on the western perimeter. Arthur hoisted himself over, landing quietly in the damp gravel on the other side.

He moved through the maze of corrugated metal storage units, checking the faded unit numbers. The complex was eerily silent, save for the distant cry of a seagull and the crunch of his own footsteps.

As he approached Unit 42, he stopped dead in his tracks.

A sleek, black Mercedes sedan was parked haphazardly in front of the unit. The trunk was popped open, revealing several heavy-duty plastic storage bins. The rolling metal door of the unit was raised halfway.

Arthur crept closer, pressing his back against the adjacent unit. He peered around the edge.

Inside the dimly lit unit, surrounded by stainless steel workbenches, chemical hoods, and rows of glass beakers, stood Dr. Julian Aris.

The doctor looked nothing like the polished, charming professional who had made house calls in bespoke suits. He was frantic, his tie discarded, his expensive dress shirt stained with sweat and chemical residue. He was hurriedly tossing amber glass bottles, ledger books, and a heavy iron safe into a duffel bag.

Arthur’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The urge to rush in, to tear the man apart with his bare hands for what he had done to Leo, was overwhelmingly powerful. It was a primal, blinding rage that threatened to consume him.

But Arthur remembered Brenda sitting in her cinderblock cell. He remembered Detective Miller’s warning about a lack of evidence. If Arthur attacked him now, Aris’s high-priced lawyers would spin it into an assault by a grieving, unhinged parent. The evidence would be compromised in the scuffle. Aris had to be caught red-handed, by the book, so he could never wriggle free of the justice system.

Arthur pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over Detective Miller's number.

Before he could press call, a sharp crunch of gravel sounded directly behind him.

Arthur turned, but it was too late. A massive, heavy-set man wearing a mechanic's jumpsuit swung a steel wrench in a brutal arc. The metal connected with the side of Arthur’s head with a sickening crack.

The world exploded into a shower of white sparks. Arthur’s phone slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the gravel as his knees gave way. He hit the ground hard, the taste of copper flooding his mouth.