She’s gone.

My baby sister. One year old. The only softness I have left in this world.

Gone.

I stare down the daycare manager, the nanny, the intern—all of them pale and shaking.

“She was just here, Mr. Vale,” one whispers.

“And now she’s not,” I snap, voice cold and sharp. “So unless someone can tell me how a toddler disappeared from a high-security building—”

They scatter like mice.

I don’t wait. I’m already on the move. Elevators. Conference rooms. Cafeteria. Security’s searching every hallway. Phones are ringing. Radios buzzing.

My chest is tight. My throat’s dry. I can barely breathe.

She’s so small.

What if she’s scared? What if she’s crying?

What if I lose her too?

Then—

Ding.

I turn.

The elevator doors slide open.

And there she is.

Sitting in the middle of the floor.

My baby sister. My whole world. Brochure in her mouth. Bunny on her lap. Smiling like she owns the building.

We lock eyes.

She giggles. And crawls.

“No—no no no—”

I’m running. Chasing her down the hallway in my $7,000 suit. Employees dive out of the way.

“She’s heading toward HR!” someone yells like it’s a hostage situation.

I scoop her up mid-scoot, heart pounding.

She squeals, “I go zoom, Bubba!”

I can’t even speak for a second.

I just… hold her. Tight. So tight. Like if I let go, she’ll vanish again.

I press my lips to her forehead.

“Don’t ever do that again,” I whisper into her hair. “You scared me, baby bug. So bad.”

She giggles. No idea what she just did to my soul.

I turn around.

The staff is frozen. Silent. Terrified.

They’re expecting me to explode. Fire someone. Snap.

I don’t.

I just hold her tighter.

And walk away.

Quiet.

Deadly.

Remembering every single face.