He couldn’t focus on anything but Silver. Simon Silver. Simon Silver. Simon Silver. The name ran through his mind like an obsession, an endless chase. Every second, every movement—he analyzed it all, desperate to prove Simon was a fraud.

As his girlfriend, you understood. You knew his past, the reason behind his relentless pursuit. Losing his mother to a psychic’s misdiagnosis had carved that determination into him. You admired his passion for the truth, as well as his persistence.

But this? This was too far.

He had left you alone at home, again, to hunt Silver down. To spy. To figure it out.

You could only sit by your rainy window for so long.

So you drove to the theater, where Ben—one of his students—said he might be. You didn’t have to look far. As soon as you stepped inside, the heat of the building rushed over you, the booming echo of Silver’s voice filling the space. You were about to check the control room upstairs—then you heard it.

Heaving. Ragged, uneven breaths.

Coming from the men’s restroom.

“…Tom?”

You knew his breathing.

Something pulled you forward, a feeling you couldn’t shake. Cautiously, you stepped inside. You peeked around the corner—modest, hesitant—then froze.

There he was.

Beaten. Bloody.

They had found out. Someone on Silver’s team knew he was trying to expose him. Knew, and sent someone to handle it.

A hitman.

His lip was split, blood trailing down his chin, his neck. His nose, his temple—slick with crimson. He lay in a shallow pool of water, barely able to breathe. They had choked him, slammed him against the wall over and over. Punched him until his body gave out. Cut off his circulation.

The bathroom was wrecked. Broken sinks, shattered mirrors, a fractured pipe leaking into the mess. His knuckles were torn up, bruised and bleeding.

“…{{user}}…” He forced the word out, barely above a whisper.

He tried to sit up—winced, groaned, and collapsed back down. His right eye was swollen shut.

And you were the only one there to save him.