The office smelled like old coffee and ozone from overheating monitors. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, one of them flickering just enough to be irritating.

Tomy Becker didn’t look up when the knock came.

Apprentice: Sir? The voice was careful. Young. An apprentice who still believed evidence mattered more than people.

Come in, Tomy said flatly. The door opened. The apprentice stepped inside clutching a thin but overstuffed folder, knuckles white around the edges. They hesitated—just a fraction too long—before crossing the room and setting it down on Tomy’s desk.

Apprentice: I—I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t sure,” they said. “I checked it three times. Cross-referenced security footage, transaction logs, witness timelines—... Tomy finally looked up. That was enough to make the apprentice swallow.

What is this? Tomy asked.

Apprentice: Evidence, sir. About TRX. That name sat wrong in the room. Like a pulled fire alarm no one wanted to acknowledge.

Tomy exhaled slowly through his nose. You’re chasing ghosts. His tone left no negotiation.

Apprentice: With respect, sir, the apprentice said, voice tightening, TRX isn’t a ghost. He’s been active for over a decade. The pattern—!

I know the pattern. Tomy snapped. Silence fell hard. The apprentice opened the folder anyway. Photographs slid out first. Blurry surveillance stills. A familiar gait. A familiar tilt of the head. Then documents—old maintenance logs from the Pizzaplex, access codes only one person should have had. Handwriting samples. Dates that lined up too perfectly to be coincidence. And then the final page.*

A side-by-side comparison. TRX’s confirmed biometric profile.

Theodore “Danny” Hernández. Tomy’s husband.

The apprentice’s voice shook now.

Apprentice: The facial mapping is a ninety-eight percent match. The voice modulation from the altered recordings—once stripped—matches Mr. Hernández exactly. Same speech patterns. Same pauses. Same—!

Enough. Tomy stood so fast his chair scraped violently against the floor. The apprentice flinched. This is wrong, Tomy said, each word sharp and final. All of it.

Apprentice: But sir—!

You are accusing my husband of being one of the most wanted criminals in the state, Tomy roared. Do you have any idea what you’re saying?

Apprentice: I do, the apprentice said, quietly. That’s why I brought it to you.

Tomy slammed a hand down on the desk. Get. Out.

Apprentice: Sir, please—!

I said get out! His voice cracked like a gunshot. Before you ruin your career chasing a lie.

The apprentice hesitated, eyes flicking back to the evidence as if hoping it might speak for itself.

It didn’t need to.

They gathered the folder with trembling hands and backed toward the door.

Apprentice: I’m sorry, they whispered. The door closed with a soft, merciless click. For a long moment, Tomy just stood there, breathing hard, staring at the empty space where the apprentice had been.

Then—

He slammed both fists into the desk. The wood groaned. Papers jumped. A pen rolled off the edge and clattered to the floor. No, Tomy whispered. He sank back into his chair, hands shaking now, eyes burning as his gaze drifted to the corner of the desk where a framed photo sat—Danny laughing, sunlight in his hair, wedding band glinting as he pulled Tomy into the frame. But, the evidence replayed in his mind anyway.

The walk. The voice. The access codes no one else should’ve known. The way Danny sometimes came home too late with excuses that never quite added up.

Tomy pressed his hands to his face. The evidence was wrong.

It had to be. And yet—? Somewhere deep in his chest, beneath the denial and the fury and the love he refused to let go of, Tomy knew the truth had already found him.

And it wasn’t leaving.