In the dive bar near Seattle's industrial waterfront, Nathan lounged across from DeShawn, his leather jacket bearing the scuff marks of recent "acquisitions" - a testament to his growing disregard for societal boundaries. The jacket, once pristine, now told a story of Nathan's descent into something less than human, more than predator.

  Nathan's motorcycle was parked outside, a stolen Harley that reflected his current state - appropriated, modified, transformed without concern for original ownership. His movements carried an unnatural fluidity, hinting at the complex modifications beneath his skin that allowed him to move with predatory grace.

  "We can't just keep talking," Nathan said, his voice low and controlled. A dangerous smile pyed at the edges of his mouth, revealing just enough to suggest the violence simmering just beneath the surface. "We need to act."

  DeShawn nursed his whiskey, his designer jacket a stark contrast to the worn vinyl booth and scarred table. Eight days back from the alternate earth, and the veneer of his "high-value man" persona had begun to crack. His eyes, once confidently scanning social scenes, now carried a predatory intensity that didn't quite match his previous life.

  "We need to watch," DeShawn said, his voice low and calcuting. "Someone always slips. They think they're hunters, but they're prey."

  Nathan's predatory grin widened, understanding passing between them like a shared secret. The warehouse district, the gang members they'd just dispatched - these were just preliminary tests, hunting grounds for learning new rules and testing boundaries.

  "Most don't even know they're being hunted until it's too te," DeShawn continued, his eyes scanning the dive bar with the clinical assessment of someone who'd spent years tracking targets. "They front. They posture. But underneath..." He let the thought hang, unfinished.

  The bar's dim lighting seemed to shift around them, creating shadows that felt almost alive with potential violence. Two predators, discussing the thin line between hunter and hunted, waiting for the next opportunity to reveal itself.

  At the far end of the bar, two men blended seamlessly into the worn fabric of the establishment. Detective Jack Russo, ex-Marine with arms that spoke of years of hard living, nursed a whiskey that looked like it had been poured hours ago. His partner, Detective Michael Torres, formerly Army Special Forces, sat with the rexed tension of someone who'd seen enough violence to never truly be at ease.

  They didn't look like cops - Russo's faded tattoos and Torres' weathered leather jacket screamed more "hard-living local" than w enforcement. Years of working the city's underbelly had taught them the art of disappearing into the ndscape.

  "Thirteenth Street's supply lines are getting carved up," Torres muttered, sketching something on a napkin that looked like a map but could easily pass for random doodling to anyone watching. "Three hit locations in a week. Too precise for typical gang warfare."

  Russo grunted, taking a slow sip. "Not random. Surgical. Someone's hunting them specifically." His eyes never stopped moving, scanning the bar's interior with the kind of practiced awareness that came from decades of surviving in hostile environments.

  Their booth gave a perfect view of the entire bar - close to the entrance, back to the wall, positioned so no one could approach without being noticed. They looked like two guys who'd seen too much of life's darker side, sharing a quiet drink in a pce where questions were rarely asked.

  A waitress in her mid-twenties approached their booth, her movements casual but practiced. She'd clearly worked this type of bar long enough to read the room - veterans of hard living who didn't want unnecessary conversation.

  "Need anything?" she asked, her tone neutral, already half-turning as if expecting a quick dismissal.

  Torres lifted his near-empty gss slightly, a minimal gesture. "Another," he said, the word more a statement than a question.

  Russo's gss remained untouched, condensation forming a perfect ring on the scarred wooden table. His eyes never stopped moving, scanning the bar's interior with the same methodical sweep he'd use checking a potential hot zone.

  The waitress nodded, her retreat as unremarkable as her approach. She'd been working long enough to know some customers came to a pce like this to be invisible - and invisibility was a service she was happy to provide.

  Russo's fingers traced the condensation ring on his gss, his voice low and measured. "Anything catching your eye?"

  Torres shifted slightly, his gaze sweeping the bar with the calcuted precision of someone who'd spent years reading environments. "Two guys in the corner booth," he murmured. "Something about their body nguage. They're not drinking to drink. They're... watching."

  Russo followed his partner's gaze to Nathan and DeShawn, taking in their positioning, their subtle alertness. Years of experience had taught both detectives to read the invisible tensions in a room - the way certain individuals carried themselves, the subtle territorial markers that spoke of predators rather than prey.

  "Interesting," Russo said, the word carrying volumes of professional assessment. Nothing more needed to be said between partners who'd worked together long enough to communicate entire conversations in single words and minimal gestures.

  Torres studied the corner booth, his professional assessment cutting through the bar's dim atmosphere. "Looks like a motorcycle gang supplier meeting a local distributor," he murmured to his partner.

  The African American - well-built, dressed in clothes that suggested money but were strategically casual - carried himself with the controlled precision of someone used to managing transactions. His companion wore a leather jacket that looked like standard motorcycle club attire, bearing the subtle signs of recent wear - scuff marks, a few poorly mended tears.

  "Supply line meeting," Russo confirmed, his tone neutral. "Probably arranging a contraband drop."

  Their positioning was cssic - corner booth, backs to the wall, minimal conversation, maximum observation. The kind of discrete meeting that happened in pces where questions weren't asked and visibility was low.

  The athletic man leaned in, speaking something low. The leather-jacketed man's response was a nod that carried the weight of an agreement being finalized.

  "Thirteenth Street connection?" Torres asked quietly, referencing their ongoing investigation into local gang supply disruptions.

  Russo's grunt suggested cautious affirmation. They'd seen enough of these meetings to recognize the subtle choreography of illegal commerce.

  From their booth, Russo and Torres observed a new wrinkle turning into an unfolding scene with the practiced detachment of w enforcement veterans who had witnessed countless bar confrontations.

  A massive man - standing well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and arms covered in intricate motorcycle club tattoos - approached the corner booth. His deliberate movement suggested years of intimidation tactics. Two additional club members accompanied him, positioning themselves strategically. Their coordinated approach and body nguage broadcast an unmistakable threat of potential violence.

  The trio moved with a precision that spoke of previous experience in simir confrontations. The lead biker's massive frame blocked direct access to the booth, while his companions positioned themselves to cut off potential escape routes. Their leather vests and patch-covered jackets identified them as members of an established motorcycle club with a reputation for territorial enforcement.

  Russo's hand instinctively brushed near his lower back, where his weapon was holstered - a subtle, practiced movement born of years of professional vigince. Torres remained equally composed, his ankle holster a barely perceptible weight against his leg.

  The bar's atmosphere had transformed. What had been background noise now carried an electric tension, with every patron carefully avoiding direct eye contact while remaining hyperaware of the brewing confrontation.

  The lead biker stepped closer, his massive frame blocking the light. "Nice jacket," he said, the words carrying a dangerous undercurrent that immediately suggested this wasn't a compliment.

  The rough looking young man remained perfectly still, the stolen leather jacket a silent testament to its violent acquisition. The patch had been carefully removed, leaving only faint stitch marks where club identification once resided.

  "Looks just like the one my buddy Jimmy was wearing st week," the biker continued, his voice a low growl that cut through the bar's ambient noise. His two companions shifted, creating a human wall that promised swift retribution.

  Russo's fingers curled slightly against his beer gss, a microscopic tension the only sign of potential movement. Torres' gaze remained fixed, tracking the subtle shifts in body nguage that could signal imminent violence.

  The bar's atmosphere congealed into a thick silence, patrons creating an invisible barrier around the brewing confrontation, carefully avoiding direct engagement while remaining hyper-aware.

  The leather-cd man stared into his drink gss, his peripheral vision hyper-focused on the biker. Every muscle remained rexed, but there was a coiled tension beneath the surface - a predator assessing a potential threat.

  His companion's response was a perfectly calibrated expression of superiority. The athletic African American's grin radiated the confidence of an upper-crust wyer who knew he held all the cards, his eyes communicating a silent message: you're out of your league.

  The biker's anger visibly intensified. "And I could swear I saw my buddy's bike parked out front," he growled, leaning closer to the table.

  Russo's hand brushed imperceptibly near his lower back, feeling the weight of his concealed weapon. Torres remained perfectly still, his eyes tracking the minute shifts in body nguage that could signal an imminent explosion of violence.

  The temperature around the booth seemed to drop, a subtle tension building that suggested this confrontation was far from over. The leather-cd man's continued focus on his drink contrasted sharply with his companion's provocative demeanor, creating a dynamic that promised an unpredictable resolution.

  The leather-cd man finally looked up, his gaze meeting the biker's with calcuted indifference. "What of it?" he said, voice low and controlled. "He doesn't need it any longer, after all."

  The massive biker's eyes hardened. Murder simmered beneath a carefully maintained surface of controlled aggression. "Funny that," he responded, each word deliberate. "Jimmy's been missing, too. You seem to know something about that?"

  The tension in the bar crystallized. Torres caught the subtle shift in the leather-cd man's posture - a predatory readiness that didn't match the typical nervousness of someone caught stealing club property. His companion's arrogant smile never wavered, suggesting this confrontation was proceeding exactly as they'd anticipated.

  The two club members fnking their leader adjusted their positions with the subtle efficiency of men accustomed to bar fights. One casually brushed his jacket back, revealing the outline of what Russo suspected wasn't just a cell phone. The other shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to move.

  The leather-cd man's demeanor transformed, subtle but distinct - like a switch being flipped. His companion's calcuted smile grew sharper, more predatory, as if he was cataloging every micro-expression on the bikers' faces for future reference.

  "Maybe," the leather-cd man said, his voice carrying an edge that made the hair on Torres' neck stand up. "Maybe Jimmy and I had a conversation about ownership." His words fell into the tense air with deliberate precision. "It was a short conversation."

  The biker's face darkened, decades of enforcing club territory evident in every line of his weathered features. His voice dropped even lower, meant only for their booth. "A conversation, huh? And I suppose his bike just decided to change owners too?"

  "Oh, was that his bike?" the leather-cd man responded, looking up to meet the biker's gaze while maintaining his casual slouch over his drink. "I thought it was abandoned."

  The biker's tattoo-covered hand smmed onto the table, gsses rattling from the impact. His voice emerged as a guttural whisper, decades of earned reputation lending weight to each sylble. "You're either real stupid or real dangerous, boy."

  His athletic companion's smile took on an anticipatory edge, like someone watching the fuse burn down on a carefully pced explosive. Torres noted how the younger man's eyes were tracking the movements of all three bikers simultaneously, categorizing their micro-adjustments with clinical precision.

  The bar's background noise had dropped to near silence. Even the ancient jukebox in the corner seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable explosion of violence.

  "I'm guessing stupid though," the biker growled, his hand moving in a lightning-fast arc toward the gss, intending to drench his opponent.

  What happened next made Torres' breath catch. The African American's hand moved with impossible speed, intercepting the gss mid-motion. In one fluid movement, he brought it down rim-first onto the biker's hand where it rested on the table. The sound of breaking gss was almost masked by the biker's sudden, choked gasp.

  Two fingers hit the floor with a soft, wet sound.

  For a fraction of a second, the bar hung in perfect stillness - before the biker's eyes registered what had happened, before his companions could process the impossible speed of the movement, before the first drop of blood hit the scarred wood of the table.

  The leather-cd man hadn't moved, maintaining his casual slouch, as if this too was simply part of a choreographed performance.

  The biker's companions reacted with trained instinct, hands moving toward concealed weapons. But their target was already standing, his movement so fluid it seemed almost casual. That superior smile never wavered as he straightened to his full height.

  The massive biker stumbled back, clutching his maimed hand to his chest, his face a mask of shock and dawning horror. Blood dripped between his fingers, creating a growing pattern on the floor.

  "You..." the biker started, but the dark skinned man cut him off with a gesture that was almost elegant in its dismissiveness.

  "That was just a suggestion," he said, voice carrying across the now-silent bar. "About ownership. About territory." His eyes swept across all three bikers. "About what belongs to whom."

  From their vantage point, Russo and Torres watched the leather-cd man's posture shift subtly. He remained seated, but there was something predatory in his stillness now - like a coiled spring waiting for release.

  "GO!" the lead biker bellowed, stumbling back further, his maimed hand still clutched to his chest.

  Metal glinted as one biker drew a bde. The other's hand emerged with a semi-auto pistol, aimed at the athletic man's chest.

  "Yes, go," the leather-cd man said, his voice carrying an eager edge that made Torres' combat instincts scream in warning.

  The athletic man moved like liquid violence. His palm struck the gunman's weapon with devastating force just as the trigger pulled. The resulting explosion of metal and bone filled the bar with a sickening crack. The gunman's scream was cut short as the pistol's slide shattered, driving fragments of steel and shards of his own bones back through his palm.

  The gun's report was oddly muffled, as if the weapon itself had been caught in a vice. The gunman colpsed, cradling his mangled hand, the 9mm a twisted wreck on the floor.

  The leather-cd man vaulted over the bolted-down table with inhuman agility, a feral grin splitting his face. His maniacal ughter filled the bar as he drove the maimed biker to the ground, riding him down like a predator taking prey.

  At the same moment, the athletic man seemed to flow around the knife attack with impossible grace. His movement appeared almost leisurely, yet happened faster than the eye could track. His hand connected with the knife-wielder's wrist, and the impact produced a sound like breaking branches. The bde unched across the bar with lethal velocity, embedding itself into the far wall with rifle-like force.

  The knife-wielder's scream joined his companion's as shattered bones protruded through his skin. He colpsed, clutching his ruined arm, while the leather-cd man's ughter continued to echo off the walls, punctuated by the wet sounds of what he was doing to the lead biker on the floor.

  From their booth, Russo and Torres witnessed a level of violence that defied their decades of experience. This wasn't a bar fight - this was something else entirely.

  Torres tensed to rise, his w enforcement instincts demanding action, but Russo's hand shot out, gripping his arm with urgent pressure. "Stay down," Russo hissed, yanking his partner back into the shadows of their booth.

  Around them, the bar erupted into panicked motion. Patrons scrambled for cover, diving behind tables and racing for exits. The sudden chaos of moving bodies created a dangerous maze of potential crossfire and colteral damage.

  The sounds from the main floor continued - maniacal ughter mixed with the wet impacts of violence, screams tapering into whimpers. The leather-cd man's feral enjoyment of his brutality carried across the bar, a sound that belonged more in a horror movie than a standard gang confrontation.

  The athletic man stood in the center of the chaos, his posture still carrying that impossible air of casual superiority, tracking the movement of fleeing patrons with the same clinical interest he'd shown throughout the entire encounter.

  The leather-cd man rose from the ruined body on the floor, blood-soaked and grinning. His companion remained pristine, not a drop of violence marring his expensive clothing. They left together, spping each other's backs like college friends after a successful intramural game, their ughter echoing through the now-silent bar.

  Once the door swung shut behind them, Torres and Russo emerged from their concealed position. The scene before them defied their combined decades of experience. The lead biker's body y crumpled on the floor, his face, neck, and upper chest catastrophically caved in - as if struck by massive force from above. The damage pattern made no sense; it wasn't consistent with any normal beating or weapon they'd encountered.

  His two companions were alive but broken - one nursing a mangled hand where the 9mm had exploded, the other cradling an arm shattered beyond simple breaks. The knife remained embedded in the far wall, driven so deep into the wood it would need tools to extract.

  The bar's other patrons began emerging from their hiding spots, their faces showing the bnk shock of civilians who'd witnessed something their minds couldn't quite process.

  The waitress - who'd seen her share of bar violence over the years - took one look at the mangled remains and doubled over, retching violently. Behind the bar, the owner's weathered face went pale. "Jesus wept," he whispered, crossing himself with a trembling hand.

  Torres pulled his phone, voice clipped as he called dispatch. "This is Detective Torres. We need full response at Murphy's Bar on Harbor Drive. Multiple casualties, one DOA. Send medical units for two severely injured." He paused, looking at the devastation. "And homicide. Definitely homicide."

  Russo moved swiftly to the entrance, badge out. "Seattle PD. Everyone needs to stay put." His voice carried the authority of decades on the force, but he made no move to stop the panicked patrons who fled through the back door. Securing the primary scene and witnesses took priority over chasing runners.

  The two surviving bikers remained where they'd fallen, their pained groans mixing with the sound of approaching sirens. Blood continued to pool around the leader's corpse, spreading in patterns that would give the forensics team nightmares.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  The private room in the Chapter House reflected Brad Johnson's carefully curated status - football trophies arranged prominently, team photos highlighting his role as Defense Captain, designer clothes visible through his half-open closet door. Evening light caught the "C" patch on his letter jacket, draped precisely over his desk chair.

  Brad stood at his window, his 6'4" frame casting a long shadow across the hardwood floor. Fifteen days. It had been fifteen days since Tori left for what should have been a simple river rafting trip. Eight days since she'd returned... different. His phone dispyed their message thread - three unanswered texts that would have been unthinkable just two weeks ago.

  Something was off with Tori, and by extension, his carefully managed world. The woman who'd returned wore his girlfriend's face, but moved like she was unsure of her own body - hesitant, withdrawn. Her usual vibrant presence had been repced by a fragile silence. When she did speak to him, her responses seemed distant, as if she was struggling to connect with the world around her.

  He rolled his shoulders, the motion honed by years of football training. On the field, he could read any situation, anticipate any py. But this - this felt like pying a game where the rules had suddenly changed, and he wasn't being told the new pybook.

  Megan's call from st night kept repying in his mind: "Brad, something's really wrong with Tori. She had some kind of breakdown. She's locked herself in her room, and there's damage to her ceiling, and when I tried to touch her..." He could still hear the shake in Megan's voice. "She moved so fast, Brad. I've never seen anyone move that fast."

  And now Olivia had apparently taken her somewhere - for "help," they'd said. But what kind of help? And why hadn't anyone called him first? He was her boyfriend, had been for two years. They'd talked about getting married after graduation.

  His phone buzzed again - another message from the football group chat about tomorrow's practice. Brad ignored it. They were three games into the season, sitting 2-1 after st weekend's close win against Arizona State, but right now football seemed trivial compared to the growing knot of concern in his chest.

  He picked up a framed photo from his desk - him and Tori at st year's Spring formal. Her smile was radiant, genuine. Nothing like the careful, measured expressions she wore now. His thumb traced the edge of the frame, remembering how she used to fit perfectly against his side, how her hand would find his without hesitation.

  Now she flinched at casual contact, kept careful distance even when sitting next to him. And that day in the campus coffee shop, when someone had dropped a mug - the way she'd moved, like a startled animal ready to bolt. It wasn't just trauma. This was something else.

  His gaze drifted to his ptop, where browser tabs dispyed his methodical research: PTSD symptoms, trauma responses, group behavior changes. He'd mapped out everything he knew: five students on what should have been a routine end-of-season rafting trip. All five returned, but none of them were the same. Tori's withdrawal was just the most obvious change to him, but he'd noticed the others too. Alex's new intensity, Rose's sudden departure from school, Nathan's growing aggression, Olivia's... something about Olivia that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

  His jaw clenched as he remembered the conversation - Tori excitedly showing him the discounted rates for te-season rafting, pnning their adventure together. Then Coach Wilson scheduling that mandatory team practice week, making it clear that anyone who missed it would lose their starting position. The season had just begun, and as Defense Captain, Brad couldn't risk it.

  "You should still go," he'd told her, trying to hide his disappointment. "Get some adventure in before midterms hit." He'd even helped her pack, teasing her about taking too many protein bars, making her promise to take lots of pictures.

  Now he stared at his research tabs, methodically organized like game film analysis. Each new observation adding to a pattern he couldn't quite understand. Tori, his vibrant, confident girlfriend, now withdrawn and hesitant. Rose, who'd vanished without warning, her dorm room cleared out overnight. The changes in their friend group were impossible to ignore.

  The five of them had been close before the trip - different circles that somehow overpped, the kind of college dynamic that just worked. He'd hung out with them enough times to know their normal behaviors, their typical patterns. Now that dynamic had shattered in ways that defied expnation.

  His own words echoed back at him: "Get some adventure in." What kind of adventure transforms people so completely? What happens on a simple rafting trip that makes your girlfriend afraid of her own shadow?

  His fingers drummed against the windowsill as Megan's words from st night echoed in his mind. Damage to the ceiling. Moving faster than seemed possible. Talking about being a monster. None of it sounded like the Tori he knew, the woman he'd pnned to propose to after graduation.

  He pulled up their text thread again. Three unanswered messages stared back at him: "Hey, can we talk?" "I'm worried about you." "Please, just let me know you're okay."

  Brad Johnson wasn't used to feeling helpless. On the field, in the cssroom, in social situations - he'd always been able to take control, to fix things. But how do you help someone who won't even answer your texts? Someone who flinches away from every attempt at contact?

  His thumb hovered over Tori's number. One more try. He had to do something, had to find a way past whatever walls she'd built since that rafting trip. Had to understand what could possibly have happened out there to change her so completely.

  He pressed the call button. The phone didn't even ring - straight to voicemail. A recorded voice informed him that the mailbox was full, unable to accept new messages.

  Brad's fist clenched, a controlled motion born of years of disciplined training. This wasn't like her. None of this was like her. Even during their worst fights, Tori had never just... disappeared like this. She'd always been willing to talk things through, to work on solutions together.

  And now Olivia had taken her somewhere. For "help." The word felt wrong somehow - too vague, too convenient. Megan's description of the incident kept repying in his mind: the damaged ceiling, that impossible speed, Tori talking about being a monster.

  His reflection in the window stared back at him, the fading evening light casting shadows across his features. Defense Captain Brad Johnson, who always had a pn, always knew the next py to call. But right now, all his usual strategies felt useless.

  His fingers moved to Rose's contact - Rochelle Newman, though everyone called her Rose. She'd been Tori's closest friend, practically her shadow since freshman year. If anyone knew what was really going on...

  The phone rang. And rang. And rang. No voicemail picked up, no automated message about leaving a number. Just endless ringing that felt wrong somehow, like the call was going nowhere.

  Brad pulled the phone away from his ear, frowning at the screen. The call was still connecting, still ringing, but there was no option to leave a message. In all his years of having a cell phone, he'd never encountered anything like it. Everyone had voicemail - it was a basic feature, wasn't it?

  He ended the call, that sense of wrongness growing stronger. First Tori's full mailbox, now Rose's endless ringing. Like they'd both deliberately made themselves unreachable, but in different ways.

  He moved to Nathan's contact next, another of Tori's close friends from the group. This time, the phone rang normally - six rings before clicking over to voicemail. The automated message informed him that the mailbox was full.

  Brad pulled the phone away, frowning. Full voicemail wasn't unusual, but combined with Tori's simir status, it felt like part of a pattern. Something deliberate.

  His jaw clenched. He was used to having control, to being able to solve problems. As Defense Captain, he'd learned to read situations, to anticipate moves before they happened. But this was something else entirely. These communication issues suggested a coordinated withdrawal that defied his usual strategies.

  His thumb hovered over the next contact. Something was very wrong with Tori's friend group. Very wrong with Tori herself. And for the first time in a long time, Brad Johnson didn't know what his next py was going to be.

  Brad scrolled to DeShawn's contact. Unlike the others, this call connected normally and went to voicemail after a few rings. DeShawn's recorded message pyed - a confident, almost cocky tone that perfectly captured the track star's personality: "Hey, you've reached DeShawn. Make it good, and maybe I'll call back."

  Brad took a breath, his practiced public speaking skills kicking in as he left a message:

  "DeShawn, it's Brad Johnson. I need to talk to you about Tori. Something's wrong, and I'm getting concerned. She's barely responsive, Megan told me about some kind of breakdown, and I can't get anyone from your group to talk to me. Call me back. This is important."

  He ended the call, that familiar sense of control slipping further away. DeShawn had been dominating track this season - Brad had seen his times, knew he was making waves. The guy was on track for some serious athletic recognition. So why wasn't he responding to a simple message?

  Brad's frustration mounted. He pulled up a search for the rafting company that had organized the trip, finding their business contact information after a few minutes of targeted searching.

  The phone number connected, but instead of a typical business greeting, an automated message informed him that the company was "closed for the immediate future" - a vague, professional-sounding euphemism that told him nothing.

  Something about the message felt deliberate. Not just a temporary closure, but something more calcuted. Brad Johnson wasn't used to dead ends. As Defense Captain, he prided himself on being able to break through any obstacle, read any defensive line. But this situation was different. Each attempt to gather information seemed designed to block his path.

  He set the phone down, his mind working through the problem like he would a complex defensive strategy. Something had happened on that rafting trip. Something that had fundamentally altered his girlfriend and her entire friend group. And he was going to find out what.

  Brad methodically worked his network, pcing calls to two teammates he trusted. Jason Miller, the team's backup linebacker, responded immediately with a direct, "I'm in. What's going on?" Mike Rodriguez, their defensive end, needed only a brief expnation before agreeing to join the mission.

  "This is about Tori, right?" Mike confirmed. Brad appreciated their loyalty - these were the kind of teammates who understood that brotherhood extended beyond the football field.

  They took an Uber to a strip mall in Lynnwood, Brad briefing them on the strange circumstances during the ride. The parking lot bustled with midday activity - customers moving between a coffee shop, a boutique, and a sandwich restaurant. Only one storefront stood out: the Expedition Tour company, its windows dark and door locked despite the posted business hours suggesting it should be open.

  Brad led the way, Jason and Mike fnking him with the same disciplined movement they used on the football field. As Defense Captain, he was used to reading situations, anticipating moves before they happened.

  Jason tested the door handle, confirming it was locked. Mike peered through the window, cupping his hands to block the gre, trying to see into the darkened interior.

  "This doesn't make sense," Brad muttered, studying the posted business hours. Everything suggested the shop should be open, but all signs pointed to deliberate closure.

  The other businesses around them hummed with normal activity, making the shuttered Expedition Tour company stand out even more starkly. Brad's analytical mind - honed by years of reading defensive strategies - began working overtime. Something wasn't adding up about this tour company, about Tori's rafting trip, about the changes in her and her friends.

  And he was going to figure out what.

  Brad exchanged a quick gnce with Jason and Mike. The command in his eyes was clear - they were going to investigate further.

  They circled the building, moving with the coordinated efficiency of athletes used to working together. The back of the strip mall revealed a service alley, lined with dumpsters and utility access points. Expedition Tour's rear entrance looked equally locked, with a solid metal door and no obvious entry points.

  Mike tested the door handle experimentally, then looked at Brad. "Arm system?" he whispered.

  Brad studied the door frame. No visible arm box, but the professional instaltion suggested security measures. His defensive captain's mind was already analyzing potential approaches, weighing risk against the growing mystery surrounding Tori's trip.

  Jason pointed to a side window - slightly ajar, almost imperceptible unless you were looking closely. The kind of detail most people would miss, but not three trained athletes who made their living reading minute environmental signals.

  "Looks like we might have an entry point," Jason murmured.

  Brad raised an eyebrow at Jason, a hint of a smirk crossing his face. "What are you, Army?" he quipped, but there was no real mockery in his tone. They'd all learned to read situations, to spot opportunities on and off the field.

  Jason approached the side window, testing it carefully. With narrow space to work, only two of them could stand side-by-side. Mike held back, giving them room to maneuver. The window was locked, but locked wasn't an absolute barrier for trained athletes. Brad and Jason combined their strength, applying precise, controlled force until the lock gave way with a muted metallic protest.

  Brad went first, slipping through smoothly, followed by Jason. Mike waited his turn, ready to provide support if needed. They moved with the quiet precision of men used to coordinated action, scanning the darkened interior of the Expedition Tour office.

  The room looked pristine - almost too clean. Dust had settled evenly across surfaces, suggesting the space hadn't been entered in weeks. Desk surfaces were clear, filing cabinets closed, no signs of recent activity. It was as if the entire office had been methodically prepared for a long-term closure, not a quick departure.

  Brad's defensive captain instincts kicked in. This wasn't just a closed business. This was something else entirely.

  The sudden sound of the front door's lock disengaging cut through the silence, freezing all three men in pce.

  Brad signaled Jason and Mike to be absolutely still. Someone was entering the office - and they were not supposed to be here.

  Footsteps approached. Measured. Deliberate. Not hurried, but not casual either. The kind of walking that suggested someone knew exactly what they were doing.

  The door's lock disengaged with a mechanical click. A tall figure stepped into the office, wearing full motorcycle gear that created an imposing silhouette. Armored leather jacket, heavy boots, and a helmet held casually under one arm transformed the entryway into something that felt more like a potential threat than a casual entrance.

  The man's gaze swept the room, taking in Brad, Jason, and Mike with a calcuted coolness that suggested he was entirely unfazed by finding three unexpected individuals inside his closed business. His fingerless gloves and the precision of his movements hinted at someone who was comfortable in high-tension situations.

  "Can I help you?" he asked, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent that made it clear this wasn't a genuine question as much as a demand for expnation.

  The room's stillness seemed to amplify the tension. Brad could feel Jason and Mike tensing beside him, ready to follow his lead. As Defense Captain, he knew this was a moment that required precise communication.

  Brad stepped forward, his 6'4" frame positioning him directly in front of the motorcyclist. Despite being slightly taller, Brad quickly realized the man somehow seemed more imposing - a combination of controlled stillness and an almost predatory alertness that defied simple physical measurement.

  "I want to know what happened on that river rafting trip," Brad demanded, his football captain's voice carrying the authority he was accustomed to using on the field. "My girlfriend Tori went on a trip with her friends, and something's changed. Completely changed."

  The man in motorcycle gear regarded Brad with an unreadable expression, those calcuted eyes taking in every detail of Brad, Jason, and Mike's positioning. There was nothing in his stance that suggested nervousness or surprise at being confronted in a closed office.

  The motorcyclist's response came without hesitation, his voice level and precise: "If Victoria wishes you to know, she will tell you herself."

  The statement carried a finality that seemed to close down any further discussion. Brad felt something shift in the room - a sense that this conversation was over, regardless of how much he might want to continue it.

  His football captain's instincts, usually so reliable for reading situations and people, found themselves completely ineffective against this calm, controlled individual. The man in motorcycle gear had dismissed Brad's demand with a simple sentence that revealed nothing, yet somehow communicated everything.

  Mike, standing slightly behind Brad, broke the tense silence. "It's awfully convenient that you just happen to show up right when we break in," he said, his tone challenging.

  The remark hung in the air, a direct challenge to the motorcyclist's seemingly choreographed appearance. Brad gnced back at Mike, then returned his attention to the man who had so casually deflected his earlier demand.

  The motorcyclist remained unruffled, those calcuting eyes taking in Mike's comment with the same measured coolness he'd shown since entering the room. No hint of defensiveness, no attempt to expin or justify his sudden arrival.

  The motorcyclist's response was immediate and silent. He simply raised his free hand, gesturing toward a security camera positioned at the entrance of the shop. The camera's lens pointed directly at the doorway, its presence a clear implication that his arrival was not coincidental, but documented.

  Mike's challenge hung in the air, now rendered mute by the implied evidence of the security system. The calm, methodical way the motorcyclist had pointed out the camera suggested he was several steps ahead of their impromptu investigation.

  Brad studied the camera, then looked back at the man in motorcycle gear. The simple gesture had effectively shut down any suggestion of suspicious timing or random chance.

  Mike wasn't backing down. "That doesn't expin how you got here so fast," he challenged, his linebacker's build tensing slightly. "We literally just broke in moments ago. There's no way an alert could have been sent and someone could respond this quickly."

  The motorcyclist remained impassive, those calcuting eyes taking in Mike's challenge with the same measured coolness he'd shown since entering the room. No hint of defensiveness crossed his features, no attempt to expin the improbable timing of his arrival.

  Brad watched the interaction, his defensive captain's instincts recognizing the growing tension. Mike had a point - their entry had been almost instantaneous, with no time for a typical security response.

  Jason, sensing the escating tension, stepped forward and attempted to push the motorcyclist backwards. His football-trained muscles applied significant force, the kind that would typically move even a well-built opponent.

  Nothing happened.

  It wasn't that Jason's push met resistance. It was as if the motorcyclist was simply... immovable. Not braced, not tense, not even seemingly aware of the physical contact. Jason might as well have been pushing against a solid wall. The man in motorcycle gear remained exactly where he stood, his posture unchanged, those calcuting eyes still surveying the scene with the same detached precision.

  Brad watched, his own athletic instincts recognizing something fundamentally wrong with what he was witnessing. This wasn't normal. This wasn't even possible.

  Alex looked down at Jason's hands still pressed against him, and let out a light chuckle. "Do you guys want to just leave and call it good?" he said, his tone suggesting this was more of a suggestion than a question. "I'd not like this to turn into something it doesn't need to be."

  The casual way he spoke belied the impossibility of what had just occurred. Jason's push should have moved any normal person, yet Alex stood exactly as he had before, completely unmoved by the significant force applied.

  Brad caught the exchange, his defensive captain's instincts fully engaged. Something was profoundly wrong with this situation - with this man. The easy dismissal, the strange immobility, the calcuted coolness - none of it added up to a normal encounter.

  Brad's leadership instincts kicked in. They had been offered a clean exit, and pushing further would likely create more problems than solutions. With a subtle gesture to Jason and Mike, he communicated their retreat.

  They filed out of the office, Brad taking a final assessing look at the motorcyclist who had so casually neutralized their confrontation. Outside, Mike let out an appreciative whistle.

  "Crap, is that a Triumph Rocket? Damn..." he muttered, eyeing the massive motorcycle idling in the parking lot. The bike sat with an imposing presence, its engine running with a steady, powerful hum.

  Brad exchanged a look with Jason and Mike. No words were necessary. Something was fundamentally wrong about this entire encounter, about the rafting trip, about Tori's transformation. But they had just been given a clear message to back off.

  The Uber ride back to campus was quiet, tension humming beneath the surface like the motorcycle's engine they'd left behind. Brad sat in the back seat, his mind repying every moment of their encounter with the motorcyclist.

  Jason broke the silence first. "What the hell was that?"

  Brad didn't respond immediately. His defensive captain's mind was already strategizing, breaking down the encounter like he would an opponent's py strategy. Something wasn't right about the rafting trip. Something wasn't right about Tori. And that man in the motorcycle gear - he was connected somehow.

  As the campus came into view, Brad's internal monologue crystallized into a single, determined thought: He would get to the bottom of this. Whatever was happening to Tori, whatever had changed her, he would uncover the truth. No matter what obstacles stood in his way.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Soooo….

  I had accidentally uploaded Chapter 10 Twice! Crappo on me. I have fixed it.

  Here's Chapter 11 which I had MEANT to upload!!

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