Eliza Christian POV:
The unmarked black sedan glided smoothly through the central artery of Briarwood, the engine humming beneath the chassis before coming to a quiet halt across from Briarwood Private Elementary.
I lowered the phone after confirming the administrative details with Stephen Hudson. As the city's Deputy Mayor and a man whose chronic neurological paralysis I had secretly reversed three years ago at The Summit Institute, he understood the cost of failing my requests. Enrolling an eight-year-old prodigy into the city's most guarded private academy was a minor task for his office.
"Wait by the curb," I instructed the driver.
Esequiel and I stepped out onto the sidewalk, sheltered beneath the wide canopy of an ancient sycamore tree. The final school bell had just chimed, and the wrought-iron gates swung open to release a steady stream of uniformed children into the waiting arms of elite chauffeurs and mothers draped in haute couture.
I leaned back against the rough bark of the trunk, shoved my hands into the pockets of my oversized hoodie, and retrieved a strawberry lollipop. I stripped the wrapper with my teeth, popped the candy into my mouth, and let my gaze drift lazily across the perimeter.
My eyes methodically mapped the blind spots of the high-definition security cameras, noted the six-foot depth of the reinforced boundary walls, and timed the foot patrol intervals of the private security guards stationed at the gates.
Just then, a matte-black Maybach with heavily tinted privacy glass glided down the boulevard. It moved with quiet, predatory grace, parting the sea of suburban luxury SUVs like a shark cutting through shallow water.
The rear window was rolled down three inches, exposing a razor-sharp jawline and a pair of dark, unforgiving eyes.
Garey Hudson POV:
I rubbed my thumb against my temple, trying to suppress the dull, persistent throbbing behind my eyes. Beside me, my close friend Zane Sterling tossed his tablet onto the leather seat, letting out an exasperated groan. He's always so impatient.
"Garey, cruising every street in Briarwood based on a vague server ping is madness," Zane complained, running a hand through his styled hair. "The Miracle Doctor from The Summit Institute hasn't taken a public case since they dismantled the European Olympic doping syndicate three years ago. We don't have a name, a gender, or a face."
Opposite us, my assistant Jett Fields adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, turning a page in the thick medical file resting on his knees. "The digital signature detected on the darknet was unmistakable. It matched the surgical algorithmic code used in the Miracle Doctor's nerve-grafting papers. Your grandmother’s spinal degeneration has reached a critical stage, Garey. If the Briar University medical board can't stabilize her, this underground genius is our only viable option."
I didn't answer. My jaw remained set as I looked out the half-open window, watching the mundane rhythm of the city drift past. As captain of the university's ice hockey team and the hidden director of the Crimson League, I was accustomed to hunting high-value targets, but this phantom doctor was slipping through every net I cast.
Then, my eyes caught a silhouette standing beneath the sycamore tree.
A girl.
She was tall and strikingly slender, dressed in a faded black hoodie that swallowed her frame and washed-out jeans tucked into scuffed boots. Her raven hair fell across her shoulder in loose, untamed waves. She leaned against the tree with an air of complete, insolent detachment, rolling a white lollipop stick between her lips.
There was a strange, magnetic stillness about her. While the wealthy parents around her bustled with frantic, performative energy, she stood like a dormant predator observing a herd.
Beside her, a small boy stood with a heavy tactical-style backpack, his expression just as unreadable as hers.
My chest tightened with an unfamiliar, sharp jolt. My fingers involuntarily gripped the armrest.
"Well, look at that," Zane muttered, leaning over my shoulder to follow my line of sight. "Briarwood's talent pool never disappoints. High school senior? Or a college dropout? Though... look at the kid beside her. Don't tell me she's a teenage single mother running on welfare."
The word mother struck a strangely sour note in my mind, sparking an immediate flare of irritation.
She looked barely twenty. Her features were immaculate, her jawline sculpted with dangerous beauty, but the careless posture and the child at her hip suggested a reckless, undisciplined life.
I pulled my gaze away, leaning back against the headrest and closing my eyes. I had no time to waste on delinquent girls loitering around private schools when my family's legacy was hanging by a thread.
"Mike," I said, my voice dropping to a freezing baritone. "Accelerate."
The Maybach surged forward, leaving the sycamore tree and the girl behind in a blur of motion.
Eliza Christian POV:
I felt the heavy, suffocating weight of an intense gaze the exact moment the black luxury car swept past our curb. I lifted my chin slightly, catching the fleeting glimpse of an arrogant, severe profile behind the tinted glass before the vehicle vanished into the traffic flow.
A trained athlete. The unmistakable physical density and lethal posture of an elite hockey center.
I took the candy from my mouth and looked down at Esequiel. "Campus layout is clean. The network router sits on the third floor of the science wing. What do you think?"
Esequiel raised his wrist, his miniature modified smartwatch displaying a stream of decrypted system logs from the school’s registrar. "Their database runs on an outdated Linux kernel. I can bypass their firewall from our bedroom without an external antenna. It's acceptable, Sis."
"Good." I sent a brief message to Stephen Hudson: Briarwood Elementary approved. Finalize enrollment by Monday.
Within three seconds, the phone vibrated: Handled personally, Miss Eliza. Welcome to the district.
"Let's move," I said, dropping the stick into a nearby bin. "Our host is waiting to play the generous benefactor."
