My daughter called me crying, “Dad, please come get me.” When I arrived at her in-laws’ house, her mother-in-law blocked the door and said, “She’s not leaving.” I pushed past her—and when I saw my daughter fighting for her life, what I found on her arms made me lose control completely.

Gene Mullins stood in his editing studio at three in the morning, reviewing footage from his latest documentary. On the screen, a tearful woman described how a pharmaceutical company had buried evidence about serious side effects. Gene had spent eight months tracking down whistleblowers, building a case so tight it felt like a locked vault.

This was his specialty—exposing people who hid behind corporate shields and polished legal teams. The kind of people who believed money and connections made them untouchable.

He’d been doing this work for fifteen years, ever since his wife, Sarah, died after a hospital tried to sweep its mistakes under the rug. The settlement they offered him had been an insult wrapped in silence. Gene refused it, and he channeled his grief into a film that cost three doctors their licenses and the hospital its accreditation. It won awards, but more importantly, it kept other families from living his nightmare.

His daughter, Leanne, had been twelve then.

She’d watched her father transform from a corporate videographer into something sharper—more relentless. He raised her alone, teaching her to question authority, to stand up for herself, to never accept injustice as the price of peace. Leanne inherited his stubborn streak and his clean, uncompromising sense of right and wrong.

Which made the last two years so painful.

Leanne met Brent Sparks at a charity gala. Gene had been suspicious from the start. Brent was too polished, too charming, the kind of man who could make an entire room feel like it was leaning toward him. Old money. A family name that opened doors before he even touched the handle.

The Sparks family owned a chain of luxury rehabilitation centers across the Southwest—Spark Centers. They promised “holistic healing” for addiction, trauma, and mental health issues, catering to wealthy clients who wanted discretion above all else.

Gene researched them. On paper, everything looked legitimate: accredited programs, glossy success rates, glowing testimonials. But something still felt wrong.

The few negative reviews he found had vanished almost as quickly as he discovered them. Former employees who spoke critically either retracted their words or disappeared from public view. It wasn’t proof, not the kind Gene could hang a story on, but it was a scent—and Gene trusted his instincts the way other men trusted religion.

He tried talking to Leanne. She accused him of being overprotective, of sabotaging her happiness because he couldn’t let go.

“Not everyone is hiding something, Dad,” she said. “Not every family is corrupt. The Sparks do genuine good in the world.”

They argued. Gene pushed too hard, and Leanne pulled away.

When Brent proposed after six months, she said yes.

Gene showed up to the wedding with a smile that felt like broken glass in his mouth. He walked her down the aisle. He shook Brent’s hand. He told himself that if he loved his daughter, he had to respect her choice.

That was eighteen months ago.

For the first year, Leanne seemed happy. She sent photos—her and Brent in Europe, renovating their home, attending Sparks family events where everyone wore expensive clothes and effortless confidence. She called regularly, though the conversations slowly became shorter, more surface-level, like she was reading from a script she didn’t believe in.

Gene convinced himself he’d been wrong. That his paranoia had almost cost him his daughter.

Then the calls became less frequent.

When they did talk, Leanne sounded distracted, anxious. She made excuses for bruises Gene noticed on video calls. She’d taken up tennis. She was clumsy. She bumped into a door. Little accidents. Little explanations.

But whenever Gene pressed, she changed the subject or ended the call.

Three months ago, she stopped calling altogether.

Gene’s texts went unanswered for days. When she did respond, it was always brief.

I’m fine. Just busy. Talk soon.

Gene drove to their house twice. Both times, Brent answered with the same bright smile and the same practiced apologies.

“Leanne’s resting. She’s been under the weather.”

“She’s out with my mother,” Brent said another time. “They’ve gotten really close.”

Each time, Gene insisted on seeing her. Each time, Leanne appeared looking pale and thinner than before, insisting she was fine and he needed to stop worrying. During the second visit, Gene noticed marks on her wrist when her sleeve rode up.

Before he could say anything, she tugged the fabric down and forced the conversation somewhere safer.

Now, at 3:47 a.m. on a Tuesday, Gene’s phone rang.

His chest tightened when he saw Leanne’s name.

She never called this late.

“Leanne?” he said.

“Dad.” Her voice was barely a whisper—shaking with terror. “Dad, please come get me. Please, I need—”

A crash sounded in the background. A man’s voice followed—angry, slurred, close enough to the phone that it made Gene’s skin go cold.

“I have to go,” Leanne breathed. “Please, Dad. Please.”

The line went dead.

Gene moved before his conscious mind fully caught up. Keys. Phone. And after a split second of hesitation, the small video camera he always kept charged.

Old habits.

The drive to the Sparks estate took forty minutes. Gene made it in twenty-five, his mind cycling through possibilities—each one worse than the last. He tried calling back. No answer. He tried texting. Nothing.

The Sparks family compound sat on fifteen acres outside the city: a sprawling ranch-style mansion surrounded by manicured gardens that looked too perfect to be real. Gene had been here once before, for a tense Sunday dinner where Brent’s mother, Edna, spent two hours slicing at Gene with passive-aggressive comments.

“How noble,” she said, smiling with her teeth. “Exposing people’s private troubles for public entertainment.”

Brent’s father, Ken, mostly ignored him in favor of his phone.

Gene pulled up to the gate and punched in the code Leanne gave him months ago.

It worked.

The gate swung open.

He drove up the long driveway, gravel crunching beneath his tires. Every light in the house seemed to be on.

Gene was out of the car before the engine fully stopped. He took the front steps two at a time and tried the door.

Locked.

He pounded on it.

Footsteps inside.

The door opened a few inches, held by a chain.

Edna Sparks peered through the gap. Silver hair perfect despite the hour. Expression composed the way powerful people look when they believe they’re safe.

“Gene,” she said. “It’s nearly four-thirty in the morning.”

“I know what time it is.” His voice sounded steadier than he felt. “Leanne called me. I want to see my daughter.”

“Leanne is resting. She’s had a difficult evening.”

“Then I’ll help her rest,” Gene snapped. “Open the door, Edna.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Gene stared at her.

“Why?”

“She’s not leaving.”

Not she’s not available.

Not she can’t see you.

She’s not leaving.

Something about the way she said it froze Gene from the inside out.

“That’s not your decision,” he said, keeping his voice level with effort. “I’m her father. She called me for help.”

“She’s confused,” Edna replied calmly. “She’s under tremendous stress. The family is handling it.”

“Get out of my way.”

“Gene, I understand your concern, but—”

He didn’t wait for her to finish.

Gene stepped back and drove his foot into the door just below the lock. The chain ripped from the frame. The door flew inward. Edna stumbled back with a gasp.

Gene surged into the marble foyer.

“Leanne!” he shouted.

Edna’s voice rose into a shriek behind him. “You can’t just—this is breaking and entering! I’m calling the police!”

“Call them,” Gene said over his shoulder. “Please. I’d love to have them here.”

The house was open, modern—living room into dining room into kitchen, all sharp angles and expensive surfaces. No Leanne.

Then a sound from upstairs.

A muffled cry.

Gene ran for the staircase.

Edna tried to block him, but Gene moved around her. Behind him, Ken’s voice joined Edna’s protests, but Gene didn’t look back.

The upstairs hallway was lined with family photos: Sparks weddings, Sparks vacations, Sparks charity galas. All smiles. All money.

Gene followed the voices to a closed door at the end of the hall. He tried the handle.

Locked.

“Leanne!” He pounded. “Leanne!”

“Dad!” Her voice was closer now—desperate.

Gene stepped back and kicked.

The door was solid wood, but the lock was decorative. It took three kicks before the frame splintered and the door burst open.

The room was expensively furnished, but it felt wrong—sterile, clinical, like it wasn’t meant for living so much as containment.

And in the center, Leanne sat on the floor in a thin nightgown, arms wrapped around herself, rocking slightly.

She looked up.

Gene’s heart shattered.

His daughter—his strong, brilliant daughter—looked like a ghost of herself. Too thin. Too pale. Hair limp, eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

But it was her arms that made Gene’s vision blur with rage.

Rows of burn marks ran along both forearms—some newer, some older—laid out with deliberate intention, not random accident. The pattern was methodical, like someone had turned harm into routine.

This wasn’t clumsiness.

This wasn’t self-inflicted chaos.

This was someone doing something to her.

“Oh, baby.” Gene crossed the room in three strides and gathered her into his arms.

Leanne collapsed against him, sobbing. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you. I should have—”

“Shh.” Gene held her tighter, careful of her injuries. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m getting you out of here.”

“She won’t let me leave,” Leanne whispered. “She said if I try, they’ll have me committed. She said no one would believe me because of my history.”

“What history?” Gene demanded.

“The one Brent created,” Leanne said, voice shaking. “He’s been giving me things, Dad. Pills. He said they were vitamins, but they made me foggy. Paranoid. He documented everything—my mood swings, my irrational behavior. He has videos. Doctor’s notes. They’ve been building a case that I’m mentally unstable.”

Gene’s mind raced.

A gaslighting operation—planned, documented, weaponized.

“Where’s Brent now?” Gene asked.

“Downstairs. I think he and his brother, Brian, were drinking. That’s why I got my phone.” She swallowed. “I hid it weeks ago after Edna took my first one.”

Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Gene helped Leanne to her feet. She was unsteady, and he kept his arm around her like a brace.

Brent appeared in the doorway. Expensive shirt untucked, eyes bloodshot. Behind him stood Brian—nearly identical except for a scar along his chin.

They blocked the exit like they owned oxygen.

“Gene,” Brent said. His voice was slurred, threaded with amusement. “Breaking and entering. Assault on my mother. You’re really not helping Leanne’s case here.”

“Get out of my way,” Gene said.

“Can’t do that.” Brent’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Leanne’s sick. She needs help. Professional help. We’ve already made arrangements.”

“You’ve been hurting her,” Gene said quietly. Deadly. “Those burns on her arms—that’s not help. That’s abuse.”

Brent glanced at Leanne’s arms and shrugged. “Unfortunate side effects of her condition.”

Leanne’s voice was a trembling knife. “That’s a lie.”

“Is it?” Brent pulled out his phone. “Because I have video of you doing exactly what you’re accusing us of. Dated. Timestamped.”

Gene felt something hot surge through his chest.

He staged it.

Leanne tried to speak, but Brent talked over her like she wasn’t there.

“Paranoid delusions. Blame-shifting. Classic symptoms,” Brent said, addressing Gene in a tone that sounded rehearsed. “We have psychiatrists ready to testify that Leanne needs inpatient treatment at our facility.”

Gene’s understanding hit hard.

This wasn’t just control.

Spark Centers had done this before.

Find someone vulnerable, break them down, lock them away inside a system they owned, where oversight was soft and silence was bought.

“How many others?” Gene asked.

Brent’s smile widened. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“How many people have you done this to?” Gene’s voice rose. “How many patients are in your centers because you manufactured a diagnosis?”

“That’s a serious accusation.” Brent’s eyes sharpened. “You should be careful. Slander is expensive.”

Gene pulled out his phone and started recording.

“Say that again.”

Brian moved forward. “Put that away.”

“Or what?” Gene didn’t flinch. “You’ll burn me too? Add me to your collection?”

He kept the camera steady on Brent.

“My daughter called me for help,” Gene said into the recording. “I found her locked in a room with obvious injuries. That’s unlawful imprisonment. That’s assault. The police are going to want to see this.”

“The police are family friends,” Edna said from behind her sons. She’d recovered her composure and stood there like a judge, not a mother. “Chief Morrison’s daughter received treatment at our center. Free of charge. He’s very grateful.”

“And State Senator Harding’s son,” Ken added, appearing beside his wife.

“And Judge Patterson’s wife,” Edna continued smoothly. “We’re very well connected, Gene. Whatever you think you saw here—whatever story you think you have—it won’t go anywhere.”

Gene looked at all of them: Brent and Brian blocking the door, Edna and Ken behind them, a family unified in corruption.

How many lives had they crushed?

How many families had they hollowed out?

Gene leaned closer to Leanne. “Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” His voice steadied. “We’re leaving.”

“I don’t think so,” Brent said.

Gene met his eyes. “You can try to stop us, but you’re drunk, and there are two of you and one of me. Someone’s going to get hurt. And when the ambulance comes—when the police come—Leanne’s injuries are going to need explaining.”

“We’ve already explained it,” Edna said coldly. “Leanne is mentally ill.”

“That story works if Leanne stays here,” Gene said. “It falls apart if she’s somewhere safe—giving her own statement to doctors you don’t control.”

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then Gene made his decision.

He lifted Leanne into his arms.

She weighed almost nothing.

He started toward the door.

“Stop,” Brent said, and for the first time there was uncertainty in his voice.

Gene didn’t stop.

He walked straight at them.

At the last second, Brian stepped aside.

Brent reached for Leanne, but Gene twisted away. They were past them, into the hallway.

“Brian, don’t let them!” Edna snapped.

Footsteps thundered behind them.

Gene moved faster, taking the stairs as quickly as he dared. The front door was still broken open from where he’d kicked it in.

He got Leanne into the passenger seat, gentle as he could.

He ran around to the driver’s side.

A hand grabbed his shoulder.

Brian.

Gene spun and drove his fist into Brian’s stomach. Brian doubled over, wheezing. Gene got into the car, started the engine, and floored it.

In the rearview mirror, the Sparks family stood in their doorway, backlit by the mansion’s lights, watching.

They didn’t chase.

They didn’t need to.

They thought they’d already won.

Gene shoved his phone into Leanne’s trembling hands.

“Call 911,” he said. “Tell them you’re a victim of domestic violence and you need to go to the hospital. Tell them you were held against your will.”

Leanne nodded, swallowing down panic, and made the call.

“And tell them you want County General,” Gene added. “Not any hospital the Sparks family recommends.”

She nodded again, and her voice—thin but steadying—began to speak into the phone.

Gene drove toward the city, his mind already working.

The Sparks had money. Connections. A pre-built narrative.

But Gene had spent fifteen years taking down people who thought they were untouchable. He knew how to investigate. How to find the cracks. How to build a case that couldn’t be ignored.

More than that, he knew how to hurt them where it mattered.

The Sparks family had just made a catastrophic mistake.

They targeted his daughter.

And Gene Mullins didn’t forgive.

He didn’t forget.

He documented, he exposed, and he destroyed.

This wasn’t over.

It was just beginning.

County General’s emergency room was understaffed and overworked at five in the morning. But the nurse who guided Leanne back had kind eyes and a calm professionalism that steadied Gene more than he expected. He explained the situation—domestic violence, possible drugging, clear signs of sustained abuse.

The nurse nodded, documented Leanne’s injuries, and initiated standard protocols to make sure nothing else was missed. Leanne insisted Brent had never harmed her in that way, but the staff moved gently and carefully.

“Better to rule it out,” the nurse said.

Gene wanted to stay with Leanne, but policy separated them. He was left in the waiting room in yesterday’s clothes, hands bruised from hitting Brian, mind churning.

His phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number.

You’ve made a serious mistake. Return Leanne immediately and we’ll forget this happened.

Gene deleted it without responding.

Another buzz.

This time, a photo—his front door, with a clear message.

We know where you live.

Instead of fear, Gene felt something click into place.

Threats meant they were worried.

Worried meant vulnerable.

He opened his phone and reviewed the footage he’d captured: Brent’s smug deflections, Edna’s confidence in their police ties, Ken’s casual mentions of powerful people in their orbit.

It wasn’t enough to prosecute on its own. Any competent lawyer could try to bury it.

But it was enough to start.

Gene opened his laptop and began working.

First, he created encrypted backups of the video and uploaded them to three separate secure servers. Then he started digging into Spark Centers—five locations across the Southwest. Corporate filings. Licensing records. Staff lists.

He cross-referenced names with social media, looking for employees who left suddenly, especially the ones who left angry.

He found seven in the first hour.

Three had posted vague complaints on job review sites before deleting them.

Two had filed wrongful termination suits that were settled out of court with strict silence clauses.

One had died by suicide six months after leaving.

That last one stopped him cold.

Paula Chun, licensed therapist, age thirty-four.

Her obituary mentioned her dedication to her patients and her family’s grief. Nothing about why someone so young, so apparently devoted, would be gone.

Gene dug deeper.

Paula’s sister had started a blog in her memory, processing grief in public. In one entry from two years ago, she wrote that Paula had seen things at her last job that kept her from sleeping, that she’d wanted to speak up, but she’d been terrified.

Gene noted the sister’s name and location.

Melissa Chun. San Diego.

A two-hour drive.

A doctor appeared in the waiting room.

“Mr. Mullins?”

Gene stood so fast the chair scraped.

“How is she?” he asked.

“She’ll recover,” the doctor said. “The burns are consistent with repeated contact with a heated object. Some will scar. We’ve treated and bandaged them. She’s dehydrated and malnourished, but we’re giving her fluids now.”

The doctor’s mouth tightened. “We ran a toxicology screen. She has multiple substances in her system—sedatives, an antipsychotic, and another compound we’re still identifying. It’s a troubling combination, especially for someone who shouldn’t be taking any of them.”

Gene swallowed the fury like it was acid.

“Can you document all of this?” he asked.

“Already done,” the doctor said. “We’ve also contacted social services and law enforcement, as required in abuse cases. A detective will want to speak with both of you.”

Gene tensed. “What precinct?”

“Central,” the doctor replied.

Not Morrison’s precinct.

That mattered.

“Can I see her soon?”

“She’s asking for you.”

When the doctor left, Gene’s phone rang again.

Marcus Webb—his business partner.

“Gene, where are you?” Marcus asked. “We have a network meeting at nine.”

Gene blinked.

They were pitching their pharmaceutical exposé to a streaming platform. Eight months of work. A potential six-figure deal.

“I can’t make it,” Gene said. “Family emergency.”

“What?” Marcus snapped. “Gene, we can’t reschedule this. They’re flying in from—”

“You’ll have to do it without me.”

A pause.

Then Marcus’s voice softened. “This is Leanne, isn’t it?”

“It’s bad,” Gene said. “Her husband’s family—they’ve been abusing her. Systematically. And I think it’s bigger than just Leanne.”

Silence, then: “Jesus. What do you need?”

“Time,” Gene said. “And maybe your research skills. I’m sending you names.”

“Done,” Marcus said immediately. “Go take care of your daughter. I’ll handle the meeting.”

After they hung up, a nurse led Gene to Leanne’s room.

She lay in a hospital bed with an IV in her arm. Bandages covered her injuries. She looked small and young, like the girl she’d been when Sarah died.

“Hey, Dad,” she whispered.

Gene pulled a chair beside her bed and took her hand, careful around the bandages.

“Hey, baby,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

“Scared,” Leanne admitted. “They’re going to come for me, aren’t they?”

“Probably,” Gene said honestly. “But you’re safe here. I’m not leaving.”

Tears slipped down Leanne’s cheeks. “I’m so stupid. You warned me about Brent, about his family, and I didn’t listen. I thought you were just—”

“Stop,” Gene said. “This isn’t your fault. They’re professionals at this.”

Leanne looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

Gene explained what he’d found—employees leaving under suspicious circumstances, patterns of silence, the feeling that Spark Centers wasn’t just “treatment,” it was a machine.

“They kill people,” Leanne whispered.

“I don’t know that yet,” Gene said, squeezing her hand gently. “But I’m going to find out.”

Leanne swallowed hard. “Dad… I need you to know what happened. From the beginning.”

“Tell me,” Gene said.

She took a shaky breath. “About six months after we got married, Brent started coming home late. Drinking more. When I asked, he’d get angry—not violent, just… cold. Like I was a problem to manage.”

She stared at the ceiling as if reading her own memories.

“Then Edna started inviting me to lunch,” Leanne continued. “Just the two of us. She was nice at first. Sympathetic. She said Brent was under pressure from the family business, that I needed to be more supportive.”

Gene’s jaw clenched. “When did the drugs start?”

“Maybe eight months ago,” Leanne said. “Brent said I seemed anxious. He wanted me to try these vitamins their centers used. I trusted him.”

Her voice turned bitter. “They made me foggy. I’d lose time. Forget conversations. Brent started filming me when I was confused—making it seem like I was unstable.”

“And your arms?” Gene asked, voice tight.

Leanne’s face went pale. “That started three months ago. Edna did it. She called it ‘therapy.’ Said pain could ‘break through my blocks.’”

Leanne’s eyes filled again. “She’d heat something and press it to my skin. Brent held me down. Sometimes Brian watched.”

Gene felt his rage crystallize—cold, focused, weaponized.

“Did they ever say why?” he asked. “Why you specifically?”

Leanne swallowed. “Edna said I was perfect. Young. Isolated from my father. Trusting. She said I’d be a good test case for their new program.”

“What program?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Leanne admitted. “But I heard them talking once—about expanding. Using their methods on more patients. Edna said if they could break me… the daughter of Gene Mullins… then they could break anyone.”

It hit Gene with brutal clarity.

They didn’t just target Leanne because Brent wanted control.

They targeted her because of Gene.

To prove they could.

A knock came at the door.

A woman in a rumpled suit entered, badge visible.

Detective Laura McIntyre.

“Mr. Mullins, Miss Mullins,” she said. “I need to take your statements about what happened tonight.”

Gene stood.

“Before we do that,” he said, “I need to know something. Are you familiar with the Sparks family?”

McIntyre’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes.

“Everyone knows the Sparks,” she said. “Big donors. Prominent family.”

“Do you know Chief Morrison?”

Now she frowned. “Different precinct. But yes. Why?”

Gene made a decision.

“Because the Sparks told me Morrison is in their pocket,” Gene said. “They told me they’ve bought off judges and senators. I need to know if I can trust you before my daughter says anything on record.”

For a long moment, McIntyre studied him.

Then she closed the door and pulled her chair closer.

“I’m going to be honest,” she said. “Morrison and I don’t get along. He plays politics. He cares about his clearance rate more than actual justice. If the Sparks have influence with him, I’m not surprised.”

Leanne’s voice went small. “So we can’t trust the police.”

“You can trust me,” McIntyre said firmly. “I’ve been a cop for twelve years. I’ve seen a lot of abuse cases. Rich families think money makes them untouchable. Sometimes they’re right. But I don’t care how connected they are.”

She opened a notebook.

“You tell me what happened,” she said, “and I’ll document it. I’ll build a case even if it doesn’t go anywhere.”

Gene nodded, because he knew one thing better than most people:

Even when a case doesn’t go anywhere at first, patterns accumulate. Pressure builds. Someone breaks ranks. The truth comes out.

Leanne talked for an hour.

McIntyre took detailed notes, asked careful questions, and never once looked at Leanne like she was a spectacle.

By the end, the detective’s expression was grim.

“This is enough for an arrest warrant,” McIntyre said. “Assault and unlawful imprisonment. The drugging is trickier until we identify exactly what was used, but we’re working on it.”

“They’ll lawyer up,” Gene said.

“Let them,” McIntyre replied. “I’ve arrested rich people before. They bleed just like everyone else when you cut through their shields.”

After McIntyre left with a promise to return with updates, Gene sat with Leanne until she drifted into sleep. Even resting, her face held tension, like her body didn’t fully believe it was safe yet.

Gene stepped into the hallway and called Marcus back.

“How’d the meeting go?” Gene asked.

“Good,” Marcus said. “They want to move forward. They’re excited about the project.”

A pause.

“How’s Leanne?”

“She’ll survive,” Gene said. “Marcus… I need to ask you something. How would you feel about putting the pharma doc on hold for a few months?”

“Why?” Marcus asked, already knowing.

“Because I’m going after the Sparks family,” Gene said. “And I need your help.”

“Gene, we’re so close to—”

“I know,” Gene cut in. “And I’m sorry. But this is my daughter. They hurt her, Marcus. And I think they’ve done it to others. This could be the biggest story we’ve ever told.”

Silence.

Then Marcus exhaled.

“What do you need?” he asked.

Gene smiled grimly.

“Everything we’ve got.”

Two days later, Leanne was released with strict instructions to follow up with specialists. Gene transformed his home office into a command center—photos, timelines, connection maps covering the walls like a war room.

Marcus arrived carrying his laptop and three boxes of files.

“I reached out to Paula Chun’s sister,” Marcus said, setting up. “She’ll meet with us. She’s been waiting for someone to ask about Paula for two years.”

“Good,” Gene said. “What about the other former employees?”

“Two agreed to talk off the record. Three aren’t responding. One threatened to call their lawyer if I contacted them again.”

“Fear or complicity,” Gene murmured.

“Could be either.”

Gene spent forty-eight hours building a profile of the Sparks family empire. The more he found, the more disturbing it became. Spark Centers generated roughly fifty million dollars annually. They specialized in long-term residential “treatment.” Their client list was private, but society pages and donation records left footprints: CEOs, politicians, celebrities, family members who needed “privacy.”

The centers were licensed and accredited.

But Gene noticed something that made his stomach turn.

State inspections were always scheduled and brief.

And the same inspector handled all five locations.

Dr. Nathan Snyder—a psychiatrist who left private practice ten years ago to work for the state licensing board.

Gene pulled Snyder’s financials. Three years ago, Snyder bought a vacation home in Aspen for 1.2 million dollars in cash—on a civil servant salary.

Marcus added Snyder to the corruption map with a low whistle.

Detective McIntyre secured warrants, but the arrests went sideways.

Brent and Edna turned themselves in with a team of expensive lawyers. They were processed and released on bail within four hours.

Their statement to the press painted Leanne as unstable and Gene as an overprotective father who assaulted them.

Worse, Judge Patterson—one of the judges Ken had named—issued a restraining order preventing Gene from contacting any member of the Sparks family.

McIntyre called, furious.

“The DA is waffling,” she said. “He says it’s he-said, she-said. Brent’s lawyers submitted ‘evidence’ of Leanne’s instability. Fake records, but well forged.”

“What do you need?” Gene asked.

“A pattern,” McIntyre said. “More victims. Something that makes this impossible to ignore.”

So Gene went hunting for the other victims.

He identified forty-three people who’d been patients at Spark Centers in the last five years and later died under suspicious circumstances—self-inflicted deaths, overdoses, “accidents.”

Forty-three was high, but not statistically impossible for high-risk populations.

What was suspicious was how many deaths happened after someone tried to leave early—or filed complaints.

Gene started making calls.

Some families hung up immediately. Some cried. Some got angry. But three talked.

A mother in Phoenix said her son died three weeks after leaving the Scottsdale Spark Center. He’d been sober for two years. Sparks called it a “wellness tune-up.” He came home paranoid, agitated. They said relapse.

“He swore to me he didn’t use,” the mother said, voice breaking. “Then he was gone.”

A father in Santa Fe said his daughter died in a hiking incident after trying to escape the Spark Center there. She was experienced. The official story sounded neat. Too neat.

“When I finally saw her,” the father said, “it looked like someone had tried to silence a struggle.”

A sister in Tucson said her brother died two weeks after filing a complaint with the state licensing board. The complaint was dismissed. His death was ruled simple, final.

“But he wasn’t like that,” she insisted. “He was angry. He wanted justice.”

Gene documented everything—names, dates, patterns.

Patients who complained. Patients who tried to leave. Families who pushed back. Deaths ruled quickly and cleanly, no deeper questions, no follow-up.

“They’re killing people,” Leanne said quietly from the couch where she was recovering.

“That’s what they do,” she whispered. “They break people down. And if anyone tries to expose them… they erase them.”

“I think you’re right,” Gene said. “But I need proof. Suspicion isn’t enough.”

His phone rang.

Melissa Chun.

“Mr. Mullins,” she said, voice tight with grief that hadn’t healed. “Thank you for agreeing to meet. Can you come tomorrow? Morning would be best. I have something to show you. Something Paula left behind.”

Gene arranged the drive to San Diego.

That night, he sat with Leanne and Marcus, reviewing everything.

“It’s a lot of circumstantial evidence,” Marcus said. “But it’s building.”

“We need someone from inside,” Gene said. “A current employee—or a former one who’s ready to talk.”

“You think any exist?” Marcus asked.

“Everyone has a breaking point,” Gene said. “The Sparks push people past theirs all the time. Someone who worked for them has to have reached it.”

Leanne leaned forward. “Dad… I might know someone.”

Gene’s eyes locked on hers.

“Carolina Wells,” Leanne said. “A therapist. She was kind to me. When I was in the center before they moved me to the house, she slipped me extra food. Gave me books. Small things. Brent had her fired for it.”

“When?” Gene asked.

“Two months ago.”

Gene looked at Marcus. “Can you find her?”

Marcus was already typing.

Gene’s phone buzzed—another threat. This time, from Brent’s number.

You’re making things worse for Leanne. Drop this and we’ll get her the help she needs. Continue and we’ll take more drastic measures.

Gene screenshot it and forwarded it to McIntyre.

Then he sent his own response.

Come at me and I’ll bury you.

The reply came fast.

You can’t touch us. We’re untouchable.

Gene smiled, humorless.

That’s what they all said right before he destroyed them.

Marcus looked up. “Found her. Carolina Wells, thirty-two. Licensed therapist. Unemployed since leaving Sparks. Lives about twenty minutes from here. No phone number listed, but I have an address.”

“Good,” Gene said. “We’ll visit after I get back from San Diego.”

That night, Gene couldn’t sleep.

He stood in his office studying the wall of evidence. The Sparks thought they were safe behind money and connections. They’d spent years perfecting their system: break people, silence witnesses, buy off anyone who could stop them.

But they’d never encountered someone like Gene.

Someone who knew how to investigate, how to build a narrative, how to weaponize truth.

Someone with nothing left to lose.

He would burn his career to the ground if it meant justice for Leanne. He would spend every penny. Risk everything.

Because some things mattered more than safety.

Family mattered.

Truth mattered.

Justice mattered.

And the Sparks family was about to learn what happened when you targeted the wrong person’s daughter.

Gene picked up his camera and recorded a statement the way he always began—a promise to the audience, a line drawn in public.

“My name is Gene Mullins,” he said into the lens. “Eighteen months ago, my daughter married into the Sparks family. I had doubts. I trusted her judgment. I was wrong. The Sparks run rehabilitation centers across the Southwest. They claim to help people. Instead, they hurt them, drug them, and destroy anyone who tries to expose them. They hurt my daughter—and I’m going to make them pay.”

He stopped recording, saved the file, backed it up.

Then he started planning.

Melissa Chun’s house was a small bungalow in a quiet San Diego neighborhood. She answered the door before Gene could knock, like she’d been watching the window.

“Mr. Mullins,” she said. “Come in.”

She was early forties, wearing jeans and a faded UCLA sweatshirt. Her eyes were sad but fierce.

Gene recognized that look.

He’d seen it in the mirror after Sarah died.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Gene said.

“You’re the first person who’s asked about Paula in two years,” Melissa replied. “Everyone else wanted me to move on. Stop making trouble.”

She led him into a small office lined with boxes.

“These are Paula’s things,” she said. “I couldn’t go through them. But after you called, I started looking.”

She pulled out a laptop.

“Paula kept journals. Encrypted. But I figured out her password.”

Her voice cracked. “It was my birthday. She always remembered.”

She opened a file and turned the screen toward Gene.

The entries were dated, detailed, horrifying.

Paula began working at the Scottsdale Spark Center three years ago, hopeful about helping people recover. Within weeks, she noticed inconsistencies: patients whose symptoms didn’t match their diagnoses, medication records that didn’t align with treatment plans, complaints that vanished without investigation.

One entry from eighteen months before her death described confronting a superior and being told to stop asking questions if she valued her career. He hinted she could “end up” like a patient who supposedly fell down stairs.

Paula later checked: Building C was single-story.

There were no stairs.

Gene photographed entries while Melissa watched, breathing shallowly. Another entry from one month before Paula’s death talked about fear, about how she’d made copies of everything—files, logs, internal memos—and planned to take them to the state board.

“Did she make it?” Gene asked softly.

“She had an appointment scheduled,” Melissa said. “She died the night before. They said it was suicide. The police didn’t care. Case closed.”

Gene’s mind tightened into focus.

“Did Paula mention where she kept the copies?”

“She said she had them,” Melissa whispered. “But after she died, I cleared out her apartment. There was nothing.”

Gene stared at the laptop, thinking like an investigator, not a mourner.

“Storage unit?” he asked. “Any other place she might hide something?”

Melissa’s eyes widened slowly.

“Her office,” she said. “At the university. She had a small office there for graduate work. She volunteered sometimes—mentoring students. I never checked it.”

“Can you get me in?”

Melissa nodded. “I still have her keys. I kept them. I don’t know why.”

They drove to the university together. Paula’s office was in the psychology building—small, shared, generic. The current occupant was gone. Melissa unlocked the door.

Gene searched methodically: drawers, behind books, under furniture.

Nothing.

Then he noticed a ceiling tile above the desk slightly crooked.

He climbed onto the desk and pushed the tile up.

A cardboard box sat hidden in the space above.

Inside were USB drives—labeled and dated—along with printed files: patient records, internal emails, and financial documents.

“She really did copy everything,” Melissa whispered.

Gene flipped through the papers, heart pounding.

Patient intake forms with forged diagnoses. Medication schedules designed for compliance, not healing. Internal memos about “difficult patients” who needed “special handling.”

And financial records that looked like payments—cleanly laid out—to state inspectors, local police, and public officials.

This was it.

This was the kind of proof that didn’t bend.

“Melissa,” Gene said, holding her gaze, “I need to take all of this. I promise I’ll use it to make sure Paula didn’t die for nothing.”

Melissa nodded, tears sliding down her face.

“Destroy them,” she whispered. “Please. For Paula.”

“I will,” Gene said.

He drove back with the box secured in his trunk like it was priceless.

He called Marcus.

“We have it,” Gene said. “Paula documented everything—patient abuse, medical fraud, bribery… and worse.”

“Jesus,” Marcus breathed. “That’s massive. We need to be careful.”

“They’ll find out soon enough,” Gene said. “But by then it’ll be too late.”

When Gene arrived home, Leanne was waiting with news of her own.

“Carolina Wells called,” Leanne said. “She wants to meet tonight.”

Gene felt the pieces click.

“Where?”

“A coffee shop downtown,” Leanne said. “Eight o’clock. She said to come alone.”

“No chance,” Gene snapped. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“Dad,” Leanne pleaded. “She specifically said she won’t talk if you’re there. She’s scared.”

Marcus stepped in. “I’ll go with Leanne. I’ll stay close but out of sight. If anything feels wrong, we leave immediately.”

Gene didn’t like it, but Carolina was a key witness. If she talked, they’d have insider testimony to match Paula’s documents.

“Fine,” Gene said. “But you check in every fifteen minutes.”

At 7:30, Marcus and Leanne left.

Gene stayed behind, uploading Paula’s files to encrypted servers and cataloging evidence.

The patient records were damning—people admitted for manageable issues and systematically broken down through a mix of drugs, isolation, and psychological abuse. Some died. Others left as hollowed versions of themselves.

The financial records showed routine bribery.

Dr. Snyder received fifty thousand every quarter.

Chief Morrison: twenty-five thousand, plus free “treatment” for his daughter.

Judge Patterson: a hundred thousand a year disguised as consulting fees.

Gene’s phone rang.

Marcus.

“We’ve got her,” Marcus said. “Carolina’s talking. She’s confirming everything—drugging protocols, abuse, coverups. Gene… she has names.”

Gene exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

Then something in his gut twisted.

It felt too easy.

The Sparks had spent years covering tracks, silencing witnesses.

Why would Carolina talk now?

Why tonight?

Gene’s phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

A photo.

Marcus and Leanne in the coffee shop with Carolina.

Taken from outside, through the window.

Then another text:

Did you really think we wouldn’t be watching?

Gene’s blood ran cold.

He called Marcus.

Voicemail.

He tried Leanne.

Voicemail.

He grabbed his keys and ran.

The coffee shop was fifteen minutes away.

Gene made it in eight, blowing red lights and weaving through traffic with a single thought hammering his skull:

Not again. Not my daughter again.

He pulled up.

Marcus’s car was still there.

The coffee shop was closed. Dark.

Gene tried the door.

Locked.

He peered through the window.

Empty.

He called McIntyre.

“I need help,” he said. “My daughter and my partner were meeting a witness. Now they’re gone.”

“What’s the address?” McIntyre asked.

Gene gave it. She promised units immediately.

Gene circled the building, scanning for movement.

In the alley behind the shop, he found Marcus’s phone—cracked, lying in a puddle.

Then Gene’s own phone rang.

Brent’s number.

Gene answered.

Brent’s voice was smug. “Looking for Leanne?”

“If you touch her—” Gene said, his voice low enough to shake.

“Don’t worry,” Brent replied. “She’s safe. For now. She’s back where she belongs.”

Gene’s vision narrowed. “What do you want?”

“Everything you’ve collected,” Brent said. “Every document. Every recording. Every piece of evidence. Bring it to the Scottsdale Spark Center alone tonight… where Leanne learns what real pain feels like.”

“Let me talk to her,” Gene demanded.

A pause.

Then Leanne’s voice—terrified.

“Dad, don’t—”

The line cut.

Gene stood in the alley as rain began to fall, his mind racing.

They had Leanne.

They probably had Marcus too.

And they wanted him to hand over the only leverage he had.

If he went to the police, the Sparks would disappear Leanne before anyone could find her.

If he gave them the evidence, they’d erase all three of them.

There was only one option.

Gene got in his car and started driving toward Scottsdale.

But he wasn’t bringing surrender.

He was bringing a war.

The Scottsdale Spark Center sat on ten acres of desert landscape designed to look like a luxury resort: adobe-style buildings around a courtyard, fountains, desert gardens, high walls topped with decorative ironwork that was really security.

Gene had studied the layout in his research: five patient buildings, an administration building, staff quarters, a medical facility.

Underground, there was a basement level not on public blueprints but visible in electrical permits—likely where they kept “difficult” patients away from eyes that asked questions.

It was nearly midnight.

Gene parked near the main gate and stepped out. The guard booth was empty, but the gate opened automatically as he approached.

He was expected.

Gene walked through the courtyard carrying a laptop bag.

Inside were documents and recordings—but not originals.

Copies.

The real evidence had already been distributed across multiple servers and sent to three journalists with instructions to publish if Gene didn’t check in by morning.

The administration building’s front door opened.

Edna Sparks stood there flanked by two security guards.

“Gene,” she said, smiling like this was a dinner reservation. “Prompt as always. Do you have what we asked for?”

“Where’s Leanne?” Gene demanded.

“Safe,” Edna replied. “Show me the evidence first.”

Gene opened the laptop and displayed files.

Edna examined them, expression unreadable.

“This is everything?” she asked.

“Everything,” Gene said.

Edna nodded to the guards. They moved toward him.

Gene lifted a hand. “Not until I see Leanne and Marcus alive.”

Edna considered it, then shrugged. “Very well. Follow me.”

She led him through luxurious common areas and “treatment rooms” to an elevator.

They descended.

The basement level was nothing like upstairs.

Cold. Sterile. More prison than resort.

Edna unlocked a door.

Inside, Leanne and Marcus were zip-tied to chairs. Both looked roughed up, but alive.

Carolina Wells sat in a third chair—unrestrained, face twisted with guilt.

“I’m sorry,” Carolina whispered to Leanne. “They have my daughter. They said if I didn’t help—”

“Shut up,” Edna snapped.

She turned to Gene. “As you can see, they’re fine. Now hand over the laptop.”

Gene set the laptop on a table and stepped back.

Edna took it, examined the files again, then passed it to a guard.

“Delete everything,” Edna ordered. “Check his cloud accounts too.”

The guard sat and started typing.

Brent entered, drink in hand, smiling like a man who thought the world belonged to him.

“Gene,” he said. “Glad you could join us. Saves us the trouble of hunting you down.”

“Let them go,” Gene said. “You have what you want.”

“Do we?” Brent’s smile sharpened. “See, here’s the problem. You’re persistent. Even if we delete this, even if we make all three of you disappear, you’ve probably left copies. Insurance. Dead-man switches.”

Gene’s mouth didn’t move, but his eyes did.

Brent nodded like he’d confirmed it.

“So we need a permanent solution,” Brent said. “Leanne stays with us. We’ll continue her treatment until she’s… compliant. You and your friend Marcus—well. Accidents happen in the desert.”

Gene had expected this.

“And how will you explain three missing people?” Gene asked. “The police know I came here.”

“Do they?” Brent asked. “Because I don’t think you called them. I think you came alone trying to be a hero.”

Brent stepped closer.

“Tomorrow morning,” he said, “Carolina will report that you came to the center looking for Leanne. Clearly unstable. We’ll show footage of you attacking staff. Then you disappear into the desert. Marcus too. Leanne will be too ‘ill’ to contradict the story.”

“You’ve thought of everything,” Gene said.

“We always do,” Brent replied.

Gene’s voice turned quieter.

“Except one thing.”

Brent frowned. “What?”

“I didn’t come alone.”

As if on cue, the lights went out.

Emergency lighting kicked in, bathing the room in harsh red.

The guard at the laptop jolted. “Sir—someone’s broadcasting our security feeds live. It’s going out on—”

A distant blast shook the building, strong enough to rattle dust from the ceiling.

Gene smiled.

“That,” he said, “would be federal agents executing their warrant.”

Edna’s composure cracked. “What?”

Detective McIntyre entered the room behind a wave of agents in tactical gear.

“FBI,” a voice thundered. “Nobody move!”

McIntyre wore a bulletproof vest, eyes hard as stone.

Edna Sparks stood frozen.

Brent’s smile vanished.

McIntyre looked at Gene, then at Leanne, then at Marcus.

“Gene Mullins,” she started, then stopped, looking at the chaos, the restraints, the evidence trail in motion.

“You know what?” she said. “Forget it. Someone cut them loose.”

Agents freed Leanne and Marcus.

Leanne stumbled into Gene’s arms, and Gene held her like he’d hold her forever if it meant she stayed real.

“Ow,” she whispered, pressing her face into his shoulder.

Gene’s voice was rough. “You’re safe.”

Marcus exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for miles. “When you and Leanne went to meet Carolina, I called McIntyre,” he said. “We’d already been coordinating with federal agents. The meeting was bait to see if the Sparks would grab you.”

“You used us as bait,” Marcus said, sounding more impressed than angry.

“I had eyes on you the whole time,” McIntyre replied. “The moment they moved, the feds moved too. We needed time to assemble and get warrants.”

McIntyre stepped toward Edna.

“Edna Sparks,” she said, voice crisp, “you’re under arrest for kidnapping, assault, fraud, and a long list of additional charges. You have the right to remain silent.”

As agents cuffed the Sparks family and their security, something unclenched in Gene’s chest.

It wasn’t over. There would be trials. Years of legal warfare.

But the Sparks were caught.

The evidence was preserved.

And the victims—finally—had a chance at justice.

Agents began bringing people up from other basement rooms. Some looked disoriented. Some cried with relief. Some stared like they didn’t trust freedom yet.

An agent approached Gene.

“Sir,” he said, “you should know—we found evidence connecting this facility to multiple deaths. We’ll need your full cooperation.”

“You have it,” Gene said. “All of it.”

Leanne looked up at him, eyes wet, voice small.

“Is it really over?”

Gene cupped her face gently. “The first part is. Now we make sure they never hurt anyone again.”

The trials took eighteen months.

Media coverage was relentless.

Gene finished his documentary with Marcus’s help, and it premiered on a major streaming platform to critical acclaim and millions of views. It told the complete story—Paula Chun’s investigation, the systematic abuse, the corruption, the final takedown.

The evidence was overwhelming.

Brent Sparks was convicted of assault, kidnapping, and conspiracy to commit murder. He received twenty-five years.

Edna Sparks—the architect of the abuse program—received thirty.

Ken received fifteen for his role in the bribery scheme.

Brian received twelve for assault and aiding and abetting.

Dr. Snyder, Chief Morrison, and Judge Patterson were indicted. Morrison took a plea deal and testified. Patterson fought and lost, receiving ten years for corruption. Snyder died before trial.

Spark Centers were shut down. Assets were seized and sold; proceeds went to victim compensation funds.

Thirty-two people came forward with abuse claims. All received settlements.

More importantly, the case triggered investigations into similar facilities nationwide. Regulations tightened. Oversight increased.

It didn’t fix everything.

But it helped.

For Gene, the victory was personal.

Leanne moved back home while she healed. Her scars remained, but she wore them now as proof of survival, not shame. She began therapy with a trauma specialist and rebuilt herself slowly, brick by brick.

Marcus recovered quickly and joked it was the most exciting production they’d ever worked on.

Carolina Wells testified against the Sparks family in exchange for immunity. Her daughter was safe. She began working at a legitimate therapy center, determined to do right by her patients.

Melissa Chun attended every day of the trials. When Edna Sparks was sentenced, Melissa stood in the courtroom gallery and said one word:

“Paula.”

Gene understood then—this was never only about Leanne.

It was about all of them.

Every victim. Every family destroyed. Every person the Sparks hurt.

On the day the verdicts came in, Gene and Leanne stood outside the courthouse as reporters shouted questions.

Gene raised a hand for quiet.

“Two years ago,” he said, “my daughter called me for help. What I found was a system designed to hurt vulnerable people and silence anyone who spoke up. Today, that system is destroyed. The Sparks family will spend decades in prison.”

He looked directly into the cameras.

“But this isn’t just about one family,” he continued. “It’s about every family like them—people who believe money and power make them untouchable. I made a promise to document truth and seek justice. I’ve kept that promise. If you’re out there hiding behind wealth or connections, believing you can hurt people without consequence—watch what happened here. Because I’m not the only one paying attention.”

He lowered his hand.

“Eventually the truth comes out,” he said. “Eventually, you pay.”

The reporters erupted with follow-ups, but Gene turned away.

He’d said what he needed to say.

Leanne linked her arm through his as they walked toward his car.

“What’s next for Gene Mullins, documentary filmmaker?” she asked, voice lighter than it had been in months.

Gene exhaled, tired and alive at the same time. “Honestly? I’m thinking about something lighter. Maybe a nature documentary. Penguins. Penguins are nice.”

Leanne laughed—a real laugh, bright and surprised. The first Gene had heard in a long time.

“You’d be bored in a week,” she said.

“Probably,” Gene admitted. “But I need a break from fighting monsters.”

Leanne’s smile softened. “Until the next one shows up.”

They drove home as the sun dropped low, painting the sky in gold and orange. Gene thought about Sarah. About Paula. About the people they lost along the way. About justice and revenge and the thin line between them.

He’d crossed that line.

He’d used Leanne and Marcus as bait.

He’d manipulated monsters into a trap.

Was that justice, or was it something darker?

In the end, Gene decided it didn’t matter.

The Sparks tortured his daughter. They destroyed lives. They corrupted officials.

And now they were gone.

If that meant Gene had become something ruthless in the process, he could live with it.

Because some things demanded more than politeness. More than procedure.

Family mattered.

Truth mattered.

And sometimes revenge mattered too.

As they pulled into the driveway, Leanne’s phone buzzed.

She read the message and smiled.

“What is it?” Gene asked.

“Carolina,” Leanne said. “She’s organizing a support group for Spark Center survivors. She wants to know if I’ll help.”

Gene watched his daughter’s face as she considered it—hope living beside the scars, not replacing them, just sharing space.

“Will you?” he asked.

“I think so,” Leanne said. “It feels like the right next step. Helping others heal.”

Gene squeezed her hand.

“Your mother would be proud of you,” he said.

Leanne’s eyes filled. “She’d be proud of you too, Dad. You kept your promise. You protected me.”

“I’ll always protect you,” Gene said.

Leanne shook her head, soft smile returning. “That’s not a promise. That’s a fact.”

They went inside together, and Gene thought about the future. There would be more documentaries, more investigations, more fights.

But for now, he had his daughter back.

She was safe.

She was healing.

And the people who hurt her were paying for it.

For now, that was enough.

Six months later, Gene received a letter.

It was from Brent Sparks, sent from federal prison.

Gene almost threw it away without reading it.

Curiosity won.

The letter was short.

You think you’ve won, but you’ve only made things worse for Leanne. People like us have long memories. My family has connections you can’t imagine. We’ll rebuild. And when we do, we’ll come for both of you. This time, you won’t see us coming.

Gene read it twice.

Then he lit his office fireplace and watched the letter burn.

After the last corner turned to ash, Gene made a phone call.

“Marcus,” he said, “I have an idea for our next project.”

Marcus laughed. “You can’t let it go, can you?”

“Nope,” Gene said. “How do you feel about investigating corruption in the federal prison system?”

Marcus’s laughter sharpened into disbelief. “Of course you do.”

Gene smiled at the flames dying down. “Besides,” he said, “I promised Brent I’d bury him. I keep my promises.”

Gene hung up and turned back to his wall of research. He’d already started a new board—mapping connections between the Sparks family’s remaining allies and associates. There were still loose ends. Still people who helped them and hadn’t been caught.

Gene would find them all.

Because this was what he did.

This was who he was.

The Sparks thought they broke Leanne.

Instead, they awakened something in her father that couldn’t be put back to sleep.

Gene Mullins didn’t just expose the truth.

He hunted it down, cornered it, and made it impossible to hide.

And he was just getting started.

In the other room, Leanne was on the phone with Carolina, planning their support group’s first meeting. She was laughing—hopeful, healing.

That sound, his daughter’s happiness, was worth everything.

Worth the work. Worth the danger. Worth the moral compromises.

Gene had learned a fundamental truth.

The world was full of monsters who preyed on the vulnerable. Most people couldn’t fight back. They didn’t have the skills, the resources, or the will.

But Gene did.

And he’d keep fighting until there were no monsters left—or until the monsters finally took him down.

Either way, he’d go down swinging.

Because some people deserved to be destroyed.

And Gene Mullins was more than happy to be the one who did it.

He looked at the new research board—at all the names and connections—and smiled.

“Who’s next?” he murmured.

The war was over.

Long live the war.

And there you have it. Another story comes to an end. What did you think? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments below.