That afternoon, the sky looked pale, as if the sun were reluctant to shine over the dusty city streets.
In a corner of a shopping complex, Braddy sat on an outdoor bench of a fast-food restaurant with three of his associates—Jackson, Reggy, and Jay.
In front of them, four plastic cups filled with cold drinks slowly melted, while their gazes were fixed on the road across from them.
The atmosphere felt heavy, as if something far bigger than a simple plan weighed on their minds.
“So, Peter really wants us to take Flora back to her house?” Jackson asked, staring at Braddy from behind his dark sunglasses.
Braddy did not answer immediately.
He leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath.
Celestine’s words from that morning still echoed clearly in his mind, accompanied by a tone of anger that only added to the pressure.
“Remember, I don’t want us dealing with the police. Find a safe way!”
It wasn’t just a warning.
It was an order.
Celestine never used the phrase “I don’t want” without serious intent.
“We must not use force or let this turn into violence,” Braddy continued, repeating her message.
“She reminded us not to create any legal violations.”
Reggy let out a small, cynical laugh.
“That’s going to be hard, Boss.
We’re not delivering packages—we’re dealing with a person.
And Flora isn’t the type to just come along nicely.”
Jay, sitting at the far end, added, “Especially if she’s already suspicious of us.
One wrong move, and she’ll scream for help.”
Braddy lowered his head for a moment.
His fingers tapped lightly against the table, as if trying to find a rhythm within the chaos in his thoughts.
He knew the risks they were facing.
But at the same time, he knew who had given the order.
Celestine was not someone you could refuse.
And Peter—somehow, the boy had grown increasingly anxious since his meeting with Flora a few days ago.
“I know this is complicated,” Braddy finally said.
“But we’ll do it cleanly. We won’t touch her. No violence. No threats. We just need to make sure she comes with us willingly.”
Reggy scoffed.
“Willingly? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Braddy shot him a sharp look.
“Do you remember who said that? Celestine herself. She said if we make even one mistake, the entire network could be investigated. And I’m not about to be the scapegoat.”
They all fell silent.
In the distance, car horns blared, and the smell of vehicle exhaust mixed with fried chicken from the restaurant.
In that silence, the four of them understood one thing: this was no ordinary task.
It was a kind of “test” from Celestine—a mission that seemed simple but was loaded with moral traps.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, Flora stepped out of her office building, straightening her slightly wrinkled white blouse.
She looked tired, yet there was still a calmness about her—the kind of composure belonging to someone used to difficult days.
Behind her walked two colleagues—Dean Sanders, a man in a denim jacket who was assigned to drive her home, and Melanie, her close friend and coworker.
“Flora, are you sure you don’t want to stop by the café in front? You look exhausted,” Melanie said.
“No, I just want to go straight home,” Flora replied.
“I don’t know why, but today feels strange.”
Dean opened the car door.
“Strange how?”
Flora shrugged.
“I’m not sure. Since this morning, it feels like someone’s been following me. Maybe it’s just my imagination.”
Dean glanced at her through the rearview mirror as the engine started.
“Or maybe someone really is following you?”
Melanie laughed.
“You’ve been watching too many thrillers, Dean.”
But their laughter didn’t last long.
As the car moved onto the main road, Flora noticed something in the side mirror—two motorcycles carrying four riders, two in front and two behind, moving at the same speed as them.
One of the riders wore a black jacket and a full-face helmet, and from the way he glanced at the car, Flora knew it was no coincidence.
“Dean…” she whispered.
“Those bikes have been following us.”
Dean looked into the rearview mirror.
For a moment, his face tensed.
“I see them.”
The first motorcycle moved to the left, approaching the side of the car, while the second blocked the lane behind them.
The low roar of their engines sounded rhythmic—deliberate.
Melanie turned around, her face turning pale.
“What do they want?”
“Put on your seatbelts,” Dean said quickly.
“We need to get off the main road.”
The car made a sharp turn into a narrow alley, the tires screeching loudly.
Flora felt her body lurch sideways, but Dean remained calm behind the wheel.
The two motorcycles followed, though they lost a few meters of distance.
At the end of the alley, Dean spotted a modest house with its gate open.
Without thinking twice, he drove straight into the yard, kicking up dust.
A middle-aged man who had been sweeping the yard was startled.
“Hey! This is private property!” he shouted, dropping his broom.
Dean got out of the car, raising his hands in a gesture of peace.
“Sorry, sir! We—we just need a safe place for a moment. Someone is following us!”
Flora and Melanie quickly stepped out, their faces tense.
From a distance, the sound of the motorcycles approached again but stopped a few meters outside the gate.
They waited, as if deciding whether to enter or not.
The homeowner looked at Flora, then at the two motorcycles outside the gate.
“Following you?
Who are they?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Flora replied quickly.
“But they’ve been behind us since we left the office.”
The man stared for a moment, then made a decision.
“Come inside. Quickly.”
The three of them rushed into the house.
The simple living room felt stuffy in the afternoon heat.
Dean peeked through a crack in the window.
The motorcycles were still outside, but none of the riders got off.
“I think they’re calling someone,” he said.
Flora sat down, her body trembling slightly.
“I think I know who sent them.”
Melanie looked at her.
“Who do you mean?”
“Peter,” Flora answered softly.
“I met him a few days ago. He seemed restless, and now—I’m sure this is connected.”
Elsewhere, Braddy received a phone call inside a car parked not far from the chase location.
He recognized the voice on the other end—Christine, Peter’s cousin and also Celestine’s right hand.
“She doesn’t want to go home, does she?”
“We almost lost her,” Braddy replied.
“She ran into a resident’s house.”
“You idiots!
I told you to be careful, not to panic her!”
“That’s exactly the problem.
You didn’t tell us she had protection.” Braddy’s voice rose, offended by the insult.
Christine fell silent for a moment.
“You know you can’t fail, right?”
Braddy glanced at his three companions, who were beginning to look anxious.
“If she finds out, it won’t just be me who suffers.”
Christine lowered her voice.
“Listen.
You have to find a way to make her go home on her own.
Not by force.
Use any excuse.
Make her believe it’s for her own good.”
“And if she refuses?”
“Make sure she has no other choice,” Christine said coldly before ending the call.
Braddy clenched his phone.
The words echoed in his mind like a haunting refrain.
He realized that the line between “persuasion” and “coercion” was as thin as a thread—and if they crossed it even slightly, everything could fall apart.
Meanwhile, in the small house where Flora had taken shelter, the tension had yet to subside.
Dean kept watch at the window, while Melanie tried to calm the visibly shaken Flora.
“Flora, just relax. We can report this to the police,” Melanie said.
“No,” Flora replied quickly.
“They… they’re not ordinary people. If the police get involved, I’m afraid it will only make things worse.”
The homeowner, who introduced himself as Mr.
Roy, nodded slowly.
“Then you can rest here for now. I’ll go check outside.”
Before stepping out, Mr.
Roy walked into the inner room.
A moment later, Flora, Melanie, and Dean were startled by his appearance—he looked completely different now.