December 25, 2025 – Chicago
09:30 AM
Christmas morning in Chicago didn't bring white snow; it brought a gray, suffocating fog. Michael Hale stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse, watching Michigan Avenue. The coffee in his hand was cold, forgotten. On the mahogany desk, the rusted key and the anonymous message sat like silent judges.
When the doorbell rang, Michael's hand instinctively twitched toward his waist. There was no gun there—just the phantom itch of an old instinct.
He opened the door to find Elara. At thirty-one, she was a successful filmmaker, but the flickering anxiety in her eyes was still that of the sixteen-year-old girl from that dark night.
"Merry Christmas, big brother," she said, hugging him. She stiffened instantly. "You didn't sleep again. Your eyes... you look like Dad did near the end."
"Just a difficult case, Elara. Don't worry about it."
"The boy on Dawson Bridge?" Her voice trembled as she hung up her coat. "I saw the news. Why is it always that bridge, Michael?"
Michael looked into her eyes. Elara knew Vince D'Angelo had died, but she didn't know how the body was dissolved. She didn't know the depth of the filth their father had waded through to keep them clean. To Michael, Elara was his greatest weakness and the only thing worth selling his soul for.
"It's just a coincidence," he said, his voice dropping into the soothing, clinical tone of a therapist.
Suddenly, his phone buzzed on the counter. A news alert: *"D'Angelo Family Statement: Luca D'Angelo Returns to Chicago!"*
A cold weight settled in Michael's stomach. Luca. Vince's older brother. The real predator of the family. He had returned on the very morning of the murder.
***
14:00 – Cook County Police Department
Natalia Reyes shoved the files across her desk in frustration. The victim had a name: Leo Cross, 21. A small-time thief. But the bomb was in his phone records.
"You need to see this, Natalia," her partner said, dropping a report.
Natalia read it and froze. Leo Cross had called one number three times in the week before his death. The number belonged to the city's most prestigious psychiatric clinic: Michael Hale's office.
She remembered Michael on the bridge last night. He was there too early. He was waiting.
"Hale..." she whispered. "What aren't you telling me?"
At that moment, the precinct doors swung open. A man in a sharp gray suit walked in, a deep scar cutting through his cheek. Behind him stood two human mountains. The entire station went silent.
Luca D'Angelo.
He walked straight to Natalia's desk. His eyes were void of heat. "A body was found on the bridge where my brother died," Luca said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "I know your justice went silent fifteen years ago, Detective. I won't be so quiet."
Natalia stood her ground. "This isn't your playground, D'Angelo. Get out."
Luca leaned in, the scent of expensive tobacco and old blood clinging to him. "Give my regards to the Hale family. I'm here to close the account the father left open... with the son."
***
20:00 – The Hidden Archive
Michael opened the secret compartment behind his bookshelf, scanning his father Richard's private journals from 2010. He searched for the name Asher Burke. Finally, he found a page in his father's jagged handwriting:
*December 28, 2010: I cleaned the blood from Michael's hands. But Asher saw everything. He isn't a blackmailer; he's a collector. He didn't want money; he wanted my loyalty. If he ever returns, tell Michael one thing: Never negotiate with him. He is the only player in a game you cannot win.*
Michael turned the page. A photo fell out. His father, Richard, shaking hands with a young man whose face was lost in shadow. But the tattoo on the man's wrist was clear: An hourglass.
A heavy pounding shook his front door. Michael shoved the photo into his pocket and closed the compartment. He opened the door to find Natalia holding a pair of silver handcuffs.
"Michael," she said, her voice cracking with betrayal. "You're going to tell me why Leo Cross called you, and what you were really doing on that bridge. Or you're spending Christmas night in a cell."
Michael smiled. The time for therapy was over. He adjusted his mask and looked her dead in the eye.
"Come in, Natalia," he said. "I'll tell you a story. But by the end, you'll have to decide who belongs in a cell: me, or half of Chicago."