It was 10:20p.m. on a Friday night when a tall, slender blonde woman made her way home from work, walking along a quiet roadside in Los Angeles. This was the kind of place where, at this hour, people might retreat inward, battling their own demons in the shadows.
     The shops had long since shuttered for the night, and several streetlights flickered intermittently—or not at all—casting uneven pools of dim light along the pavement.
     As she neared a crossroads, She caught sight of a black car creeping up behind her. A chill ran down her spine as she quickened her pace, heart pounding against her ribs while the vehicle narrowed the gap steadily.
    At the corner, she veered right, slipping behind a trash can wedged between two buildings. She crouched low, breath shallow, listening. Five minutes passed, but not a sound of engines or tires stirring could be heard.
    Cautiously, she stood and peeked around the edge of the building to check if the car had moved on. But there it was—idling at the intersection, despite the green traffic light.
    Her heart pounded anew, threatening to leap out of her chest. She turned to retreat back to her hiding spot when a hand landed softly on her shoulder.
    “Julie?” a familiar voice called.
    Her breath hitched, her fear momentarily forgotten as recognition set in.
    She spun around. “Kelvin! (She drew a deep breath.) You really startled me. What are you doing here?”
    Kelvin glanced around nervously. “I just came back from the store. Boss asked me to walk you home, but you were already gone. Come on, what’s going on? What are you doing out here?”
    Julie stole a glance toward the crossroads—no sign of the car anymore.
    “Nothing,” she murmured, stepping out into the street. “I just needed to toss something in the trash.”
    Kelvin’s expression softened but remained skeptical. “You know I’m not buying that, right? Just spit it out, Julie. What’s going on?”
    She sighed, the tension ebbing slightly. “It’s just my imagination. I thought a car was following me, so I hid behind that building. But it’s gone now.”
    “Mind if I walk you to your doorstep?” Kelvin asked. “You said your husband doesn't come home night-time.”
    Julie shook her head firmly. “Kelvin, there’s no need. I told you—it was only my imagination.”
    “Alright, if you say so. I’m heading back to the restaurant,” Kelvin said, standing under the glow of the streetlight as Julie crossed to the other side of the road.
    “Thanks for the walk. See you tomorrow,” she called over her shoulder.
    Kelvin waved and turned away as Julie resumed her journey home.
    After a few more minutes, she arrived at her small duplex, its brown and white exterior faintly visible in the darkness. The gate creaked as she opened it, and she walked up to the front door.
    Her hand found the handle, poised to unlock the door, when the unmistakable rumble of a car engine sounded behind her.
    She whirled around, heart sinking.
    The same black car idled not far off, its windows darkened with heavy tint.
    Shoving her fear aside, Julie quickly opened the door, slipped inside, and locked it behind her.
    Then, from the shadows, a figure appeared out of nowhere.
    Before she could scream, a pair of hands clamped over her mouth.
    She struggled, fighting to break free, but darkness closed in as she was knocked unconscious.
--
    At 11:00 p.m., a phone vibrated softly on the floor.
    Julie’s phone, ringing relentlessly...
----
   The next morning, a man with closely shaved hair pulled on a crisp blue shirt and black pants before stepping out of a sleek blue Camry. He approached the house briskly, his eyes narrowing as he noticed the front door was ajar — an unusual sight.
   Pushing the door open, he entered cautiously. The parlor was in disarray; cushions overturned, papers scattered haphazardly across the floor. Unease settled into his chest.
   He took a tentative step forward—and his foot landed on something small and hard. Looking down, he spotted a cellphone lying face down. He picked it up, pressing the power button and quickly entering the password. The screen lit up to reveal four missed calls and a cascade of unread messages.
   His gut twisted. Something was wrong.
   He moved to the center table and spotted a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it to find nothing but a single phone number scrawled plainly across the page. Without hesitation, he took out his own phone and dialed the number.
   The phone rang several times before a gruff voice answered.
"Hello?"
   "What do you want?" The voice was rough, like a thug who had just been dragged from sleep.
   "I found this number written on a note at my house."
   There was a pause, then a cold chuckle. "Oh, are you Brock... the night watcher? Hahaha. Looks like you finally get to watch your own home. Let me guess — you already know what this is about, right?"
   Brock’s voice was steady but sharp. "Where is my wife?"
   The calm on the other end shifted into something darker. "Tsk tsk tsk. Your wife? She’ll be transferred to our boss by noon. If you want her back, you’ll have to let us operate as usual — and, of course, pay a ransom. Five thousand dollars for the energy wasted."
   Brock felt anger flare. "So, you want me to let your crazy 18th Street gang run free while I keep watch?"
    "Hey, don’t try to negotiate. Just promise us you’ll cooperate. Deliver the money to my boys tonight."
   “I don’t have that kind of money,” Brock shot back, his voice low but firm. “Even if I went bankrupt, I could'nt scrape it together. How about this? Recruit me into your gang, release my wife, and you work without interference. Everyone wins.”
   There was a burst of laughter on the line. “Very funny... but I like the sound of that. Hmm, you want in the 18th Street gang? What if word gets out?”
   “If you’re worried about me, just give me back my wife,” Brock snapped, taking a deep breath before continuing, “If word gets out, I lose my job. What do you have to lose? Come on. Just recruit me.”
    “Meet my boys at Cypress Park by nine tonight,” the voice said, then the line went dead.
   Brock exhaled slowly. "Let’s see how this plays out."
---
   By 8:00 that evening, Brock was behind the wheel, parked discreetly near the edge of Cypress Park. He waited, the silence thick around the car. Time crawled by.
   An hour and a half later, a black sedan with heavily tinted glass pulled up beside him and parked just inches from his front bumper. He stepped out and approached the vehicle, tapping sharply on the glass.
   The rear door slid open, and without hesitation, Brock climbed in.
   Inside, three men sat with an air of cold confidence. Two occupied the front seats, while a hefty, muscular man took the seat beside Brock.
   “Where’s my wife?” Brock demanded, his voice tense.
   “You’re not part of the gang yet,” the driver said flatly. “Or did you think saying you were would make it so?”
   “What do I have to do then?” Brock asked, irritation creeping in.
   The man smirked. “Simple. Wait for our boys to finish the operation.”
   “Operation?” Brock’s eyes widened. “What operation?”
   The driver glanced at him. “Nothing much. We were ordered to silence the previous mayor.”
   Brock’s mouth dropped open. “What? If word gets out I was on duty—”
   “Relax,” the other man interrupted with a cynical laugh. “Our boss is considerate enough to have thought of a solution for you.”
   Brock turned sharply. “What do—” Before he could finish, the hefty man beside him swung a brutal fist into his face. Darkness swallowed him.
   “Bull's eye,” the driver muttered.
   They yanked Brock’s limp body from the car and loaded him into the trunk.
    “Now, let’s see how this goes…”
......
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