The sliding doors of the airport whooshed open as James stepped outside with his wife, Emy, their five-year-old son, Noah, and his father, Oliver. James was deep in conversation with a tall man in his late twenties, grinning like they were old friends.
"Still can't believe it's really you, man," James said, shaking the guy's hand firmly.
The man chuckled. "You look exactly the same—just with more dad energy now."
Emy smiled. "You should've seen him trying to change a diaper mid-flight. Pure panic."
Just then, Noah wriggled free from Oliver's hand and ran up to James, wrapping his arms around James's leg.
"Daddy!"
James picked him up with ease. "Hey, buddy. Look who's here—Uncle Ryan. He's like a brother to me."
Noah gave a shy wave. "Hi, Uncle Ryan."
"Hey there, little man," Ryan said. "Your dad used to get into all kinds of trouble when he was your age."
"Lies," James grinned. "Don't listen to him."
They all shared a few laughs, caught up briefly on the past few years, and then parted ways with promises to meet up soon.
A yellow cab pulled up, and Oliver took the front seat while James, Emy, and Noah climbed into the back.
"Flight from Florida?" the driver asked, adjusting his mirror.
"Yeah," James replied. "Orlando. Just family time."
"No theme parks?"
Emy shook her head. "Just a beach rental. Quiet and warm. That's all we wanted."
"I saw a dolphin!" Noah added proudly. "And I didn't wear a coat the whole time!"
Oliver chuckled. "And you complained about sand in your shoes every single day."
"I still liked it."
James leaned back in his seat. "The warmth was great. But there's something about being home."
"Yeah," Oliver muttered. "Jersey taxes and potholes."
Everyone in the cab laughed.
As they arrived in front of their apartment, Noah spotted a toy shop across the street.
"Mom! A toy store! Can we go? Please?"
Emy sighed. "Not today, sweetie. We just got back."
"But I didn't get a souvenir!"
Oliver looked at James. "I'll take him. You two go ahead. It's just a five-minute walk."
Emy hesitated. James shrugged. "Fine. But something small. No flying drones or talking dinosaurs."
Inside the shop, Noah scanned the shelves like he was on a reconnaissance mission. After fifteen minutes of debate and negotiation, he finally settled on a plastic toy gun with lights and sound.
"I wanna be an army officer like Dad," Noah said, aiming it like a pro.
Oliver smirked. "Why not be Navy like me? You don't like your grandpa?"
Noah gave him a playful look. "I'd rather be FBI like Mom than float around all day."
Oliver burst into laughter. "You little smartass."
They returned home and climbed the stairs to their third-floor apartment. Distant sirens echoed somewhere behind them, but they didn't pay much attention.
It was Oliver who noticed it first: the door to their apartment was cracked open.
He felt a sudden tension in the air, like a room holding its breath. He extended an arm across Noah's chest.
"Stay behind me," he said, his voice low and calm, just like he used to speak when a mission went sideways.
Noah froze, his lips slightly parted.
Oliver pushed the door open slowly.
The lights were off.
Shoes were scattered in the hall, and one of Emy's earrings lay on the floor. The corner of an unpacked suitcase tipped over by the wall, as if someone had dropped it mid-step.
Something was definitely wrong.
"Noah, stay—"
But the boy had already moved, his sneakers squeaking on the wood as he dashed past, calling out, "Mom?"
He rounded the corner toward the bedroom, then stopped.
He didn't scream. He didn't move.
James and Emy were on the floor.
Not asleep.
Still.
Blood darkened the carpet around them. The air was thick with an awful, unnatural silence.
Then… movement.
A man in black stood at the far end of the room. His face was covered, gloves on his hands. A pistol hung loosely in one hand, like it belonged there. On his forearm, a tattoo was clearly visible: a coffin with snakes spilling from the lid.
He didn't flinch at Noah's presence.
He simply turned his head, slowly and deliberately, toward them, locking eyes with Oliver.
Noah stared at the tattoo, eyes wide, chest frozen. The world tilted.
Then the man moved.
One step to the side. A short run. Foot on the dresser, and then he leapt, crashing through the half-open window and vanishing into the cold air.
Seconds later, the distant sound of sirens grew louder. Tires screeched. Heavy boots hit the pavement.
Too late.
Noah swayed where he stood, then fell forward. He didn't cry. He didn't scream.
He just dropped.
Oliver caught him before he hit the floor.
Police burst into the apartment. Shouts. Radios crackled. But it all felt distant and muffled, as if they were behind glass.
Oliver didn't let go of Noah. He wrapped his arms around the boy and held him close.
Noah was trembling, but he never said a word.
Outside, the city kept moving.
Inside, something had just died.