Jessica Jones sat alone in the dimly lit living room, the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock the only sound breaking the silence. Shadows flickered across the walls, stretching and twisting under the pale moonlight that filtered through the curtains.
She remained motionless in her wheelchair, her gaze fixed on the window, though her mind was lost in a past she had long tried to bury. Her fingers idly traced the worn leather armrests—a habit as old as the secrets she carried. The room felt both familiar and foreign, a relic of memories she refused to confront yet could never escape.
She rarely allowed herself to think about life before the wheelchair, before she had donned the guise of a helpless woman. But tonight, the past crept in like an uninvited ghost, whispering reminders of the world she had left behind.
Murmured conversations in dimly lit rooms, power plays executed with surgical precision, and choices that had shaped the fate of more than just herself. A fleeting, knowing smile tugged at her lips before vanishing just as quickly. That life was behind her. Or so she had hoped.
Her thoughts shifted to her daughter—Sophia, now working as a bodyguard for the Smith Group, unknowingly stepping into dangerous territory. The very forces Jessica had spent years evading were closing in once again. How much longer before the past and present collided? Before the truth clawed its way out of the shadows? Her eyes flicked to an old, locked drawer in the corner, where remnants of a life she had sworn to forget remained hidden. Her hand twitched, drawn to it by instinct, but she resisted.
The clock chimed midnight. Jessica closed her eyes, exhaling softly as the weight of her secrets pressed down on her. She had spent a lifetime shielding her children, ensuring they never saw the darkness she once walked through. But had she done enough?
Then, the nightmare began.
A sound—soft at first, then unmistakable. The faint crackling of something burning. A whiff of smoke curled through the air. Jessica's body stiffened.
They had found her.
Her breath hitched as the door creaked open, and a tall figure stepped into the room. He moved with the confidence of a man who had never needed permission to exist. Collins.
He strolled across the room, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the tray near the fireplace. Taking a slow sip, he exhaled contentedly, as if he were an old friend making himself at home. "We knew you were close the moment she intercepted the gunfire with that device," he mused. "It was only a matter of time before we found you." A grin stretched across his face as he leaned against the table. "You trained her well, Jessica. That's why we need her now—since, well… your legs are useless to us."
Jessica's fingers curled around the armrests, nails digging into the leather. "I don't want any of you near my daughter."
Collins chuckled. "That's not really up to you." He swirled the coffee in his cup, watching the liquid spin. "I have three months to bring Sophia in. We plan to eliminate Raymond Smith, and she will help us do it."
Jessica's lips twisted into a smirk. "And if she refuses?"
Collins set his cup down with a deliberate clink. "Your eldest son, Sydney's graduation is tomorrow. And Fabian…" He tilted his head. "I saw him playing basketball earlier. Your children are much closer than you think."
Jessica's stomach twisted, but she refused to let the fear show. "Get out of my house."
He stood, adjusting his cuffs with practiced ease. "If Sophia isn't at my door in three months, I'll eliminate her brothers one by one. And you will remember that pain for a lifetime."
His grin lingered as he strolled out, leaving behind the scent of smoke and the chill of a promise made.
Jessica barely had time to compose herself before the door burst open again.
"Mum!" Fabian's voice was sharp with concern as he rushed in. His breathing was heavy, his eyes darting around the room. "Who was that man?"
Jessica forced a soft smile. "Just an old acquaintance."
Fabian frowned. "Then why didn't you introduce him to us?"
"There was no need," she said smoothly, wheeling herself toward the window.
Fabian studied her, suspicion flickering in his gaze. "Are you okay?"
"Of course, sweetheart."
He lingered a moment longer before stepping back. But Jessica knew. He didn't believe her.
And he wasn't wrong to doubt.
***
In a dimly lit warehouse on the outskirts of the city, a group of figures huddled around a table strewn with documents and maps.
"Anthony Smith," Isla muttered, tapping the name on the paper before her. "Eighteen years old. I wasn't able to get close enough to see the sketch or the detective."
Raina clicked her tongue in irritation. "They're up to something." Her fingers curled into a fist, her nails pressing against her palm. "Grayson dies tomorrow."
Isla nodded. "If he knows anything, we can't risk leaving him alive."
A door creaked open, and Collins strode inside.
"Sophia will join us in three months."
The room fell silent. Then—
"How?" Isla and Raina chorused, their eyes wide with disbelief.
Collins smirked. "Jessica was terrified. I could see it all over her face."
Raina's lips curled into a grin. "Once we get Sophia away from them, striking will be easy."
Isla frowned. "But three months is too long."
Collins leaned back against the table, arms crossed. "We just smuggled goods worth millions through one of the fake workers. That's enough to keep operations running while we wait."
Raina exhaled, nodding. "I'll need to get in front of Anthony again—confuse him, make him think our first meeting was a coincidence."
Isla chuckled. "If he sees you again, he'll buy into the act. You're good at this, Raina."
Before anyone could respond, the air in the room shifted.
A masked figure stepped inside.
Instantly, the group straightened, heads bowed in reverence.
A deep, commanding voice cut through the air. "Cover all traces of the mole who infiltrated Smith's warehouse. Their IT security is already on high alert."
They nodded in unison, their expressions grim.
The game had begun. And they had no intention of losing.
***
The warehouse security system at Smith Group was among the most sophisticated in London. Every corner was covered by high-definition CCTV, motion detectors, and biometric access controls. Yet, millions of pounds worth of goods had vanished overnight, and not a single alarm had been triggered. The footage showed nothing unusual—just the usual late-night workers coming and going. No forced entry, no masked intruders.
Raymond Smith leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as he replayed the security footage for the tenth time. Beside him, Mark Smith scrolled through the warehouse logs, his expression grim.
"This doesn't make sense," Mark muttered. "The motion sensors didn't even blink. The cameras show a quiet night. But the inventory check says otherwise."
"Someone manipulated the system," Will Smith said coldly, standing near the large monitor. His voice carried the weight of authority. "This wasn't an external breach—it was an inside job."
Ryan Smith, who had been quietly observing, exhaled sharply. "We need to start with security access logs. Whoever did this had clearance."
Mark's fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up the system's biometric records. The screen populated with a list of authorized personnel who had accessed the warehouse between 11 PM and 5 AM—the suspected window of the theft.
There. A name that shouldn't be there.
Kelvin Smith narrowed his eyes. "This guy—James Turner. He swiped in at 2:14 AM and out at 3:05 AM. That's exactly within the timeframe."
"But James Turner has been dead for three months," Jodie Smith said quietly.
Silence fell over the room.
Will's jaw clenched. "Which means someone cloned his credentials."
Raymond tapped the screen, zooming into the CCTV footage from 2:14 AM. It showed a man in a warehouse uniform, swiping his card at the entrance. The biometric scanner blinked green. The door slid open.
The footage was flawless—except for one detail.
"The shadow," Fisher Smith murmured, leaning forward. "The shadow isn't right."
The room tensed. On the screen, the supposed 'James Turner' walked inside, but the angle of the warehouse lights suggested something off—his shadow was slightly delayed, as if it had been tampered with.
"A deepfake," Ryan realized. "Someone used AI-generated footage to overlay a false image onto the real recording."
"That means they had direct access to our security feeds," Mark said, his tone deadly.
Raymond's gaze darkened. "We're dealing with someone on the inside—someone with high-level clearance in our security department."
Will exhaled, his patience razor-thin. "Find him. And when you do, make sure he never gets the chance to betray us again."
***
Raina moved like a shadow against the midnight skyline, her gloved hands gripping the cold metal of the drainage pipe. London's terraced houses, with their uniform chimneys and narrow skylights, made rooftop entry a challenge, but she had done her research. Grayson's house was no different—an Edwardian build with an attic conversion, accessible through a single reinforced skylight.
She pulled a small device from her belt, a custom-made suction cutter designed to slice through the glass without setting off vibrations that would trigger an alarm. A precise circle was removed, just enough for her to slip her fingers inside and unlock the latch. Moving with practiced precision, she flipped onto the roof, angling her body to distribute her weight evenly so as not to creak the old wooden beams beneath.
With a slow exhale, she slipped through the opening and dropped silently into the dimly lit room. The air smelled faintly of old paper and leather, a detective's sanctuary. A faint beam of streetlight slanted through the window, illuminating a desk stacked with case files. Grayson's bed was empty.
Her grip tightened around the blade in her hand. Odd. He should be asleep.
Then, in a split second, a presence behind her—too close.
Before she could react, Grayson struck. A sharp, precise kick to the back of her knee sent her stumbling forward. She rolled with the impact, spinning to face him, blade raised. He had been waiting. Watching. Expecting her.
She lunged, her blade cutting through the air in a deadly arc. Grayson sidestepped, catching her wrist and twisting with brutal efficiency. The knife clattered to the floor. Raina, unfazed, pivoted into a spinning kick aimed at his ribs. He blocked, absorbing the impact with his forearm before delivering a lightning-fast elbow to her shoulder, forcing her back.
She gritted her teeth and came again—two rapid jabs followed by a low sweep meant to take his legs out from under him. But Grayson was faster. He leapt back, then countered with a sharp knee to her stomach. Air whooshed from her lungs as she staggered.
She knew she was outmatched. He wasn't just a detective. He was something else.
Desperation flickered in her eyes as she feigned left, then suddenly twisted toward the window. Grayson lunged, but she was already in motion. With feline agility, she flipped onto the sill and pushed off, disappearing into the night.
Grayson straightened, exhaling slowly. A smirk played on his lips.
She had come to kill a detective.
But she had walked into the den of a trained fighter.
His fingers flexed, his pulse steady. This wasn't just a hit. It was a message.
He had traced the connections, followed the shadows. The forces behind this attack weren't acting alone. They worked for the competitors of the Smith Group.
And the competitors weren't just one or two.
This was war.