In the shadows of a crumbling garage, two operatives plot the quiet destruction of everything Max West holds dear—one stiletto step and cigarette flick at a time.

When a frazzled journalist bursts into Jerry’s spa-like bail bonds office claiming boys have vanished from century-old paintings, Max West knows he’s about to tumble headfirst into another bizarre case.

As the sun dipped behind the mountains, Las Vegas shimmered in neon and heat, the kind of twilight that made secrets feel a little closer to the surface.
Max West wasn’t down on the Strip chasing shadows tonight—he was home, stewing in another dead end, an old letter clutched like a lifeline. It had been nearly twenty years since his parents disappeared working for the government, and the only clue he had ever received came in the form of six heartbreaking words: “Don’t give up on us.”
Most nights, the silence was bearable. Tonight, it wasn’t.
Then his phone buzzed.
Murder.

In the Davenport family, power isn’t passed down—it’s extracted.

Behind the velvet curtains of an old estate, a father and son sit by the fire to finalize a ritual older than memory, darker than blood. A child has been chosen. A legacy must endure. But buried beneath the precision of their plans is a fracture—one that threatens to splinter everything.

In this world, loyalty is demanded, regret is weakness, and daughters are expendable.

Welcome to the beginning.
The fire is lit. The house is listening.