GUILT
A lone truck rolled slowly onto the empty driveway on the outskirts of Longview, Washington. The cold fall wind swept through the dimly lit streets, rustling the scattered leaves along the pavement. A few figures shuffled by, their trench coats wrapped tightly around them as they braved the biting air. The low hum of the truck's engine was the only sound in the quiet night, the occasional rumble of the logs it carried echoing through the empty street as the tires bounced over potholes and uneven asphalt. The wheels stumbled along the gravel.
A black cat darted across the road, caught for a moment in the truck's blinding headlights before it bolted into the shadows. The truck, an old model well past its prime, turned the corner and pulled into the parking lot of a small, rundown shack. The faint murmur of conversation and clinking glasses seeped through the walls, the warmth inside the bar a stark contrast to the cold isolation outside.
The truck came to a creaking halt, the engine sputtering before dying. Moments later, the driver's door opened with a groan. A man in his mid-thirties stepped down, his boots hitting the gravel with a dull thud. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and weathered, the kind of man who looked like he had lived several lifetimes in just a few short years. His full beard was unkempt, his hair long and scraggly beneath a worn cap, and his green chequered flannel shirt—the kind worn by lumberjacks—looked as ragged as he did.
He paused for a moment, pulling in a breath of cold air that stung his lungs. The man coughed, a rough, gravelly sound that echoed into the empty night. The moonlight cast shadows across his face, deepening the lines of exhaustion etched into his features. He was a ghost of the man he used to be, and the weight of his past hung around him like a shroud.
He walked slowly toward the bar, each step heavy and deliberate. The sounds inside grew louder as he approached, the warmth from within brushing against his skin as he neared the door. The shack was a haven for people who wanted to be forgotten, who preferred the company of strangers and the haze of alcohol to the harsh realities outside. It was his kind of place.
With a push, he opened the door and stepped inside. The lively atmosphere hit him instantly—laughter, conversation, the clatter of billiard balls, and the occasional burst of music from the old jukebox in the corner. It was a place where people could lose themselves, and tonight, that was exactly what he intended to do.
As the man scanned the room, a woman in a skimpy pink shirt approached him. She moved with a casual ease, through the eyes of other patrons trailed her as if she were a rare, exotic animal on display. She was petite, with short black hair, sleek dark eyes, and the unmistakable features of Japanese descent. She smiled at him, though it was a smile she wore for everyone, a smile that never reached her eyes.
"Hey, babe," she said in a soft, flirtatious tone. Her voice was smooth, practiced. "Tiring day?"
The man glanced at her briefly. "Julie. Not that bad, actually," he replied, his voice rough and distant. He wasn't here for her; he wasn't here for anyone.
She fluttered her lashes, her body leaning slightly toward him. "You need my company tonight?"
Before he could respond, another man approached. Bald-headed, muscular, and almost as large as the first man, he exuded the air of someone used to taking orders, not giving them.
"Boss," he said gruffly, tilting his head toward a dark-skinned man on the other side of the room. "Someone's looking for you."
The man instinctively glanced over. The dark-skinned stranger was slender, tall, with a neatly trimmed fade haircut and an air of authority. He was wearing a uniform, though it wasn't immediately recognizable, and he was moving through the crowd, quietly questioning the patrons.
His face darkened, his jaw tightening. "Who's him, Ted?"
"I don't know, boss," Ted replied, his tone uneasy. "Something about a plumber. I didn't call for his services."
His expression hardened. A Plumber. A title from a life he'd left behind, one that had no place here. His past had come looking for him, and it wouldn't leave until it got what it wanted.
Julie tilted her head, her brow furrowed in curiosity. "Someone you know?"
Ted looked toward the man, concern flashing in his eyes. "Is he trouble?"
He shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he sized up the stranger from across the room. "Don't worry about him," he muttered, his voice grim. "He'll leave soon." With that, he turned toward the bar, pushing the issue aside, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.
He sat down at the bar, his back to the room, and grabbed the pint the bartender placed in front of him. Without a word, he downed it in one long gulp, the bitter taste of alcohol doing little to drown out the bitterness that had settled deep within him.
But the dark-skinned man wasn't about to be ignored. He approached silently, placing a firm hand on Ben's shoulder.
"Albedo?" the man said, his voice calm but commanding.
He didn't flinch. "You have the wrong person," He muttered coldly, refusing to turn around. "Leave."
The man didn't budge. "My name is Rook Blonko. I have dire matters to discuss."
His grip tightened around the empty glass, but he didn't respond. His silence was warning enough.
Ted, sensing the tension, stepped forward, his voice gruff. "You heard him. Wrong guy. You should leave, before there's trouble."
Rook didn't waver. "No. I'm never wrong. In fact," he hesitated briefly, gauging the weight of his words. "Albedo is an alias, isn't it?"
Julie rolled her eyes and quietly slipped away, sensing the storm brewing. Ted took a step back, his hand inching toward his gun.
"You're the fabled Ben Tennyson," Rook continued, undeterred. "The Bellwood hero. I know who you are. I've read your files."
The room seemed to still, the warm buzz of the crowd fading into the background. Slowly, deliberately, the man turned in his seat, rising to his full height. He towered over Rook, his body tense, his face etched with anger and exhaustion. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees, the atmosphere thick with unspoken threats. Deep down, the man knew that Rook was right. The name was an alias, one he had crafted out of necessity to bury the hero he once was. To bury Ben Tennyson.
"If you know who I am," Ben muttered, his voice dangerously low, "then you know I don't need to change a shade to break you."
Rook met Ben's gaze without flinching. "Your threats don't scare me, Ben Tennyson. Do you know why?" He paused, letting the silence linger. "Because you wouldn't hurt a fellow Plumber, would you?"
The crowd in the bar shifted nervously as Ted and the other patrons instinctively reached for their guns, ready to act.
"I'd be careful if I were you, Mr. Blonko," Ted warned, his gun aimed at Rook. "This isn't your fight."
Rook raised his hands slowly. "I don't want trouble. I just want to grab something from my pocket. That's all."
Ted's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the trigger. "Slowly, then."
Rook, careful not to make any sudden movements, reached into his back pocket and produced an object—an insignia, a badge that beeped faintly as it powered on.
Across the room, beneath Ben's sleeve, something else beeped in response. The familiar sound of the Omnitrix, muffled by the fabric, but unmistakable.
Rook's eyes flicked to Ben's wrist. "It's the Omnitrix, isn't it?" he asked. "The Plumbers were established because of it."
Ben turned away without a word, grabbing his cap from the table and tossing a crumpled $20 bill onto the counter. He started for the door, his footsteps heavy.
"The man you're looking for is long gone," he said quietly, his voice thick with bitterness. "I'm sorry."
But as he reached the door, Rook's next words stopped him cold.
"Vilgax."
Ben froze, the name hitting him like a punch to the gut. His heart pounded against his ribs, louder than the murmurs of the bar. He stood still, his back to Rook, memories crashing down on him—memories of battle, destruction, and a final, brutal confrontation.
"That's right," Rook said softly, sensing he had struck a nerve. "He's a ghost from your past, isn't he, Ben? I learned about him from your files. Vilgax is back."
Ben's fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as the memories came flooding back—Max's death, the revenge he had exacted, and the final blow that had destroyed Vilgax. Or so he thought.
"Impossible," Ben muttered, his voice rough, filled with disbelief. "He was destroyed. I destroyed him."
Rook's voice remained steady. "That's what everyone thought. But something's changed. He's back, Ben. I wouldn't be here if he wasn't."
Ben's throat tightened as he struggled to keep his composure. Vilgax—the monster he had sacrificed so much to defeat. His past had returned to haunt him, and this time, there was no running from it.
Rook took a careful step forward. "He's after something, Ben. The file he stole…" Rook hesitated, his voice lowering as he chose his next words with care. "It was on Gwen."
Ben stopped dead in his tracks. His breath caught in his throat, and his entire body went rigid. Gwen. The name twisted through him like a knife, reopening wounds that had never healed. He didn't move, didn't breathe.
Rook continued cautiously. "The file he stole… it was on her. On her research."
Ben remained silent, his body still as a statue. The memories of Gwen—her fall into madness, her desperation to save Max, her tragic end—hit him like a tidal wave. He had failed her. He had failed everyone.
"Vilgax…" Rook's voice was soft but insistent. "He's using her research. The magic she was working on. We think he's planning something… something dark, tied to what she was trying to do."
The air in the bar grew heavy, thick with tension. Ben's hand clenched into a fist, his knuckles white from the pressure. The Omnitrix hummed faintly beneath his sleeve, its weight pressing down on him like the burden of his past.
Still, Ben said nothing. His silence spoke louder than any words he could muster.
Rook took a step closer, his voice gentle but urgent. "I don't expect you to care about the Plumbers or the Omnitrix anymore, Ben. But this… this is about Gwen. If you don't stop him, everything she tried to protect will be twisted into something far worse."
For a long moment, Ben stood perfectly still, his back still to Rook, his gaze fixed on something far beyond the present. The room seemed to shrink around him, the crowd fading into the background as the weight of his past came crashing down on him once more.
Without a word, Ben's hand slid into his pocket, and he tossed another crumpled bill onto the bar. He grabbed his coat, pulling it over his shoulders with a sharp, deliberate motion. The decision was made, but he didn't need to speak it aloud.
He pushed open the door and stepped out into the cold night, the weight of his past trailing behind him like a shadow.
Rook watched him go, knowing he had gotten the answer he needed—even if Ben hadn't said a word.
Ben stood outside the shack, the cold night air biting at his skin. He pulled his coat tighter around his body, his breath visible in the chill. Rook caught up with him moments later, the door swinging shut behind them. Ben remained silent, eyes fixed on the empty horizon. The weight of the conversation pressed heavily on him, but it was too late to turn back.
Rook didn't say anything as they walked to the SUV parked nearby, its sleek, dark body blending into the shadows. The doors unlocked with a quiet click, and they both slid inside. The tension between them was palpable, but Rook respected Ben's silence, knowing that pushing for conversation would only backfire.
As Rook started the engine, a low hum filled the vehicle, and warm air began to blow through the vents, chasing away the chill. He reached over to the console and tapped a button. A screen flickered to life, casting a dim glow across the dark interior.
"There's something you need to see," Rook said quietly. He pressed another button, and a video began to play.
The screen showed footage of Vilgax, hulking and brutal, launching a vicious attack on the Plumber base. The camera was shaky, capturing the chaos of explosions ripping through the walls as Plumber agents scrambled for cover. The sound of gunfire and screams filled the cabin as the base was reduced to rubble, and Rook's comrades—his friends—fell one by one under the relentless assault.
Ben's eyes narrowed as he watched, his jaw tightening. The destruction felt too familiar, too personal. Every flash of violence, every explosion, echoed memories he had tried to bury—memories of the people he had failed to protect. Max. Gwen.
The footage shifted, showing Vilgax breaking into the central system, his massive mechanical claws tearing through security barriers as if they were made of paper. His red eyes glowed with cold intelligence as he hacked into the Plumber's database, scrolling through files with terrifying precision.
Then, he found it. Gwen Tennyson. Ben's heart clenched as Vilgax stole the data on her, downloading everything in seconds. Once he had what he wanted, Vilgax's optics glowed red as he fried the mainframe, the metal sizzling and crackling, sending sparks flying.
The screen went black. The silence that followed was heavier than the violence it had captured.
Ben stared at the dark screen, his fists clenched in his lap. The knot of guilt in his stomach tightened, twisting painfully as Gwen's name hung in the air. Even after all this time, after everything that had happened, she was still at the centre of it all. Her memory had become a battleground, and now Vilgax was digging through the remnants of her life—her work, her magic.
He looked away from the screen, his eyes catching something on the dashboard: a photograph. It was Rook, standing with his team of Plumbers, all smiling, their faces full of life and camaraderie. They looked like they were ready to take on the world—proud, confident, unbroken.
Rook's eyes lingered on the image, his expression tightening in subtle grief. Ben recognized that look—the weight of loss, the burden of surviving when those around you didn't. Rook had lost them, just like Ben had lost Max and Gwen. The photograph wasn't just a memory; it was a reminder of the hole that had been ripped into Rook's life.
A dull ache flared up in Ben's chest, and he swallowed hard, feeling the bitter sting of empathy. He had always thought he was alone in his suffering, his guilt, his failure. But here was Rook, another man carrying the same burdens. It was enough to soften the cold walls Ben had built around himself, even if just for a moment.
"'I'm sorry," Ben said, his voice low, almost a whisper. His gaze shifted back to Rook, and for the first time that night, there was something other than bitterness in his eyes. "I'm sorry about your team."
"Loss is a part of this life. You get used to it," he continued, turning his gaze away from Rook. He wasn't offering sympathy—it was more of a bitter statement of fact. "Or you don't."
Rook didn't respond immediately. His gaze hovered over the photograph, the shimmer in his eyes dimmed. He didn't need to say anything—the weight of his loss was palpable.
Ben cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as a familiar pressure settled on his chest. The Omnitrix beneath his sleeve buzzed faintly, its radiation an ever-present reminder of the toll it had taken on him. He could feel it in his bones, the slow, painful gnawing of his illness.
Rook seemed to sense the shift in Ben's demeanour. "Vilgax stole something tied to her," he said quietly, bringing the conversation back to the recording. "We don't know what he plans to do with Gwen's file, but it's clear he's after something connected to her."
Ben exhaled sharply, the frustration gnawing at him. He didn't like where this was heading, but he knew Rook was right. Vilgax wouldn't go through this much trouble unless he needed something specific from Gwen's files. Something dangerous.
"Magic," Ben muttered coldly. "He's after her magic. Whatever it is, it's tied to that." His tone was flat, devoid of any warmth. "Gwen… she wasn't thinking clearly when she went down that path. She was desperate." There was no need for guilt in his words—just the bitter facts.
Rook glanced at Ben but didn't press further. He could sense that whatever guilt Ben carried was buried deep, too deep for a conversation like this.
After a moment, Ben continued, his voice low but measured. "There's someone who might know what Vilgax is after. Someone who understands Gwen's magic better than anyone else." He paused for a beat, the name leaving his mouth like a curse. "Hope."
Rook's brow furrowed slightly. "Hope? Is she—?"
"Trustworthy?" Ben cut him off, a humourless laugh escaping his throat. "No. Not even close." He shook his head, remembering his last encounter with her. "She's not going to be happy to see me. I'm the one who put her in prison."
The weight of that statement hung between them. Ben had made hard decisions, decisions he couldn't take back, but he had no illusions about the consequences. Hope wasn't one for forgiveness, and now they needed her help.
Rook studied Ben's face. "Do you think she'll help us?"
Ben's jaw clenched, his fingers brushing the Omnitrix under his sleeve. The pain in his wrist flared for a moment, a sharp reminder of how broken his body had become. "I don't know," he admitted, his voice tight. "But she's our only shot. If she has even the slightest clue about what Gwen was doing… we need her."
He glanced again at the photograph on the dashboard, his hardened gaze lingering on the smiling faces of Rook's team. They were just more ghosts in the growing list of people left behind. For a brief moment, Ben's bitterness cracked, and something else shone through—regret. But it didn't last.
"I owe it to her," Ben said, the words leaving his lips as though they cost him something. "Even if I couldn't save her… I can stop this." His voice was bitter, tinged with the weight of failure, but there was a grim determination beneath it.
Rook nodded, not pushing any further. He understood. This was more than a mission for Ben—it was a way to settle the ghosts of his past.
"Then we'll find Hope," Rook said quietly, starting the car and pulling away from the shack.
Ben leaned back in his seat, his eyes fixed on the darkness outside the window as they drove. The road ahead felt endless, but it wasn't as empty as it seemed. The weight of his illness bore down on him, gnawing at his bones. Max. Gwen. Now the burden of stopping Vilgax once again hung over him, like a shadow he could never escape.
There was no running from it anymore.
The drive to Bellwood Penitentiary was long and silent. Rook kept his focus on the road while Ben sat slouched in the passenger seat, staring blankly out the window. The cold, muted landscape outside passed in a blur, but Ben's mind was far from still. The heaviness of what was to come pressed down on him, but his expression remained hard, detached.
The penitentiary loomed in the distance, a fortress of grey concrete surrounded by high walls and barbed wire. It hadn't changed much since the last time Ben had been here. The memories weren't exactly fond ones. Hope wasn't the only ghost locked up behind those walls. The place was full of people who wanted Ben Tennyson dead.
As they pulled into the parking lot, Rook glanced at Ben out of the corner of his eye. He hadn't said much during the trip, not that Rook expected him to. But there was a tension in the air, something just below the surface. Ben's silence was cold, but the weight behind it hinted at something deeper—something Rook was becoming more aware of.
They stepped out of the SUV, the chill of the wind biting at their skin as they made their way toward the entrance. Ben's steps were slow, deliberate, each one carrying the weight of his past. Rook moved beside him, still unsure if this visit would lead to answers or more dead ends.
The guards at the gate recognized Ben instantly, though they gave him a wide berth. His reputation, even after all these years, still preceded him. They were led through the grim hallways of the prison, the clang of doors and distant murmurs from the cells filling the silence between them. The penitentiary had its own life—one filled with resentment, hatred, and a hunger for vengeance.
As they moved deeper into the facility, Ben's eyes scanned the rows of cells. He hadn't wanted to come back here, not to face these old enemies, but it was necessary. He kept his face neutral, cold as stone, until a familiar voice slithered through the air, stopping him in his tracks.
"Well, well, well… if it isn't Ben Tennyson."
The voice was a low, mocking drawl. Ben turned slowly, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the pale, grotesque figure of Herbert Zomboni, leaning against the bars of his cell. His grin spread wider, his eyes gleaming with twisted delight at the sight of Ben.
"Been a while, hasn't it, Tennyson?" Zomboni sneered, his voice dripping with malice. "I almost didn't recognize you… though there's something different about you now." His eyes scanned Ben's face, his grin twisting into something darker. "Ahh… I see it now. You're not the same invincible kid, are you? I can smell it on you."
Ben's jaw tightened, but he said nothing, refusing to take the bait. He turned to keep walking, but Zomboni wasn't done.
"You can't hide it from me," Zomboni continued, his voice like nails on a chalkboard. "I see it in your eyes. The weight. The mortality. You're not untouchable anymore, are you? Time finally caught up with you, didn't it? Or maybe something else."
The words hung in the air, suffocating. Rook shot a glance at Ben, sensing the shift, but kept silent, his eyes narrowing in concern. He had noticed the strain on Ben, the exhaustion, the way his hand occasionally trembled. But he hadn't pressed the issue. Now, with Zomboni's taunts, it was becoming harder to ignore.
Ben stopped for a moment, his back still to Zomboni. He didn't react, didn't turn around. But the tension in his body was clear, his fists clenched tightly by his sides.
Zomboni chuckled darkly, his voice dropping into a low, twisted whisper. "You remember, don't you? That last fight? Before I got tossed into this hellhole? Oh, I'll never forget it, Tennyson. Not because of you... but because of her."
Ben's muscles tensed even more, though he remained facing away.
"Gwen," Zomboni hissed, savouring the name. "She wasn't herself, was she? All that magic, all those dark arts… she had something else brewing inside her. I could feel it—whatever she'd been messing with, it had twisted her. Made her... hungry."
He leaned closer to the bars, his smile growing more grotesque. "She was going to kill me, Tennyson. Not just defeat me—no. Kill me. I saw it in her eyes. That cold, dark look. She was ready to go all the way, and you know what? I don't think she would've stopped."
Ben's fists clenched tighter, the memory flooding back despite his efforts to suppress it. Gwen, standing over Zomboni, her eyes burning with dark energy. The person she had become wasn't the cousin he grew up with—something had taken over. Her desperation to bring back Max, her obsession with forbidden magic, had pushed her past the edge. Ben had stopped her that day, but only barely.
"You didn't stop her, Tennyson. Not really," Zomboni continued, his voice soft and sinister. "She was ready to rip me apart. She wasn't going to spare me, and you know it. She was more like me than you wanted to admit."
The air grew colder, the tension suffocating.
"You feel it, don't you? That weight," Zomboni whispered. "You couldn't save her from herself, and now you're paying the price. Just like the rest of us."
Ben's breathing grew shallow, but he remained silent. Zomboni's words echoed in his mind, but he refused to give him the satisfaction of a response.
Zomboni chuckled again, but this time, his attention shifted. His eyes gleamed with malice as he fixed his gaze on Rook.
"And what about you?" Zomboni's voice oozed mockery. "You his new partner?" He grinned even wider, his grotesque face almost pressing against the bars. "Careful, hero. His partners never fare so well. In fact, they ended up dead. Just a friendly warning."
Rook's expression remained stoic, but there was a flicker of tension in his eyes. Zomboni's words were venomous, designed to sow doubt, but Rook wasn't about to let the criminal get under his skin.
"And you," Zomboni's voice slithered back to Ben, his tone more insidious. "I can see it in your eyes, old man—you've got a lot of secrets. Dark secrets." His eyes flashed with malicious glee as his gaze darted back to Rook. "I'd be careful if I were you, partner." Zomboni winked mockingly at Rook.
Ben's silence was deafening. He remained standing, his fists clenched, his back rigid. But his breathing was sharper, more controlled.
Zomboni chuckled darkly, his voice fading as Ben finally started moving again, continuing down the hall without a word. "Good luck, hero," Zomboni called after him, his voice dripping with mockery. "You'll need it more than ever."
Rook's gaze lingered on Ben, but he didn't say anything. He knew better than to ask. Ben's condition was worsening, that much was obvious now, but Rook didn't want to push him—at least, not yet. Ben wouldn't let him in, not until he was ready.
They reached the warden's office, a cramped room filled with paperwork and buzzing monitors. The warden, an older man with deep lines etched into his face, looked up as they entered, clearly recognizing Ben. His demeanour shifted, a mixture of respect and wariness.
"Tennyson," the warden greeted, nodding at Rook as well. "What brings you here?"
"We're looking for Hope," Rook said, stepping forward. "We need to speak with her."
The warden frowned, pulling up something on his computer. "Hope, huh… let's see." He clicked through files for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly before he turned back to them.
"She's not here."
Ben's eyes flashed with irritation, but he stayed silent, waiting for the explanation.
The warden leaned back in his chair. "Hope was released on parole. Years ago. Good conduct. She hasn't been back since."
Ben's fists clenched again, though his face remained impassive. Released? Years ago? Of course. The world didn't stop just because he walked away. His grip on the past was slipping, and now he realised just how much had changed while he wasn't looking.
"Where did she go?" Rook asked, his tone calm but with an edge of urgency.
The warden shrugged. "She vanished off the grid after her release. Didn't leave a trail. If she's out there, she's staying well-hidden."
For a moment, Ben said nothing, his face unreadable. The answers they came for were gone, and now they were back to square one. He exhaled slowly, the bitterness creeping back in.
"So that's it," Ben muttered under his breath, his voice low. "We came all this way for nothing."
Rook remained silent, watching as the weight of the situation settled on Ben's shoulders. The tension was thick, the frustration clear.
"Thanks," Rook said, turning to leave, but Ben remained still for a moment longer, his gaze hard and distant.
Without another word, Ben walked out, his expression cold and unreadable. The door closed behind them with a heavy thud, the sound echoing through the hallways.
Back in the SUV, Rook glanced at Ben again. He wanted to ask about Zomboni's comments, about what he had noticed, but Ben's stony silence made it clear that this wasn't the time.
Ben stared out the window, his reflection pale and worn against the darkened glass. Hope was out there somewhere, and now they had to find her before Vilgax did. The weight of his illness pressed down on him, but he buried it, deeper and deeper beneath the layers of cold indifference he had perfected over the years.
The drive away from Bellwood Penitentiary was even quieter than before. Frustration hung heavy between them, though Ben showed none of it on his face. Rook kept his focus on the road, trying to process the dead end they had just hit. Hope, released years ago? It wasn't what they expected. Now they had no leads, and time was slipping away.
The occasional beeping from the Plumber network on Rook's console did little to break the tension. Every update that came through was useless, leaving them with more questions than answers.
As they drove back through the dark streets of Bellwood, Rook cast a glance at Ben. He hadn't said much since leaving the penitentiary. His face was hard, betraying nothing, but Rook could feel the weight of frustration simmering just beneath the surface.
By the time they reached the shack, it was past midnight. Ben stepped out of the SUV, his movements slow and deliberate, each step carrying the weight of his thoughts. Rook remained behind the wheel for a moment, watching Ben disappear into the bar's dim light.
Rook knew this wasn't over. They had hit a wall, but something would turn up. Hope was out there somewhere, and they couldn't afford to let her slip further into the shadows.
"I'll see you in the morning," Rook muttered to himself, before pulling away from the shack and into the night.
By noon, the sun-kissed rays crept through the dirty windows of the shack, casting a grey glow across the floor. Inside, Ben sat at the bar, nursing a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. His eyes were heavy from a sleepless night, though he didn't look tired—just worn. His mind churned over the dead ends, the ghosts from his past clawing at the surface.
The door creaked open, and Rook walked in, the familiar sounds of the bar starting to wake up around him. A few regulars sat at the back, speaking in hushed tones, but the room felt almost deserted in the early hours.
Rook spotted Ben immediately, sitting in his usual spot. He could tell Ben hadn't slept. "Afternoon," Rook greeted, taking the seat next to him. "You look like hell."
Ben didn't bother responding to the jab.
"We need to try a different approach," Rook said, ordering a coffee. "Hope didn't just vanish. Someone in this city knows something. We need to dig deeper—someone with connections."
Ben turned his head slightly, giving Rook a hard look.
Rook nodded. "People talk. Especially in places like this." He glanced around the bar, his gaze settling on the door just as Julie walked in, her usual skimpy outfit drawing the eyes of the few men present.
Julie spotted Ben and Rook at the bar and made her way over, her steps casual but with purpose. There was a sharper edge to her today, like she knew something was up.
"Morning, boys," Julie purred, though her tone carried less of its usual playfulness. Her eyes lingered on Ben for a second before turning to Rook. "You two still looking for trouble?"
Rook didn't hesitate. "We're looking for information, actually. We need to find someone… Hope. Heard anything about her?"
Julie's eyebrows shot up for a second, but she quickly recovered. She crossed her arms and glanced between them, gauging how much to say. "Hope? Haven't heard that name in a long time. She got out, didn't she? Thought she disappeared after that."
"She did," Rook replied, his tone calm but firm. "But she's been laying low ever since. Someone like her can't stay off the radar forever."
Julie chewed her lip thoughtfully, her eyes shifting away for a moment as if considering what to share. "Well… I don't know where she is exactly, but there's been some talk."
Rook leaned in slightly. "What kind of talk?"
Julie glanced around the bar, making sure no one else was paying attention before lowering her voice. "Look, I don't have solid details. But word on the street is there's a place across town, a high-end place called 'The Velvet Veil.' Exclusive clients, very hush-hush. It's a kind of… well, let's just say, it's not a typical club. Some people who work there? They've got baggage—some of them come from serious backgrounds, even criminal."
Ben's interest piqued, though his expression remained stony. "What does that have to do with Hope?"
Julie hesitated, her gaze flicking to Ben before continuing. "There's been a rumour floating around for a while. One of the girls at that place? Real high-profile criminal, but no one knows exactly who she is. She's got a different name, keeps a low profile, only deals with a specific kind of client. People started connecting the dots—her profile, her background—well, you definitely understand where this is headed to."
Ben's fists clenched subtly. He didn't want to imagine her reduced to that life, but the world wasn't kind to people like them—especially after prison.
Rook pressed further. "So you're saying it could be her?"
Julie gave a small shrug. "Could be. Like I said, it's just rumours. But if you're looking for someone with that kind of past, The Velvet Veil might be where you find her."
Ben stayed silent for a moment, processing what Julie had said. It wasn't the confrontation he expected—no grand reveal, no powerful enemy waiting for him. Just another person surviving however they could.
"Where is it?" Ben finally asked, his voice cold and low.
Julie glanced at him, a bit wary of the shift in his demeanour. "It's on the other side of town, deep in the old district. You'll know it when you see it. But Ben…" she hesitated, her voice softening slightly. "She's not going to want to see you."
Ben stood abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping harshly against the floor. He didn't acknowledge her warning. He didn't have time for that. Without a word, he started toward the door.
Julie watched him go, a trace of concern in her eyes as she turned to Rook. "He's not the same Ben Tennyson, is he?"
Rook gave a small sigh. "No, he's not. But thanks for the lead."
Julie nodded slowly. "Just… be careful. If it is her, she's probably not the same Hope either."
Rook gave her a brief nod of thanks before following Ben out into the cold morning air. Ben was already getting into the SUV, his movements sharp and tense. They had a lead now, but it was clear this was more than just tracking down an old enemy for Ben.
Without another word, they sped off into the city, towards whatever ghosts awaited them at The Velvet Veil.