It was 6:37 a.m. when Ethan Carter slammed the door of his tiny apartment in a working-class neighborhood on the outskirts of Chicago.
His eyes were swollen from another sleepless night, and his hands shook from replaying the same fear over and over.
He gripped a cheap briefcase like it was a lifeline.
Inside was his last hope:
A USB drive containing a video he believed could change everything.
He had to be at the downtown courthouse by 7:30.
He couldn’t be late.
Not again.
His battered white Nissan Sentra, held together by more tape than paint, groaned when it started. Ethan muttered a quick prayer—something he’d begun doing every morning—and headed south.
Traffic was thick, as if the city itself knew he couldn’t afford to fail today.
As he turned onto a side road, he spotted a woman standing beside a gray sedan with its trunk open and a spare tire on the ground.
Her back was to him.
She was clearly frustrated, throwing her arms up while her phone searched for signal.
Ethan braked without thinking.
His instinct was stronger than his anxiety.
“Ma’am, do you need help?” he asked through the open window.