My wife was the perfect angel to the world, but one night I came home unannounced and heard my 6-year-old daughter pleading behind a closed door. What I discovered turned my home into a scene of terror, and me into the only one who could save them.

The last curve of my fountain pen across the contract felt heavier than it should have. It was already past nine in the evening, and the glass walls of my office reflected a man who looked powerful yet hollow. Below, Chicago stretched endlessly, its lights sharp and distant like stars that no longer warmed anyone. I had built half of what I was seeing. Towers, developments, entire districts shaped by my signature. My name, Michael Turner, carried weight in boardrooms and city halls alike. Yet none of that filled the quiet space inside my chest.

On my desk, framed photographs waited in silence. In one, a woman stood in a sunlit garden, her smile gentle and unguarded. Rebecca. My first wife. She had possessed a calm strength that made the world feel steady. Beside her photo was another frame, smaller and worn. A little girl laughing, her cheeks flushed as she held a blue balloon twice her size. Ava. My daughter. That laughter had faded from our home after the day Rebecca died giving birth to our son, Lucas.