Chapter 5

The streetlights cast long, flickering shadows across the cracked pavement as Sylvia pulled her jacket tighter against the evening chill. Another dead-end interview, another empty lead. She scrolled through her notes on her phone, squinting at the glaring screen. Names, dates, and cryptic statements filled the document—pieces that refused to come together. She sighed, letting her thoughts drift to the missing kids. No one cared, not the police, not the press, not the people in power. To them, these kids were just faceless statistics from the wrong side of town, easily overlooked, easily forgotten.

Sylvia’s shoes clicked against the concrete, her pace quickening as she made her way down the dimly lit street. The neighborhood was quiet—too quiet. The shops had long since closed, and the few remaining lights came from the dingy windows of rundown apartments. She glanced at the darkened buildings, wondering if anyone inside had seen something. Anyone who might know where the kids went. She’d asked, of course. She always asked. But no one ever had an answer, or at least not one they were willing to share. The fear in their eyes told her as much as their silence.

A gust of wind kicked up debris as Sylvia passed by an alley, momentarily catching her attention. A lone van sat parked near the entrance, its windows dark, its presence unsettling. She paused, her gaze lingering on it for a moment longer than necessary. It was probably nothing—a delivery truck, maybe someone getting off a late shift. Still, something about it made her uneasy. She shook her head and continued walking, pushing the thought aside. There was no point getting paranoid. The whole neighborhood was filled with vehicles that looked out of place, just like everything else.

The rhythmic hum of the city buzzed in the distance, a constant reminder of how close she was to the parts of town that people cared about. Here, the streets were forgotten. The faded graffiti on the walls and the flickering streetlights told a story of neglect, just like the kids who had gone missing. Sylvia pulled her jacket closer, her thoughts drifting to the parents she had spoken with—worn-out faces filled with worry, desperation, and anger. They knew something was wrong, but they had no power to stop it. Even if they did, they wouldn’t trust the system to help.

As she crossed the street, Sylvia’s phone buzzed in her pocket, breaking the heavy silence around her. She fished it out, half-hoping it was a source calling back with new information, but it was just a reminder for tomorrow’s podcast update. She sighed, clearing the notification and slipping the phone back into her pocket. Her listeners would expect something new, but all she had were more dead ends. Her father’s voice echoed in her mind, warning her to be careful, to leave the investigation alone. But how could she, when no one else seemed to care enough to look?

Sylvia pushed open the door to her apartment, the familiar scent of old coffee and stacks of paper greeting her as she stepped inside. The small space doubled as her office, a cramped mess of cluttered desks and tacked-up photos of missing kids. Maps covered the walls, each marked with circles and pins in places where they had last been seen. The chaos mirrored her investigation—so many pieces, but none of them fit together. She tossed her keys onto the counter, her frustration bubbling beneath the surface. It felt like the more she dug, the less she found.

Jason Meowmoa, her fluffy, grouchy cat, greeted her with a low yowl as he padded across the cluttered floor. Sylvia barely glanced at him as she made her way to the desk, but Jason had other ideas. He hopped up onto her workspace, his fluffy tail flicking against the scattered papers as if annoyed with her distraction. Sylvia sighed, gently scratching behind his ear as he settled down, watching her with those judgmental eyes. "Yeah, I know, Jason," she muttered, half to herself. "I’m going in circles." His tail flicked again, almost like an answer, pulling her back from her thoughts.

Sylvia sat at her desk, staring at the mass of papers, maps, and photographs tacked on the wall. Her eyes followed the timeline of the disappearances, tracing the red string connecting one pinned photo to another. Every name, every date—it all seemed so close to making sense, yet there were no clear answers. Just fragments of stories, witness statements that led nowhere, and disappearing kids no one seemed to notice. She leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. How could everything feel like it was slipping further away, no matter how hard she worked?

She reached for her microphone, pulling it closer as she hit the record button. “Another day, another dead end,” she began, her voice steady, though she felt the frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “I’ve spoken with more families, heard more of the same. Kids going missing, no leads, and no one’s doing a damn thing about it.” Jason let out a loud yowl from his corner, making her pause. She smirked, glancing at him. “Thanks for that, Jason. As my co-host just pointed out, it feels like we’re going in circles.” She sighed into the mic, trying to keep her tone even, though doubt was starting to creep in.

Sylvia leaned back in her chair, listening to the playback of her recording. Her voice sounded hollow to her now, just more of the same—speculation and frustration. The same thoughts, the same leads that never seemed to go anywhere. She tapped her fingers against the desk, wondering if she was missing something. Had she overlooked a crucial detail in the noise? Her eyes drifted back to the wall, to the names and faces of kids she was supposed to be helping. The doubt gnawed at her, threatening to settle in. What if all this was just spinning her wheels?

Pushing herself up from the chair, Sylvia wandered over to the cluttered desk, her fingers skimming the edges of the scattered papers. Jason let out another yowl, but she ignored him this time, her eyes catching on a scribbled note she had jotted down earlier: Unmarked van near 7th and Lowry. It was just a passing mention, something a witness had brought up. She sighed, picking up the note and staring at it for a moment. Just a van, nothing special. Her mind was too tired to make sense of it, so she dropped the paper back on the pile and made a mental note to chase it down tomorrow.

Sylvia paced the small space of her apartment, phone in hand, as the tension from the day weighed heavily on her. She needed to talk to someone, and even though she knew what her dad would say, Hector was the only person who might understand. The phone rang twice before he picked up, his familiar voice crackling through the line. “Hey, kiddo. You sound tired,” he said, his tone gentle, but Sylvia could hear the edge of worry underneath. She sighed, leaning against the counter, the chaos of her work still scattered around her. “Yeah, it’s been a day,” she replied, unsure if she was calling for advice or just to hear someone who cared.

Hector’s voice was warm, but his concern quickly bubbled to the surface. “You’ve gotta stop running yourself into the ground over this,” he said, before Jason Meowmoa let out a loud, disapproving yowl. Sylvia shot the cat a look as Hector chuckled on the other end of the line. “See? Even your cat agrees with me. You should listen to us.” Sylvia rolled her eyes, but before she could respond, Hector shifted the conversation. “You know, maybe you should think about getting out more. What about that lawyer you interviewed? He’s doing good now, opened his own office. I heard he’s a veteran too. Seems like a solid guy.”

Sylvia groaned, shaking her head. “Dad, seriously? I’m not interested in dating right now, and definitely not some lawyer just because he’s got an office.” She pushed off the counter, her frustration rising. “I’m trying to figure out why no one is doing anything about these kids. People are going missing, and it’s like no one cares.” She could hear the tension in her own voice. “If I don’t look into this, who will? The police aren’t going to help, and you know that better than anyone.” Her tone softened slightly as she added, “These families deserve answers.”

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Hector’s voice turned somber, the weight of the past pressing into the conversation. “Your mom had that same fire, you know. She couldn’t stand to see people suffer, couldn’t let a story go, no matter how dangerous. But it’s what got her killed, Sylvia.” There was a pause, and Sylvia could almost hear the pain behind his words. “I know you didn’t get to know her, but you’ve got that same passion, that same drive to make things right. It scares me sometimes.” His words hung in the air, a reminder of the risks her mother took—and what they had cost.

Sylvia exhaled softly, letting the silence linger between them. “I’ll be careful, Dad. I promise,” she said, though her father’s concern hung heavy in the air. Hector sighed, his voice gentler now. “Just... don’t get yourself in too deep.” After they exchanged goodbyes, Sylvia set the phone down, staring at the scattered papers and photos pinned to her wall. Her father’s words echoed in her mind, the weight of her mother’s memory pressing down on her. Before she could lose herself in thought, Jason Meowmoa padded over and climbed into her arms, demanding attention with a soft yowl. Sylvia sighed, holding him close, the cat’s presence another reminder of everything she was responsible for. She couldn't afford to back down now—not when so much was at stake.

The neighborhood felt like a forgotten corner of the city, where everything moved slower, shrouded in a layer of distrust. Sylvia walked cautiously down the cracked sidewalks, her eyes scanning the empty windows and shuttered shops. People moved in the shadows, casting quick glances her way before disappearing into alleyways or ducking behind doors. She knew this area had seen its share of pain—disappearances, crime, and a general sense of abandonment by the system. But getting anyone to talk about the missing kids here was like prying open a locked vault, sealed tight by fear and suspicion.

Sylvia stepped into a small, rundown shop on the corner. The bell above the door jingled weakly as she entered, and the tired eyes of the shop owner met hers. She asked him about the missing kids, her voice steady but tinged with the weight of her frustration. He shifted uncomfortably, scratching at the back of his neck. “Yeah, I heard about one or two... but I don’t know anything,” he muttered, avoiding her gaze. Sylvia could sense the unease rolling off him in waves—he knew more, but fear had a way of clamping people’s mouths shut. In this neighborhood, information was dangerous currency.

As Sylvia left the shop, she spotted a group of teenagers loitering near the alley, laughing and joking in low voices. Maybe they’d seen something, maybe they’d heard rumors. She started walking toward them, but the moment they noticed her approach, their conversation died, and they scattered like startled birds. Sylvia stopped in her tracks, watching them disappear around the corner. Her shoulders slumped as frustration settled deep in her bones. Everyone here was either too scared to talk or too jaded to care, and the more she pushed, the further away the truth seemed to slip.

Sylvia found herself face-to-face with a woman sitting on the steps of a run-down building, her hands shaking slightly as she held a worn cigarette. The woman’s eyes were hollow, her voice flat as she recounted the day her child disappeared. “One minute he was here, the next... gone,” she said, her words trailing off. Sylvia listened carefully, but it was clear the woman wasn’t fully present—her mind clouded by drugs, her pain buried beneath layers of neglect. “Nobody listens to me,” the woman muttered. “They think I’m crazy... but I still hear him sometimes. Crying.” Sylvia’s heart sank, knowing that even if the woman was telling the truth, no one would believe her.

As the sun dipped lower behind the crumbling buildings, Sylvia walked down a narrow alley, her footsteps echoing against the walls. The weight of the day pressed down on her—no new leads, no breakthroughs, just the same old silence. The mother’s haunting words stayed with her, but without any real evidence, there was nothing she could do. She ran a hand through her hair, frustration gnawing at her insides. It was like trying to claw through solid stone, and every dead end made her question if she was even getting close to the truth. The darkness around her seemed to echo the hopelessness of the investigation.

Sylvia tapped her fingers impatiently as she waited for the call to connect. She had spent the past few days chasing shadows, trying to gather any scrap of information about the missing kids. The police had been no help so far, but she wasn’t about to let that stop her. When the line finally picked up, a gruff voice on the other end answered. “LAPD, how can I direct your call?” Sylvia took a breath, steadying her tone as she prepared herself for the usual runaround. “I’m calling about the recent disappearances... I need to speak to someone who can give me real answers.”

The officer on the line gave a short, tired sigh. "You’ll want to reach out to the FBI for that. They’re handling any of the cases involving missing persons. Not much we can do on our end," he said, his tone dismissive. Sylvia clenched her jaw, already feeling the familiar frustration bubbling up. "So you’re saying you don’t know anything about the disappearances?" she pressed. "Not my department," the officer replied flatly. Before she could push further, he gave her the contact information for an FBI agent—Special Agent Grayson—and hung up.

Sylvia hesitated for a moment before dialing the number for FBI los angelas field office. She didn’t expect much—her experience with law enforcement had taught her that agents like Grayson were usually more interested in shutting down questions than answering them. But to her surprise, the voice on the other end of the line was calm and polite. “Agent Grayson speaking. How can I help you?” Sylvia blinked in surprise at his directness. “I’m investigating some recent disappearances,” she began, half-expecting him to cut her off. Instead, he listened carefully and agreed to an interview without hesitation. His openness took her off guard.

During the interview, Grayson’s professionalism was apparent. He spoke clearly, describing the challenges his team faced with imm

ration enforcement. “It’s not an easy job,” he said, his voice calm but sincere. “We’re doing our best to balance the law and the safety of the community, but it’s a difficult line to walk.” Sylvia found herself nodding along as he continued. There was a sense of measured control in the way he explained things, as if he truly wanted her to understand the complexities of his work. By the end of the conversation, Sylvia couldn’t help but feel like Grayson might actually be one of the good ones.

As the interview wrapped up, Grayson handed Sylvia his business card and smiled. “If you come across anything or need more information, don’t hesitate to call,” he said, his tone warm and reassuring. “My cell number is on the card. I’m happy to help wherever I can.” Sylvia pocketed the card, feeling a strange sense of relief. Grayson seemed like someone who could be a valuable ally, someone genuinely trying to do the right thing. Walking away, she found herself thinking that, maybe for once, she’d found someone in law enforcement who wasn’t part of the problem.

Sylvia’s car pulled up to the curb just as a motorcycle sped past her, the engine roaring loud enough to make her flinch. She caught a glimpse of the rider—a guy in dressed in black, helmet securely fastened, disappearing down the street. Something about the rush, the way he tore through traffic without a second thought, made her uneasy. Shaking off the feeling, she turned her attention to the apartment complex ahead. This was supposed to be a routine interview, but the flashing lights of police cars and FBI agents milling about told her this would be anything but routine.

Sylvia stepped out of the car, her eyes scanning the chaotic scene in front of her. She pushed through the small crowd of onlookers gathered behind the police tape, catching snippets of their murmured conversations. “Some masked guy, jumping across rooftops... took out a whole team without even hurting them,” one man whispered to his friend. “He carved a Z into that poor guy’s uniform.” Sylvia frowned, trying to make sense of the fragments. A masked figure? Attacking FBI agents? It sounded like something out of a comic book, but the tension in the air made it feel all too real.

Sylvia approached one of the FBI agents standing off to the side, his face flushed with frustration. He was in the middle of ranting to another officer, pointing at his torn uniform. “Some lunatic just shows up, knocks us out cold, and carves a ‘Z’ into my teammate’s back! What kind of sick joke is that?” The other officer shook his head in disbelief. Sylvia’s pulse quickened. Whoever this vigilante was, he hadn’t just foiled a raid—he’d humiliated a team of federal agents. It was reckless, dangerous. She suddenly wondered if the guy on the motorcycle had been involved.

Sylvia made her way inside the apartment building, the echoes of the chaotic scene outside muffled as she stepped into the dimly lit hallway. The door to the family’s apartment was wide open, hanging crooked on its hinges. Her heart sank as she realized the family was gone. She had come here expecting an interview, hoping the boy might know something about the missing kids. But now, all she saw were signs of a rushed exit—clothes left behind, chairs knocked over. Whoever this masked vigilante was, he hadn’t just intervened; he had taken the family with him. To Sylvia, it looked like a kidnapping.

As Sylvia walked back outside, her mind raced, trying to make sense of the chaos. She pulled out her phone, quickly texting Grayson, hoping he could explain what had happened here. The scene felt surreal—agents humiliated, a family gone, and a vigilante leaving his mark behind. This wasn’t the clean, above-board operation she had expected. As she glanced toward the officer with the “Z” carved into his uniform, she snapped a quick picture, knowing this was the beginning of something far bigger than she’d anticipated. Her phone buzzed, but she didn’t check it just yet.