Chapter 1: Rainy Night Clinic

Austin’s rainy season always comes with a bone-deep, damp chill. Raindrops hammered against the glass facade of the Silent Tree Psychological Clinic, popping and snapping like a million tiny marbles tapping against an eggshell on the verge of cracking. Ethan McRae sat in the leather chair in the reception room, his fingers idly tracing the rim of an Americano that had long since gone cold. A coffee ring had spread across the wooden desk, a dark brown circle with blurred edges, looking strikingly similar to that water-damaged photo from his father’s files twenty years ago.

The doorbell rang once, sharp and urgent. The man who walked in was Mark, about thirty-five, wearing his signature gray hoodie. The hood was still up, wet strands of hair dripping water onto the carpet, leaving a trail of dark footprints. He didn't sit immediately; instead, he stood by the entrance, staring at the map of the Austin skyline hanging on the wall behind Ethan.

"I'm new here," Mark’s voice was hoarse, with a tremor he was clearly trying to suppress. "The referral said the doctor here was... special."

Ethan didn't speak right away. His gaze lingered for two seconds on the heavily worn metal band of the watch on Mark's wrist. The inside of the band had a tiny serial number etched into it—the telltale sign of black-market goods. He stood up and pulled the blinds closed, shutting out the soft patter of the rain. The indoor lighting was dim and yellow, stretching their shadows into long, twisted shapes projected through the slats of the blinds, looking like rows of silent prison bars.

"Mark, please have a seat." Ethan gestured to the chair across from him, his tone steady, devoid of any unnecessary small talk.

Mark hesitated for a moment before finally sinking into the chair, his hands gripping the seam of his pants on his knees so hard his knuckles turned white. There were bite marks on the edges of his fingernails. Ethan noticed that every time Mark’s breathing rate picked up, his right thumb would unconsciously tap his index finger, the rhythm erratic and frantic.

"Having trouble sleeping lately?" Ethan asked casually, as if they were chatting about the weather.

"Uh-huh," Mark nodded, his eyes darting around. His gaze swept across the bookshelves behind Ethan before settling on the old leather wallet sitting at the edge of the desk. "I keep having nightmares. Dreaming about someone chasing me, or dreaming I’m in massive debt."

"In massive debt?" Ethan repeated, leaning forward and clasping his hands on the desk. "How much exactly? Bank collections, or private loans?"

Mark’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes snapping back down to stare intensely at his own shoes. "It’s just... family debt. My parents are pressing me hard. The pressure is intense. I wanted to consult on how to relieve this anxiety, but I didn't want to worry my family."

Ethan picked up his pen and scratched a line on the notepad in front of him. His movements were light, yet in the silent room, the scratch of the pen tip on paper was unnervingly clear.

"Mark, you just said you 'didn't want to worry your family,' but your pupils dilated by half a millimeter when you mentioned the word 'money,' and your left hand instinctively pulled back toward your pocket," Ethan’s voice carried no emotion, cold as a surgical scalpel. "Besides, the fragrance on you is a mix of cheap tobacco and a disinfectant scent. Locals in Austin rarely use pine-scented aromatics at that concentration, unless you've been to a hospital recently, or... you've been washing a car."

Mark’s body went rigid, like a guitar string that had just snapped. He looked up, the blood drained completely from his face, leaving only a gray, translucent pallor.

"You tailed me?" Mark’s voice squeezed out of the back of his throat, laced with obvious hostility and fear.

"I observed you. That is my job." Ethan closed the notepad and pushed it to the center of the desk. "You’ve been hiding the source of the debt. You’re not anxious because of family pressure; you’re anxious because of usury. When you said that 'family internal debt,' your speech rate increased by fifteen percent, accompanied by three blinks. When people lie, they often blink frequently to moisten dry eyes to mask their inner panic, or try to take control of the conversation by speeding up. You did the latter two, but you failed at the first. You’re too tense, Mark. Your breathing is shallow and fast—a classic fight-or-flight response."

Mark shot to his feet, the legs of his chair screeching against the carpet. He snatched his phone from the cushion behind him, his fingers furiously swiping across the screen, seemingly searching for a way out of the conversation.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" he shouted, his voice cracking from the agitation. "I’m telling you to leave! This is your clinic, but I’m not feeling comfortable right now. I want to go."

"Wait." Ethan didn’t stop him, just watched him calmly. "The screen of the phone in your pocket lit up. I saw the icon clearly. It’s an encrypted communication app, pure black background with just a white outline of a wolf's head in the center. This kind of software is rare locally, usually used to evade standard signal tracking. The last message you sent to whoever you’re in contact with was at 8:40 PM tonight. The content was short, only two words: 'Can't pay' and 'Location'."

Mark’s fingers stopped moving. He stared at Ethan, the anger gone from his eyes, replaced by a complex mix of despair and a plea for help. He slowly sank back into the chair, his body collapsing as if his bones had been pulled out.

"They’re threatening my daughter," Mark whispered, his voice sounding like it was leaking from a broken bellows. "If I don’t pay off that debt within three days, they’re taking her to Mexico. I don’t know what to do. The police say it’s a private dispute and they won’t get involved..."

Ethan pulled a business card from a drawer and slid it across. "That’s not my card. That’s Detective Judy Walker’s contact info. She’s in Homicide, specifically handling threats from these gray areas. But you can’t call her directly because that wolf-head app has already been flagged. You need to go through her offline channels and hand over the evidence in person. Tonight, I’ll help you compile a technical report on the IP leak risks in that software’s backend to support your report to the police. That’s the deal."

Mark took the card, his hands trembling so badly he could barely hold the thin paper.

"Why are you helping me?" he asked, his eyes reddened.

"Because when I saw that wolf outline, it reminded me of some old stories." Ethan stood up, walked to the door, and opened it. The rain outside had intensified, the curtain of water blinding the world in a chaotic mist. "And I need to confirm something. Among the people involved in the Austin McRae Group disappearance case twenty years ago, there was a financial manager nicknamed 'Gray Wolf.' His signature habits match seventy percent with the handwriting you just used to sign that form. Are you his son, or his proxy?"

Mark froze, then shook his head violently. "I’m not his son! I was an accountant working under him! My dad died ten years ago! I don’t know what a McRae Group is!"

Ethan closed the door, shutting out the sound of the rain. The room fell into a dead silence. He returned to his desk and picked up the card, spinning it between his fingers. What he needed wasn't to help Mark; it was to use Mark. A living person, connected to "Gray Wolf," and trapped in a debt spiral.

Late at night, the lights in the clinic went out. Ethan returned to his small apartment in the East Side. It was an old Victorian-style apartment, the wooden floors creaking under his feet. He had just inserted the key into the lock when he felt a white envelope squeezed through the gap in the door. No stamp, no sender’s name, just an address written in black marker: McRae Tower, Top Floor.

Ethan’s fingers turned ice-cold the moment they touched the envelope. He walked into the living room, leaving the main lights off, turning on only a floor lamp by the window. The dim light cast his shadow against the beige wall opposite, making him look thin and lonely.

He opened the envelope, and a folded clipping fell out, along with a USB drive. The clipping was from the 2004 Austin Chronicle, the headline circled in red: "McRae Group Founder Ethan McRae (Sr.) Suspected of Accidental Cliff Fall, Police Open Investigation." In the blank space of the clipping, a line of sloppy script was written in blue ink: "He is alive. Interstellar Shipping Log, Page 7. Watch out for Jack."

Ethan’s heart skipped a beat. Jack Hansen, the close family friend who was like a brother to his father, was now the poison in the McRae Group’s board of directors. When his father disappeared, Jack was the only one who had been near the scene and not heavily suspected.

He placed the clipping on the table and pulled out his computer. The USB drive clicked into the port, the indicator light blinking once. Decryption required a password; a prompt box popped up on the screen. Ethan stared at the black cursor, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He remembered the last conversation with his father, who sat in the study, an old pocket watch in his hand, staring blankly out the window. He had said, "Ethan, some truths, once unearthed, will bite you like a venomous snake until you die."

At the time, Ethan had thought it was just the ramblings of a paranoid elder.

He typed in a string of numbers: 20040517. That was the day his father "fell off the cliff."

The screen went black for a second, then a folder appeared, named "LOG_2004."

Ethan clicked it open. Inside, there was no log, just a fifteen-minute audio file. The filename was: *Dad_Call_Rec_01.mp3*.

He put on his headphones and hit play.

At first, there was only static. Then a man’s voice came through, sounding exhausted and suppressed, as if recorded in a tiny, confined space. It was his father’s voice, so clear that Ethan felt a wave of dizziness, as if he was back in that afternoon when his father was still alive.

"Alice," the father in the recording said, "I know you’re listening. I know you made me disappear to protect the family, to keep Jack Hansen from getting those encrypted keys for the Interstellar Shipping company. But I have to tell you that the log records not just the routes, but the illegal money-laundering channels we established in South America. If you don’t step forward now, Jack will use it to destroy the entire McRae Group. And I choose to flee. Not die. Remember, South Pacific, Galapagos Islands, the old lighthouse."

The audio cut off abruptly.

Ethan took off his headphones. The coffee cup in his hand had cracked from being gripped too hard; brown liquid seeped through the wall of the cup, dripping onto the keyboard with a soft tick. He stared at the waveform on the screen, his finger frozen on the mouse.

His father hadn't died. His father had orchestrated an elaborate "death" twenty years ago, escaping with the family’s secrets and funds, and his mother, Alice McRae, that cold and domineering clan head, had known and assisted him. Or had she forced him?

The doorbell rang suddenly.

Ethan snapped his head back, looking at the security camera by the entryway. In the feed, a person in a black raincoat stood at the door, hood pulled low, hiding their face.

Ethan quickly yanked out the USB drive and shoved it into his pocket. He walked to the door and peeked through the peephole.

The person raised their hand, wearing a watch with a metal band. On the inside of the band, a small line of text was etched.

Ethan held his breath, his fingers resting on the doorknob. He recognized the number. It was the band Mark Whitaker had accidentally exposed in the clinic.

Mark stood outside, rain dripping from his raincoat, pooling on the tiles. He looked up, his eyes under the brim meeting Ethan’s in the camera lens. There was no fear in that gaze, only a cold, confirmed silence.

He knocked on the door, the rhythm slow and heavy.

Ethan didn’t open the door, but he knew that tonight, this rain had only just begun to fall.