Sean Roland had just ended the call when his phone began vibrating violently again.

The word "Father" on the screen burned his eyes.

He let out a cold laugh and powered off the device.

On the TV, a variety show reached its climax, the guests roaring with laughter.

Sean leaned back on the sofa, exhaling a long, heavy breath.

...

At 3 a.m., the neon lights of Studio 54 gradually dimmed.

Jenna Roland rubbed her sore neck and hailed a taxi.

"Beverly Hills," she murmured, closing her tired eyes.

As the car entered the neighborhood, the driver suddenly lowered his voice. "Miss, that black car has been tailing us the whole way."

Jenna's eyes snapped open.

In the rearview mirror, a black Volkswagen Passat lurked in the shadows beyond the streetlight's reach.

"Keep driving," she said, her fingers tightening around her bag strap until her knuckles turned white.

The taxi accelerated, leaving the neighborhood behind.

Three lane changes. Two red lights. The car clung to them like a shadow.

"Take me to the police station," Jenna whispered, her voice trembling.

The cityscape blurred past the window as she stared fixedly at the rearview mirror.

Same model. Same license plate. Maintaining a steady twenty-meter distance.

Only insiders had access to the club's schedule.

Jason was still in detention. Her uncle's family lived on the outskirts of the city.

Her phone lit up with Sophia Merouin's latest social media update—a photo from a midnight bar.

The location tag read: Nightfall CLUB, just two blocks from Studio 54.

Jenna bit her lower lip and dialed Ethan Roscente's number.

"Someone's following me," she said softly. "Don't tell Milo."