I apologize for not updating for a month 😩 On top of being busy in December (cause it was finals :p) I did have a minor setback. It happens to the best of us writers, unfortunately. But I'm back! This chapter is very long, so I guess that compensates for the hiatus 😅 I hope you guys enjoyed your Christmas and New Years! How did you guys celebrate? It wasn't fun working the day after Christmas and on New Years, but at least I got to eat some good food at the dinner parties. Anyways, cheers to the first chapter of 2025!

Now that you guys have been introduced to each storyline's POV, which one is your favorite and why? Which one are you most intrigued by and want to know more? Me personally, my fav has to be Casey's because of his backstory as an informant and what it will mean for his relationships with his friends, especially Raphie. He has a crucial link between various storylines and characters and I can't wait for you guys to see it all unfold 👀👀

🐦

Casey

THEN, SIX MONTHS AGO

Casey took another sip of his coffee and yelped. He felt the burn on his tongue and something wet spill on his shirt. He looked down and saw his shirt— which he spent nearly an hour digging through his closet to look for for this particular day— showcasing some pretty attractive blotches that may as well have been done by a toddler. He glanced around the coffee shop and cursed under his breath. He hoped no one saw anything. This was his only 'formal' shirt and now it was ruined!

How did people even manage to drink this stuff? He'd seen Donnie chug down a couple of coffees (black coffee, may he add. What a psychopath) in a row before, no problem; but he could never understand.

Casey grabbed a couple of napkins and tried his best to wipe down the stains— which seemed useless to try because he didn't have a Tide-To-Go pen lying around nearby— to at least make it seem not as bad as before. To be honest, Casey still thought it looked like shit, but it's not like he could run back to his apartment and change shirts— not when he was expecting his date.

He eyed the empty steaming cup of coffee across from him. He tapped his foot anxiously. He glanced at the clock on the wall, the big hand agonizingly moving closer and closer to number three. When he called Ana earlier, she didn't sound like someone who wanted to call off the whole thing. Did she change her mind? Sure, it was within her right to make that decision, but for some reason Casey felt a little bummed out on the inside.

He took a slow sip from his coffee. He was about to get up and pay, but a soft DING! from the front door stopped him. A young lady wearing a leather trench coat and matching skirt— probably wearing seven pounds of makeup on her face. However, she could've been wearing only eyeliner and lipgloss and she still would've looked as gorgeous as ever.

Casey smiled at Ana. "You made it."

Ana only nodded. When Casey gestured for her to sit, she hesitated like the seat had spikes on it; but eventually, she sat down.

"You kinda strike me as an oat-milk-latte person," Casey said. "So that's what I ordered for you."

Ana only stared at her cup. Whatever she was thinking, it took a little while for her to even reach for it. Maybe she thought it was poisoned or something.

"Careful, though," Casey warned her when she brought the cup to her lips. "You don't want to end up making the same mistake as me." He pointed at the casualty his shirt took.

Ana considered it. She took her first sip, savored it, and then surprise flashed over her face. "What is this again?" She asked.

"An oat milk latte— with a little sweetener added."

"It is. . . surprisingly good."

"Never had one before?"

"I never had coffee. First time."

"Really? I guess I made the right call, didn't I?"

Casey thought no girl could resist that infamous toothy smile and slight flirtatious eyebrow raise of his, but Ana seemed to be immune to it. Her face was inscrutable. Impassive. Huh, but that worked so well last time. . .

Ana put down her cup. She folded her arms. "Why did you really ask me out?"

"Like I said— because I'm a nice guy. People do this all the time."

"How many men do you know who still care about a whore the night after they sleep together?"

"Truthfully, none. But there's a first time for everything, right?"

Ana tilted her head. Her intense blue eyes studied him carefully. "You were very good— the best I've ever been with— but only one time. That is the end."

Casey blinked hearing such a compliment. Ana had probably serviced a diverse range of clients before he came along, but somehow she settled on him? All of Casey's past relationships pretty much said something similar (he couldn't help it if the ladies' loved him so much), so he thought he was doing it right in that part, at least.

"It doesn't have to be. A relationship has to start somewhere."

"Not for me. I give what they want and they give me what I want. Plain and simple."

Casey crossed his arms on the table. His interest lit up like a Christmas tree. "How do you know exactly what they want?"

"They want the same thing; every man does. No surprises."

"Okay, well, what if you meet someone who wants something different this time?"

Ana smirked slightly. "Like you, perhaps?"

"Well, not necessarily me, but maybe somewhere along your career you meet someone worth getting to know— you guys chat, have dates like this one, there's a connection. . . you might find yourself surprised."

"The day that happens, I eat my boots."

"If you're going to bet, then it's only fair I bet as well. I bet that if you somehow prove me wrong. . ." Casey tried to think of the most wildest dare in the history of dares ". . .I'll go snow swimming for two minutes while singing 'Hollback Girl'."

Ana looked taken aback. "Snow swimming?"

"Wearing nothing but my boxers."

"You no worried about how cold it would be?"

"It definitely won't be fun, which is why I'm hoping I can avoid it altogether if I can prove to you that not everyone's out to hurt each other," Casey admitted, but then he faintly smiled. "You can start with me, and I'll start with you."

A brief pause. Ana's guard faltered ever so slightly as she seemed to consider his words. For a moment, her skepticism gave way to something softer— something that looked a lot like hope.

Before Ana could respond, her phone buzzed. Her foundation ran for cover as she glanced at the screen. Whatever softness was there vanished instantly. She tensed up, stood up abruptly, and grabbed her coat.

Confused, Casey stood up as well. "Ana? What's wrong?"

Ana forced a weak smile. "Sorry, I—I have to go."

Casey reached out slightly but stopped himself. "Wait. Did I—did I say something wrong."

She shook her head quickly, her voice brisk and distant. "No. Not you." A beat. "I'm sorry."

Ana turned and left without another word, her figure disappearing into the crowd outside. Casey watched her leave, feeling a mixture of confusion and concern. He sat back down slowly, staring at the coffee cup she left behind.

Maybe she wasn't ready to hear that. . . not yet, anyway.

***

NOW

You know how were different sounds that some people found therapeutic to them but not for others? And everyone around you thought you were somehow the weird one for liking to hear that particular sound? Some people liked the sound of sizzling bacon. Some people liked the loud clicking sound when the balls in a Newton's cradle collided. Some liked the sound of crunching snow underneath their feet. Think of when people liked smelling certain scents— like mildew from books or when you smell the inside of your brand-new pair of shoes. It just made you happy, right? People had their reasons, and most of them would tell you it's because they're either wired that way or for emotional connections.

For Casey, he loved hearing the crisp cut of his blades biting into the ice. He loved going faster because it felt like flying down a runway, pumping his wings to get airborne. He loved hearing the swing from bringing his hockey stick down and striking that puck as hard as he could. Lastly, he loved hearing that echo when the puck hit the boards after soaring across the rink in a timeless matter.

Standing and hearing the scoreboard blare its horn made Casey's mind teleport himself to a similar memory— similar setting, similar position, but several inches shorter. Ten years old. His junior ice hockey team— The Red Wolves— versus The Philadelphia Hares. Only five more minutes remained until the game was over and the score was tied. It was up to Casey to win his team the championship pot. The other team's goalie looked big and scary enough, but Casey took a deep breath, said a little prayer, and barreled the puck when he saw an opening. He thought it was an impossible goal, but suddenly it didn't matter when he heard cheering and his team rushed to carry and throw him into the air.

Casey always knew he loved ice hockey, but that moment really solidified it for him. It was nice having success at every game, but the sport was so much more than winning and losing for him. It was about feeling alive, finding control when everything felt like slipping away. Out here, he didn't have to explain himself, didn't have to prove anything. The ice didn't demand, didn't judge. It just was. Here he could forget about everything— his problems, his mistakes, the docks. . . and her.

Casey glided back to the edge of the rink, his thigh then reminding him of the lovely wound that was now his when he bent his leg. He gently ran a hand over the area. Bastard, Casey thought bitterly. Who was he, anyway? Did he spill his guts already? Hopefully either Agent Murphy or Hudson update him soon and give him a name because that guy was in for a world of hurt.

Then White Knight came to mind. The scenario was perfect for the punk to show up at his university's ice rink and subdue him — he was alone, recovering, and it was nighttime— but Casey passed the evening without a single disturbance. Of course, that meant nothing. How did he know White Knight hadn't been spying on him ever since he got here? Or that it started as far back to a year ago? Or two? Three? Maybe even further than that?

That was the thing: he didn't. Was he now going to have to create a suspect list and cross names out one by one? He had like, what, over a hundred? His ice hockey team, frat brothers, people he followed online, classmates, exes. . . fuck that. It'd take forever!

Okay, just thinking about this is driving me even more crazy.

Casey decided to pack it up and go home. He took off his gear, shoved them into his gym bag, slipped on his shoes and grabbed his belongings and turned off the lights before leaving.

The air outside the rink hit colder than usual, but it wasn't the kind of cold that got underneath your skin— it was the kind that made the world feel too quiet. Too still. Casey's bag hung heavy on his shoulder, but it wasn't just the weight of his gear pulling at him. Something felt. . . off. He couldn't put it into words, but it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

He couldn't shake the feeling that someone was out there. He glanced over his shoulder once, twice— nothing. Just empty streets and lampposts. But the longer he walked, the harder it was to ignore the way his gut twisted. Then he heard a pattern of footsteps from behind him. Casey tried to stay calm and kept walking. The footsteps became louder and increased in pace. Casey walked faster.

Thumpity-thump-thumpity-thump.

Casey held in his breath. His hand was hidden in his pocket, his house key jammed between his fingers as a precaution. Louder and louder. . .

The wind whistled past him. A figure in bright clothing and wearing earbuds. A jogger. The clear sound of their shoes slapping against the pavement faded away after a couple of seconds. Casey almost laughed. All that thinking of being watched and followed had him feeling paranoid.

***

Casey practically threw himself on the couch as soon as he came through the front door. He drowned his face into the cushion, thinking: out with no shit, in with the old shit. Trust him, the less you thought about it, the more that line made sense.

Now that he was back in his apartment, his train of escapism brought him back to the station of reality he departed from ever since his problem started (well, one of the problems, actually. The other problem he'd been rolling punches with before the second problem came along). He would go through the same cycle as he did for these six months: FBI calls, go to work, eavesdrop, try not get caught, report to FBI, reminder of negotiations, stare at the wall and sulk, repeat. People were liars when they said nothing was worse than ending up in misfortune when it wasn't even your fault. Nobody wanted to admit that nothing was worse than starting a mess you didn't know how to clean up.

Of course, the situation didn't start out with bad intentions. They never do. Casey only wanted to help. Yeah, he knew there would be risks, but it was better than the alternative. Sometimes he would sit in the dark and reflect on his choices, his brain serving him questions to try to eat away at his guilt: if you had done this, would the outcome be different? Why did you let her problem become your problem? Why did you fuck around and find out?

But that was precisely it: he couldn't have turned away. He couldn't just stand there and do nothing. What kind of person did that make him? He made that mistake once; he wasn't going to do it again.

If anything happened to her. . .

Every now and then, the ugly possibilities popped up in the back of his head. But Casey just ignored them. Maybe if he didn't think about it, they wouldn't be true.

He sat up, sighing. He needed some food and a movie to distract him from reality.

He mustered up the energy to walk to his fridge and opened it. There were eggs, condiments, and a jar of pickles he never bothered to open. In other words: no food. Then he opened all of the cupboards and his pantry closet, figuring if he closed and reopened them that some food would magically appear. After doing it a few times, though, no such thing happened. No food.

Casey's eyes drifted to look at his cellphone that was on top of the countertop. Takeout it is, then.

To pass the time after placing his order, Casey decided to scroll on Netflix and find an action movie he hadn't already watched yet. Which proved to be difficult, since he'd already watched them all more than once. There was a moment he saw his reflection in the TV screen and he wondered what the hell went wrong with every shitty thing so far.

Apparently, everything.

After getting tired of pressing the scroll button, Casey settled for the original Fast & The Furious. Couldn't go wrong with that, right? He could quote every line like he knew the back of his hand.

Casey shot up from the couch when he heard a knock at his door. He greeted the pizza guy, graciously tipped him, and took the box. He opened it, inhaled the pungent, savory scent, and exhaled heavenly. Guess he made the right call choosing Papa John's over Wing Stop.

He started the movie, switching between pizza bites and chugging soda. Then characters like Dom, Brian, Mia, and Letty entered the scene. Gosh, he remembered he had the fattest crush on Jordana Brewster when movies of the franchise started popping out like daisies. He used to dream of just she and him driving off into the sunset in the same modified Mitsubishi Eclipse Brian 'O' Conner brought to the car meet, and then the two would. . .

Casey stopped himself. He was getting sidetracked.

"Ask any racer, any real racer," Dom Toretto said. "It don't matter if you win by an inch or a mile—"

"Winning's winning," Casey finished, mimicking Din Viesel's voice. Ahh, back when Fast & The Furious was just about racing.

Then as it was about to transition to the next scene, the lights went out. Not just the lights— the hum of the fridge, the soft buzz of the TV. The whole apartment plunged into a heavy silence. For a second, Casey sat there, blinking and staring at the darkness like he expected it to talk. If I have to buy a new fridge because of a stupid power outage like last year. . .

Casey grabbed a flashlight from the drawer and headed to the fuse box. The beam bounced around the walls as he moved, and every creak of the floorboards sounded louder than it should. His own footsteps felt too heavy. Too obvious. He didn't know why, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't alone.

When he opened the fuse box, everything looked fine. No blown circuits. Nothing out of place. That's when he heard it— the faintest noise. Barely there. Like a whisper of movement above him. His grip on the flashlight tightened as he glanced up. Then he saw a blur, like the side of something. Like shadows dancing across the ceiling. But that's all it was. . . right? Shadows.

There was an old fire escape outside his window that led to the rooftop. It's rickety, barely used, but he found himself climbing it anyway, flashlight in one hand, a baseball bat in the other. Stupid, probably. But the unease was clawing at him. He couldn't convince himself otherwise, not tonight.

When he got to the rooftop, he didn't see anything at first. Just the city spread out in front of him, lights twinkling in the distance. It took a few looksies before Casey saw him. White Knight. He was standing still, cloaked in the shadows like he'd been waiting for Casey. His outline barely caught the glow of the city below, but there was no mistaking it. A few inches shorter than Casey, broad, hooded. White Knight didn't move. He didn't speak. Just stood there, like some stoic, silent ghost.

Casey swallowed hard. This guy knows my name, where I live, probably knows where I study as well. What's next? That he knows my brand of underwear and cologne?!

Every instinct of his told him to go back down the fire escape and lock the window. But he couldn't. White Knight interrupted a perfectly good movie night, and he needed to explain himself.

"Alright," Casey called out, trying to sound braver than he felt. "You wanted to get my attention, right? Well, you got it."

White Knight took a few steps toward him. Casey reminded him who had the weapon here. Though, he doubted it would do any good if White Knight unsheathed his salad tongs.

"Why don't you put that thing down?" White Knight suggested in his deep voice.

Casey frowned. "No one in their right mind would drop their only means of defense when a lunatic is on their rooftop!"

"I'm not the one waving my flashlight in one hand and a bat in the other like a chimp on drugs. I'm here to help."

"I don't know you, sir. If you really wanted to help, how about starting with explaining why you followed me?"

"I didn't follow you. I was watching. There's a difference."

Casey narrowed his eyes. "Don't get cute with me! Watching me do what? I don't know what your deal is pal, but no one stalks me and turns off the power when Vin Diesel and Paul Walker are on the screen and expect they can get away with it!"

"Give me the bat, Casey Jones."

"Make me."

"I'll take it, and I will," White Knight warned.

"Unless you can somehow snatch it right out of my—"

And that was exactly what he did. Casey was left with his mouth dangling open. White Knight tested the bat before tossing it aside.

"You could've at least let me finish," Casey grunted.

"Where's the fun in that? Anyway, I meant what I said: I'm here to help."

"Okay, fine. Whatever. Let's just pretend you didn't stalk me and I just invited you here to talk like bros," Casey relented. "You wanna meet my parents while you're at it?"

If White Knight was someone Casey knew, they'd immediately correct him; parents, in his case, was a misnomer. Only a handful of people knew it was just his father. Casey could start the process of elimination.

White Knight crossed his arms. "You've got questions for a guy who's been asking answers. Why were you at the docks that night?"

"Oh, so this is an interrogation now? You first, tough guy. Why are you so interested in the docks?"

"My quarrel isn't with you, Jones." White Knight completely avoided the question. "It's with the master of the other ninjas— the ones you clearly got mixed up with."

Mixed up with? White Knight was asking for it. "You don't know what you're talking about!" Casey snapped. "Maybe if you hadn't stuck your big, hairy butt where it wasn't needed—"

"Excuse me? You were the one running with bad company!"

"You don't know shit about me!" Maybe he shouldn't have said that. White Knight did love to prove him otherwise. "You think I like hanging out with that crowd? Hell, the only reason why I'm putting up with it is because—"

Casey hesitated. White Knight sensed it, taking another step. "What?" He probed.

Casey sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. Why should he pour his heart to a complete stranger? This wasn't his business. But then again, he was so damn tired of not being to tell anyone anything about what he was going through.

"I'm doing it for my friend," Casey revealed. "Her name is Ana. She disappeared a few months ago. The people we worked for— The Russians— they know something. I just know it. But I don't exactly have proof. . . yet."

White Knight studied him up and down. "And you thought somehow infiltrating them by being their carrier boy was the way to do it? Smart."

Casey glared at him. "Don't lecture me. You don't know what it's like— feeling like someone you care about is just. . . gone, and you're trying to do everything in your power to find them."

There was a moment of silence between Casey and White Knight. White Knight was good at jabbing remarks, but he was a good listener, Casey will give him that. At least that was one frustration off his chest.

"So, to be totally clear. . . you're not affiliated with the Russians?" White Knight clarified.

"I don't know, do I look Russian? Does my name sound Russian? You want me to show you my tattoos and see if you recognize which one the Russian Mafia uses to brand its members?" That was a lie as well. But White Knight seemed to catch on that it was a trap to zoom in on his identity. It was a good try.

"I know more than you think. Those ninjas at the docks and the drug you were transporting— it all has to do with their master and the criminal mastermind who created the drug's agenda and somehow, that agenda includes your mob buddies— or really, the person in charge of them. You don't want to get caught in it."

A little too late for that, isn't it? "So what? You're here to save me out of the kindness of your heart? Please." 

"What I'm trying to tell you is that you're in deep shit."

"You don't know anything. In fact, I demand you tell me how the hell you know me and everything you've just said!"

White Knight ignored his question. Was that a habit of his? "It doesn't have to be this way. We could do a joint investigation. You can be on my team."

"You?" Casey scoffed. "Why should you lead the investigation?"

"Because this is way bigger than your friend, than the Mob, then anything, really. If you help my clan, we both can probably get what we want."

"Working with you? No thanks. I'll take my chances."

"Don't be an idiot."

"Don't ignore my question! How do you know me?"

". . . We've met before." White Knight placed one foot on the rooftop's edge like he had something planned.

"Stop bullshitting me!" Casey growled. "You don't get to drop cryptic crap like that and then decide you're gonna peace out! Who are you?!"

"I'm not your enemy. That's all you need to know."

Casey lunged forward, but by the time he reached the edge of the rooftop, White Knight was already gone. Just the faint rustle of the wind and the hum of the city below to remind him he'd even been there.

He didn't know what he was expecting when he asked for answers, but it definitely wasn't the guy sounding like a kid trying too hard to sound tough. White Knight's voice was low— too low. Like he was straining to sound menacing. It didn't fit the whole shadowy-warrior aesthetic he had going on.

We've met before. The fuck was that supposed to mean? He'd never met a guy who swung swords and played dress-up. At least, he didn't think he had. But now?

Casey went to retrieve his bat. He shook his head. "I should've asked him to put back the power on." If he found out his fridge was whacked out for good, the first thing he was doing after finding Ana was to track down White Knight and shove his old fridge up his ass.