Page 42 of Shared Obsession

It's been two weeks since Alex brought me my computer, and I'm losing my fucking mind—anger and frustration burning a hole in my chest. No matter what I do, it's never enough. I’ve tried every trick I know, but the bastards who run the site are using advanced proxy chains and encrypted servers—layers upon layers of security, always one step ahead of me. I can barely get a ping on any IP address before the signal bounces to another continent. I tried tracking Ayla’s phone, but there’s nothing. No signal, no GPS, nothing but dead ends. I want to smash my laptop, throw it out the window, scream until my throat is raw. Every failure feels like another nail in her coffin, another day stolen from her and from me. I’ve been at this for long enough that I think I’m losing my mind, running on caffeine, rage, and the adrenaline of being back on my feet—because now I am. But what good is surviving if I can’t save her?

Physical therapy has been brutal, but I pushed myself harder every day. At first, just sitting up left me dizzy and weak, but now I can walk the halls on my own, my balance steady, my legs strong. I still get headaches. Sometimes my left hand tingles, and there’s a scar along my hairline that aches in the cold, but I’m not just surviving—I’m fighting. Every step, every exercise, every lap around the ward was for Ayla. The therapists said they’d never seen someone recover so fast after a traumatic brain injury and a coma, but they didn’t know what was driving me. I have a mission. I need to get out of here and bring her home. But every time I fail to find her, it feels like I’m failing all over again—like I’m letting her down in the one way that matters most.

I was supposed to protect her. That was my one fucking job. And now—no matter how many nights I stay awake, no matter how hard I fight—I still don’t know how to find her. The helplessness is a living, gnawing thing inside me, enough to make me want to scream, to tear the world apart. I promised her I’d keep her safe, and I’m losing her, piece by piece, every single day I come up empty. It’s killing me, and I can’t stop. I won’t. Not until she’s home, or I am dead trying.

I’m hunched over my computer, jaw tight, when the doctor walks in. I almost don’t register him until he clears his throat. “Hello, Dean. I wanted to discuss your discharge. Your neuro exams have been stable, your scans look good, and you’re off all IV meds. Your physical therapy team says you’ve made impressive progress—your strength, gait, and balance are all back to baseline. If you’re comfortable, we think you’re ready to go home. There will be restrictions—no driving for a few weeks, no heavy lifting, and you’ll need to follow up with neurology, cognitive therapy, and outpatient rehab. But you’re cleared for discharge as early as tomorrow.”

The words barely register—they don’t feel real. I’m going home. I survived. But Ayla is still out there, and I can’t rest until she’s safe. I nod, swallowing hard. “Thank you, doctor.”

He gives me a reassuring smile and lays out the plan: “We’ll get your paperwork started. You’ll have a detailed medication list, instructions for gradual activity, and a referral for cognitive therapy and ongoing physical rehab. We’ll keep you on seizure precautions for now—no heights, no swimming alone. If you get headaches, dizziness, memory trouble, or any weakness, call us immediately.”

As he leaves, I stare at my computer screen, hands shaking. I survived a severe head injury, a coma, and six weeks of hell. But I’m not done fighting—not until I bring Ayla home.

I'm sitting in my hospital bed, restless and buzzing—one more night and I’m cleared for discharge. Tomorrow, I’ll be out of here, and we can finally hunt for her. Alex and Zayn have only stayed in West Virginia this long because of me, waiting for the green light. We’re all convinced they took Ayla back to New York. Charles’s words in the emails haunt me: we will take her to the castle clubhouse. After everything we’ve uncovered, I know now the rot runs deeper than we ever imagined. And he took her there for the first time when she was 13. That realization guts me.

I’ve been watching the videos on repeat, desperate for any clue. It’s not just Ayla—there’s a whole trafficking ring, girls cycled through, a roster of paying clientele. It makes me fucking sick. Every new upload used to be proof she was still alive. But lately, there haven’t been any new videos, and that silence terrifies me. The emptiness gnaws at me, every hour without a clip twisting my insides with fear. I can’t shake the thought: What if they’ve moved her? What if something worse has happened? My hands tremble on the keys as guilt and dread claw up my throat. I try to tell myself the absence means they’re hiding her, keeping her alive, but it feels like I’m drowning in uncertainty.

I’m hunched over my laptop, jaw tight, when a livestream notification pops up, the ping slicing through my exhaustion. My heart leaps—please, let it be Ayla. I click in—it’s not Ayla— the feed jittery and grainy, but as the camera pans across the dingy room, I freeze. There, in the corner of the frame, is a paper coffee cup—tiny logo barely visible. I squint, pausing the video, heart racing. The logo is distinctive—not some big chain, but a local New York shop: Bedford Brews. I'll reverse-image-search the logo to confirm. My hope flickers, fragile but alive for the first time in weeks.

But that’s not all. On the far side of the room, there’s a metal cabinet, and in its polished surface, a white blur catches the light. I zoom in, enhancing the reflection, and my breath stutters. It’s a piece of mail: BEDFORD AVE. Brooklyn is all I can see. My fingers fly across the keys as I cross-reference the coffee shop’s location with the street sign—Bedford Avenue, right in the heart of Williamsburg. They slipped up—a simple reflection, a careless cup, and suddenly I have a borough, a neighborhood, a place to start. The hope that surges through me is so sharp I almost sob. For the first time in weeks, I feel like I’m not just failing her—I’m fighting for her again.

My adrenaline spikes. “I got something!” I shout, loud enough to echo down the hall. Alex and Zayn burst in, wide-eyed.

Alex grabs my shoulder. “What is it? Did you find her?”

I nod, breathless. “She’s in New York. Not an exact pin, but we’ve got the borough. Bedford Avenue, Brooklyn. That’s where the coffee cup and mail point.”

Zayn’s voice is shaky with hope. “That’s more than we’ve had in weeks, Dean. It’s real. We can do something.”

Alex squeezes my arm, his eyes fierce. “We’re going to bring her home. We’re going to get her back.”

For the first time in weeks, hope pulses through my veins—wild, bright, undeniable. We’re going to bring her home.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Zayn

New York feels foreign after how long we’ve been gone. We pull up to Alex’s loft, bikes still strapped to the trailer behind the Jeep. It’s spotless inside—too clean, almost sterile, like nothing has changed while the rest of our lives have been turned upside down. That’s Alex for you—he keeps things running, even when the world is chaos. I drop down next to Dean on the couch, and Alex claims the armchair, his eyes stormy with focus.

“Alright, we’ve got a base of operations. Let’s get organized. What do we actually know?” I ask, trying to anchor us in the facts, not just the panic. Dean nods, and Alex jumps in. “We know she’s somewhere in Brooklyn, near Bedford Avenue. It’s not much. Close to nothing, really, but it’s a start.”

“We also know the live streams always go up at 8 p.m. sharp,” Dean adds. “That means they’re keeping up appearances. Nathan and Charles are probably still working their regular nine-to-fives, somehow keeping their reputations spotless in public. Everything that's happening, they’re hiding it well.”

I nod, the weight of it settling in my chest. “And this kind of operation—this dark web trafficking, the encryption, the layers of security—it’s bigger than anything I’ve ever seen,” Dean says.

I can see how hard Dean is taking all of this. He hasn’t said it out loud, but I know the guilt is eating him alive—the way his jaw tightens, how he stares at the laptop like he can force a miracle just by sheer will. He blames himself for not stopping them, for not protecting Ayla, for not hacking fast enough. But none of this is his fault, and I need him to feel that, to believe it. Out of all of us, Dean is always the one who shoulders the blame, even when it was impossible for him to do more.

I reach out, squeeze his shoulder, and pull him into a hug—grounding us both. “Hey,” I murmur, voice low so only he can hear. “You’re not alone in this. I love you. We’ll figure this out. Together. I don’t care how long it takes. But I can’t do this without you, Dean, so don't go there. You hear me?”

Dean lets out a shaky breath, leaning in, and I press a kiss to his forehead—more than a silent promise; it’s everything I can’t put into words. He whispers, “I love you too. Thank you for not letting me drown in all this, Z.”

Alex clears his throat, voice sharp but hopeful. “If we keep eyes on Charles and Nathan, they have to lead us to her eventually. But first, we need to find them. We track everything—work, home, side businesses. They’ll slip up.”

Dean nods, thinking aloud, his voice steadier with purpose. “Let’s start with their offices. Even if they don’t show up every day, they’ll have to eventually, right? All we need is one mistake. One sighting. We’ll be waiting.”

Alex leans forward, tension in his posture. “You want me to stake out Nathan’s firm? I’ll keep eyes out for any weird deliveries or late-night meetings, anything that looks off.”

I nod. “Good. And I’ll take Charles’s office.”