Patrick Mahomes Finds an Abandoned Baby at a Church, Then Discovers the Heartbreaking Reason Why…

When Patrick Mahomes discovers a mysterious baby outside a church, he’s thrown into a deadly conspiracy. The child is the only survivor of a secret human experiment—and powerful forces will kill to get him back. Now, Mahomes must fight, run, and uncover the truth before it’s too late.

Patrick Mahomes never believed in fate until the night he found the baby on the church steps, wrapped in silk marked by a burn and abandoned beneath a shattered cross. Then came the note, chilling in its simplicity: They are coming. Hours later, bullets tore through his world. A woman lay dead, and the truth hit like a sledgehammer. This wasn’t just a baby—this was a secret worth killing for. Now, Mahomes is on the run, and the deeper he digs, the darker it gets. Because saving this child isn’t just about survival—it’s about stopping a monster.

The wind cut through the empty streets like a cold blade, whispering through the twisted iron gates of St. Benedict’s Church. Patrick Mahomes pulled his coat tighter around his broad shoulders, his breath visible in the damp night air. The streetlights flickered, casting long, eerie shadows against the gothic stonework of the abandoned church. It was the kind of night where even the city itself felt haunted.

Mahomes had been passing by, heading home after a long day, when a faint sound made him stop. A cry—not the sharp wail of a hungry stray or the distant screech of tires, but something softer, fragile, desperate. A baby. His heart knocked against his ribs as he turned toward the church steps. There, barely illuminated by a dying streetlamp, a small bundle shifted inside the alcove of the grand wooden doors. A blanket, plush white and visibly expensive, cocooned the tiny figure, though the fabric bore an odd burn mark near its edge.

Mahomes hesitated. A baby out here, in this cold, alone? It didn’t make sense. Somebody had to be nearby—a mother, a father, someone. He took a cautious step forward, scanning the empty street. Silence. The buildings stood like hollowed-out ghosts, their windows dark. The baby squirmed again, letting out another faint cry, so weak, like it had been crying for hours.

Mahomes exhaled sharply. “Nah, man,” he muttered under his breath. “This ain’t my business.” But his feet didn’t move. He glanced around one last time, his instinct screaming at him to walk away. He’d been around long enough to know that trouble didn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it just sat there, quiet and waiting, like this. Still, something about that sound, that helpless little noise, pulled at him.

Cursing under his breath, he knelt down, his large hands hesitating before reaching for the bundle. As soon as his fingers touched the blanket, the baby stirred, a tiny fist pushing through the folds, grasping at the air. The little thing was ice cold. Shock sighed. “All right, little man,” he murmured, lifting the baby into his arms with surprising gentleness. “I got you.”

The second he stood up, something shifted in the darkness—a presence. Mahomes stiffened, the feeling of being watched prickling down his spine like an icy whisper. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head. There, half-hidden in the church’s shadowed archway, stood an old man—Father Elijah. The priest’s face was etched with something Mahomes couldn’t quite place—concern, sorrow, maybe even fear. His frail hands were clasped together, but his knuckles were white, like he was gripping a terrible secret.

Mahomes met his eyes. “Yo, this yours?”

Father Elijah said nothing. The wind howled between them. The baby shuddered in Mahomes’ arms, nestling against his chest. Still, the old priest didn’t move. Mahomes exhaled, adjusting his grip on the baby. “All right, then,” he muttered, stepping back. “Guess I’ll figure this out myself.” And with that, he turned and disappeared into the night, the weight of the child in his arms feeling heavier than it should.

Behind him, Father Elijah remained in the shadows, his eyes lingering on the burned blanket. His lips moved in a silent prayer, but there was no comfort in the words. Because he knew this was only the beginning.

The apartment was barely warm, the radiator groaning in the corner, spitting out heat in weak, uneven bursts. Patrick Mahomes sat on the edge of his couch, staring down at the bundle in his arms. The baby had finally stopped crying, his tiny chest rising and falling in a soft rhythm, tucked safely in the folds of that expensive-looking blanket. Mahomes exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face. “What the hell am I supposed to do with you, man?” he muttered. This wasn’t his life. He wasn’t built for this. Mahomes was used to handling trouble—the kind that came with fists and bad decisions, not diapers and lullabies. Still, he couldn’t just leave the kid out there.

Leaning back, he gently peeled the blanket away, checking for anything that might tell him who this baby belonged to. That’s when he saw it—something small, tucked deep inside the folds. A piece of paper. Frowning, Mahomes pulled it free and unfolded it with rough fingers. Three words: They are coming.

His chest tightened. He read the note again, hoping he’d somehow imagined it. They are coming. Who the hell was they? His stomach churned, the weight of the situation hitting him harder. This wasn’t just some abandoned baby. This wasn’t some tragic accident. This was a warning.

A sharp knock at the door made him jump. Mahomes froze. His first instinct was to ignore it. His place wasn’t the kind people visited unannounced, especially this late. He slowly rose, shifting the baby against his shoulder, his mind racing through a thousand possibilities. The knock came again—harder, more urgent this time.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice, breathless, frantic. “I—I know you’re in there. Please, open up.”

Mahomes’ pulse hammered. Through the peephole, he caught sight of a woman standing in the dim hallway, glancing over her shoulder as if she expected someone to be right behind her. She had dark curls falling in tangled waves around her face, her eyes wild with fear. Mahomes hesitated, his gut screaming at him that this was bad news. But something about the way she kept looking over her shoulder, the sheer panic in her expression… He unlocked the door.

The woman shoved her way inside before he could react, slamming it shut behind her. “You have him, don’t you?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “The baby. Please, tell me you have him.”

Mahomes took a slow step back, his grip tightening around the child. “Who the hell are you?”

Her eyes darted to the baby in his arms, and relief washed over her face. “Thank God,” she breathed. “We don’t have much time. You need to listen to me—”

Glass shattered. A split second later, a dull thunk embedded itself in the wall behind her. A bullet. The woman’s body jerked, her eyes widening in shock. A wet gasp escaped her lips. Then she collapsed.

Mahomes stood frozen for a heartbeat, his mind struggling to catch up. Blood pooled beneath her, seeping into the cracks of his worn-out floorboards. His instincts roared to life. Move. Now. He dove to the ground, shielding the baby as another shot rang out, splintering the door frame. His heart pounded like a war drum in his ears. The sniper wasn’t waiting. They weren’t giving him time to think. His apartment was compromised.

Shoving the baby close to his chest, Mahomes crawled toward the back exit, his thoughts a tangled mess. Who was this woman? How did she know about the baby? What the hell was he caught up in? None of it mattered right now. All that mattered was getting out. With a final glance at the woman’s lifeless body, Mahomes gritted his teeth and ran. He was in this now, whether he liked it or not.

The cold rain beat against the windshield as Patrick Mahomes gripped the steering wheel, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. The baby lay wrapped in the back seat, silent except for the occasional soft coo, completely unaware of the chaos surrounding his existence. Mahomes’ mind reeled from the night’s events—the woman bleeding out on his floor, the sniper’s bullets, the ominous warning: They are coming. He had no idea who they were, but he wasn’t about to sit around and wait to find out. He needed help. That’s why he was here, pulling up outside a rundown detective agency wedged between a liquor store and a boarded-up laundromat. The flickering neon sign read: Dante Reynolds, Private Investigator.

Dante had been a cop once—a damn good one. But good cops didn’t last long in this city. He got out when he still had his soul intact. Now, he worked from the shadows, dealing with cases too dirty for law enforcement to touch. If anyone could figure this out, it was him.

Mahomes grabbed the baby, tucked him under his jacket to shield him from the rain, and headed inside.

“You look like hell,” Dante leaned back in his chair, running a hand through the scruff on his chin. He was in his 40s now, built like a retired boxer, and carried the kind of weight in his eyes that only came from seeing too much.

Mahomes dropped into the chair across from him, exhaling sharply. “Yeah, well, it’s been a night.”

Dante’s gaze fell to the bundle in Mahomes’ arms. “That a baby?”

“No, it’s a bowling ball. Of course it’s a baby,” Mahomes snapped. “I found him outside St. Benedict’s.”

Dante’s expression darkened. “Somebody just left him there?”

“Somebody left him there and sent a hit squad after me for picking him up,” Mahomes said, then pulled the crumpled note from his pocket and slid it across the desk. Dante read it, his brows knitting together. They are coming.

Silence hung between them. Finally, Dante nodded to the blanket wrapped around the baby. “Let me see that.”

Mahomes hesitated, then unwrapped it and handed it over. Dante’s fingers traced over the expensive fabric, pausing when he reached something stitched into the corner—a barely noticeable embroidered crest. His expression shifted. “I’ve seen this before,” he muttered, getting up and grabbing an old file from his cabinet. He flipped through faded photographs and documents before pulling out a black-and-white image. He slid it across the desk. The symbol was the same.

Mahomes frowned. “Who does it belong to?”

Dante met his eyes. “The Hawthorne family.”

Mahomes sat back, shaking his head. “The billionaires?”

“Not just billionaires,” Dante said. “They own half the damn city—real estate, politics, defense contracts. You name it, they’ve got their hands in it.” He exhaled, rubbing his temples. “But they’ve also got a reputation for being… secretive. People who cross them tend to disappear.”

Mahomes’ gut twisted. “So why the hell would their kid be on a church doorstep?”

Dante didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for the remote and turned on the TV sitting in the corner of his office. The news flickered on. “Still no updates on the disappearance of Evelyn Hawthorne, wife of billionaire Jonathan Hawthorne, who was reported missing earlier this evening. Authorities say there are no signs of foul play, but speculation grows regarding her sudden vanishing.”

Mahomes’ blood ran cold. Dante clicked the TV off and turned back to him. “They’re talking about her, but not the baby.”

Mahomes’ grip on the armrest tightened. “You think she was trying to hide him?”

“I think,” Dante said carefully, “that she ran, and she left him behind to keep him safe.”

Mahomes’ pulse pounded. It made sense. Maybe she had tried to get away, to protect her son, and when she realized she wouldn’t make it, she left him where someone—anyone—could find him. But if she was gone, and if they wanted the baby back… A chill crawled up his spine.

The knock on the office door was too soft, too measured. Dante tensed, his hand moving to the desk drawer where Mahomes knew he kept his gun. Mahomes pulled the baby close and exchanged a look with Dante. Then the door exploded inward.

Masked men flooded the office, dressed in tactical black, moving fast and without hesitation. Mahomes barely had time to react before a fist slammed into his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. He staggered back, shielding the baby as best as he could. Dante had his gun out in an instant, dropping one of the attackers with a precise shot to the leg.

“Go!” Dante barked.

Mahomes didn’t need to be told twice. He bolted for the back exit, twisting his body to keep the baby from harm. A bullet shattered the door frame inches from his head. Dante stayed behind, laying down cover fire, buying Mahomes time. Heart hammering, Mahomes hit the alley and kept running, rain pouring down his face, adrenaline screaming through his veins. The baby stirred, making a small noise against his chest, but Mahomes barely noticed. All he knew was one thing: Whoever these people were, they weren’t going to stop.

The motel room smelled like damp carpet and cigarette smoke, but it was safe—for now. The neon light from the sign outside flickered through the window, casting an eerie glow across the walls. Mahomes paced near the bed, the weight of everything pressing down on him like a storm cloud about to break. The baby lay nestled in a pile of blankets on the bed, sleeping peacefully, blissfully unaware that the world was trying to erase him. Dante sat at the small desk, a laptop open in front of him, the screen reflecting in his tired eyes.

“I found something,” he said, voice low, grim. “And it ain’t good.”

Mahomes stopped pacing. “What is it?”

Dante exhaled and turned the screen toward him. It showed a grainy black-and-white photo—a man in a pristine suit shaking hands with a military official. Next to them, a young woman held a newborn in her arms. The baby’s face was blurred, but the woman… Mahomes recognized her instantly.

“Evelyn Hawthorne,” he murmured.

Dante nodded. “The wife of Jonathan Hawthorne. But here’s the part the news ain’t talking about.” He clicked another tab, pulling up a document filled with redacted lines—the kind of thing only someone with serious hacking skills or a death wish would have. “Jonathan wasn’t just some billionaire businessman. He was funding something off the books. Something bad.”

Mahomes’ stomach tightened. “What kind of bad?”

Dante’s jaw tensed. He scrolled further down the page and stopped at a name: Project Seraphim.

“Jesus,” Dante muttered.

Mahomes felt the hairs on his arms stand up. “What the hell is that?”

Dante ran a hand down his face. “Experimental bioengineering. They were trying to enhance human abilities—faster reflexes, higher brain function, immunity to disease. It was supposed to be the next step in human evolution.”

Dante let out a humorless chuckle. “That’s the Hollywood version. The real thing? It was a disaster. The human body isn’t meant to be rewritten like that. Every subject they tested on either died—or worse.”

Mahomes’ throat went dry. “And the baby?”

Dante leaned back, rubbing his temples. “The only survivor.”

The room went silent. Mahomes looked at the child—tiny, vulnerable, innocent. Yet somehow, this baby was at the center of something monstrous.

“She tried to save him,” Dante said after a moment. “Evelyn. She must have found out what Jonathan was doing, realized what he turned their kid into. So she ran. But she didn’t make it.”

Mahomes swallowed hard, his mind flashing back to the news report. Evelyn’s disappearance. That was no disappearance. They killed her.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

Dante’s face was unreadable, but his fingers tapped restlessly against the desk. “Jonathan’s got his people all over this city. That hit squad? Probably just the start. They won’t stop till they get him back.” He nodded toward the baby.

Mahomes’ hands curled into fists. “Why? Why not just start over?”

Dante gave him a sharp look. “Because whatever’s in that kid’s DNA, it worked. He’s the only success they’ve ever had. That makes him priceless. You think a man like Jonathan Hawthorne is just going to let that go?”

Mahomes’ head pounded. He wasn’t built for this—science experiments, government conspiracies, billion-dollar coverups. He was just a guy who knew how to take a hit and keep standing. But this? This was way bigger than him. He stared at the sleeping baby, his small chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm. This kid wasn’t just some orphan. He was living proof of something the world wasn’t supposed to know about—and powerful people were willing to burn cities to the ground to erase him.

Mahomes sighed heavily, running a hand over his face. “What do we do?”

Dante’s expression hardened. “We disappear.”

Mahomes scoffed. “Disappear? You just said these people run everything. Where the hell are we going to go?”

Dante glanced back at the laptop. “I know a guy,” he admitted. “Someone who deals in fake identities. We could get you and the kid out of the city. Off the grid.”

Mahomes frowned. “What about you?”

Dante smirked, but there was no humor in it. “I’ve been on borrowed time for a while, brother. If I can slow these bastards down, even for a little bit, I’ll take my chances.”

Mahomes didn’t like it—not one bit. But before he could argue, the baby stirred. His tiny fingers twitched, his lips parting as if about to cry. But then something strange happened. The flickering motel light suddenly steadied. The air in the room grew heavier, like the pressure had shifted. Mahomes felt his own heartbeat slow—just for a second. Then, as quickly as it happened, it was gone. The baby cooed softly and settled back into sleep.

Mahomes and Dante locked eyes. “What the hell was that?” Mahomes asked.

Dante’s face was grim. “I think we just got our first glimpse of what they were trying to create.”

A weight settled in Mahomes’ gut. This wasn’t just about keeping a kid safe. This was about keeping him out of the wrong hands. And if they failed, it wouldn’t just be the baby’s life on the line—it would be everyone’s.

The warehouse smelled of rust, old paper, and desperation. Mahomes sat on the edge of a wooden crate, his broad shoulders tense, his mind racing. The baby, now wrapped in a different blanket—less conspicuous, less traceable—slept in a makeshift bassinet beside him. Across the dimly lit room, Sienna Cross worked on her laptop, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she pulled up files, decrypted emails, and dug through the kind of dark web archives that could get a person killed.

“This is bigger than I thought,” she murmured, her eyes narrowing as she scrolled. “I knew Hawthorne was dirty, but this… He wasn’t just funding the project. He was in it. His blood is part of the research.”

Mahomes frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

Sienna leaned forward. “It means he’s not just trying to make superhumans. He’s trying to fix himself.”

Dante, who had been pacing by the entrance, exhaled sharply. “Explains why he’s so desperate to get the kid back. The baby isn’t just an experiment. He’s the key to whatever Hawthorne is after.”

Mahomes ran a hand over his face. It didn’t matter what Hawthorne wanted. The only thing that mattered was keeping the kid out of his hands. Sienna turned her laptop toward them. “If we release this—these files, the documents, the test results—it’s game over for Hawthorne. He’ll be exposed.”

Mahomes nodded. “Then let’s do it.”

Sienna reached for the enter key. Then the door exploded inward.

The force of the blast sent Mahomes crashing into the crates behind him. Wood splintered, dust filled the air, and his ears rang with the shockwave. Instinct kicked in. He rolled to his side, shielding the baby as masked men flooded the warehouse, rifles raised. Dante was already on his feet—and he wasn’t reaching for his gun. He was just standing there, calm, still, like he knew this was coming.

Mahomes’ stomach dropped. “No,” he whispered.

Dante’s expression was unreadable as Hawthorne’s men moved past him, weapons trained on Mahomes and Sienna.

“You son of a bitch,” Sienna hissed, blood trickling from a cut on her forehead.

Dante finally turned, his gaze heavy, regretful. “It wasn’t supposed to go down like this,” he muttered.

Mahomes pushed himself up, his muscles coiled with rage. “You sold us out.”

Dante didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The confirmation was in the way he stood there, unmoving, as the soldiers moved in. Two men ripped the baby from the bassinet. The child let out a soft, startled cry—tiny, helpless. The sound sent a jolt of fury through Mahomes’ veins.

“Don’t touch him!” he roared, surging forward.

A rifle butt slammed into his ribs. The pain was instant, sharp, and deep, stealing the breath from his lungs. He dropped to one knee, coughing, tasting copper. Sienna fought. She lashed out at the nearest soldier, knocking his gun aside, but another grabbed her from behind and forced her to the ground. The baby’s cries grew louder.

And then, through the chaos, another figure stepped inside.

Jonathan Hawthorne.

His presence was chilling. He was tall, composed, his silver hair slicked back with an unnatural precision. He looked at the baby like a collector admiring a rare artifact.

“Finally,” he murmured, stepping closer. He reached out, brushing a gloved hand over the infant’s cheek. The baby flinched.

Mahomes’ vision blurred with rage. “You sick bastard.”

Hawthorne barely glanced at him. “You’ve been quite the inconvenience, Mr. Mahomes,” he said, his voice smooth, refined. “But I do appreciate your efforts in keeping my son safe.”

Mahomes stiffened. “Your son?”

A cold smile. “Who did you think he was?”

The words hit like a hammer. The child wasn’t just an experiment. He was Hawthorne’s blood, his heir. A nightmare realization clawed its way into Mahomes’ mind. If this baby was the only success of the experiment, then Hawthorne didn’t just want him back—he wanted to use him.

The air in the warehouse felt thick, suffocating. Mahomes struggled against the men holding him, but they were trained, strong, merciless. Hawthorne gave Dante a slight nod. And just like that, it was over. The soldiers moved out, taking the baby with them. Mahomes thrashed, roaring, but another strike to his gut sent him crashing to the floor. Through blurred vision, he saw Dante watching. For a split second, something flickered in his eyes—guilt, doubt. Then he turned and walked out.

The warehouse door slammed shut behind them. Silence. Mahomes lay on the cold concrete, his breaths ragged, his ribs screaming in protest. Sienna groaned beside him, trying to sit up. The baby was gone. And Dante had been a traitor all along.

The compound loomed in the darkness like a fortress—high walls, security towers, and guards patrolling in tight rotations. It was buried deep in the woods, far from the city—the kind of place built for secrets. The kind of place you didn’t leave unless someone let you. Mahomes crouched behind a ridge, his breathing slow and controlled. Beside him, Sienna adjusted the suppressor on her pistol, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the facility’s perimeter lights.

“They’re holding him in the main lab,” she whispered. “Third floor. Locked down tight.”

Mahomes’ jaw tightened. “Then we crack it open.”

They moved in the shadows, using the trees as cover. Two guards stood near the side entrance—high-tech gear, assault rifles, no gaps in their formation. Mahomes crept closer, his muscles coiling. He struck first—a fist to the throat silenced the first man before he could reach for his radio. The second spun, rifle rising. Sienna took him down with a single suppressed shot to the head. They slipped inside.

The hall smelled of antiseptic and steel. Security cameras lined the corridors, red lights blinking like watchful eyes. They moved fast, sticking to blind spots, taking out guards with brutal efficiency. They reached an elevator at the end of the hall. Sienna hacked the panel while Mahomes kept watch.

“How do you know all this?” he asked under his breath.

Sienna’s fingers danced over the screen. “I told you. I dig into dark places.” A soft beep, and the door slid open. “Third floor. Let’s go.”

The ride up was silent. Tension thickened the air. Mahomes flexed his fingers, knowing what was coming. The doors opened—and Dante was waiting.

They locked eyes. Dante stood between them and the lab doors, gun in hand, his stance unreadable. “You shouldn’t have come,” he said.

Mahomes stepped forward. “You shouldn’t have betrayed me.”

Dante sighed. “It wasn’t that simple.”

Mahomes clenched his fists. “It never is.”

And then they moved. Dante fired. Mahomes dodged, closing the distance in a heartbeat. He knocked the gun aside, throwing a savage right hook that Dante barely blocked. The impact sent them both staggering. Dante countered—elbow to the ribs, a quick strike to Mahomes’ jaw. It hurt, but Mahomes had been hit harder. He grabbed Dante by the collar and drove him through the glass window of an observation deck. They crashed onto the floor below, glass raining down around them.

Dante groaned, rolling onto his knees. “You don’t get it, man,” he rasped. “If we take him away, Hawthorne won’t stop.”

Mahomes wiped blood from his mouth. “Then we end it here.”

Dante exhaled. And for the first time, Mahomes saw it—the hesitation, the regret. But there was no time to question it. The alarms blared. Sienna’s voice came through the earpiece.

“Mahomes, they’re moving the baby. Now.”

Mahomes bolted past Dante, sprinting toward the lab. Hawthorne stood over the infant, his eyes glinting with something unhinged. The baby was strapped to a sleek metal table, surrounded by machines humming with unnatural energy.

“This child,” Hawthorne murmured, almost reverently, “is the next step.”

Mahomes leveled his gun at him. “Step away.”

Hawthorne didn’t flinch. “You think I care about enhancing humanity?” His lips curled into something almost amused. “I was never trying to build superhumans.” He turned to the monitor. A scan flickered to life—a medical report. And Mahomes saw it. The truth. Hawthorne wasn’t trying to create a future. He was trying to save himself. His DNA was breaking down—some kind of degenerative disease, eating him alive from the inside. And the baby was the cure.

Mahomes’ stomach twisted. “You’d experiment on your own kid to fix yourself?”

Hawthorne exhaled, stepping closer to the table. “He was born for this.”

Mahomes pulled the trigger. Click. The gun was empty.

Hawthorne smirked. “A shame.”

A guard lunged. Mahomes ducked, disarmed him, and cracked him across the jaw. Another came. Mahomes sent him sprawling with a brutal kick to the chest. He grabbed a fallen pistol and turned back. Hawthorne had a syringe in his hand, hovering over the baby’s arm.

Mahomes’ heart stopped.

“You shoot me,” Hawthorne warned, “and the serum goes in.”

Mahomes’ grip tightened on the gun. Sienna’s voice rang through the comms. “Mahomes, we have seconds.”

His mind raced. If that needle went in, there was no telling what would happen to the baby. But if he hesitated…

The baby whimpered. That tiny, fragile sound made Mahomes’ decision for him. He fired. The bullet tore through Hawthorne’s shoulder. The syringe slipped from his grasp, shattering on the floor. Mahomes rushed forward, unstrapping the baby, cradling him tight.

Hawthorne slumped against the table, blood soaking his crisp suit. He let out a bitter chuckle. “It doesn’t matter,” he rasped. “You can run, but he’ll always be mine.”

Mahomes stared down at him. And for a moment, he considered finishing it. But no. The building was already in chaos—alarms blaring, guards running. Hawthorne had lost. Mahomes turned and ran—through the burning lab, through the shattered halls, through the smoke and screams—and out into the night, the baby safe in his arms. A price paid in blood.

Flames swallowed the lab, thick black smoke curling into the night sky. Mahomes sprinted through the chaos, the baby cradled against his chest. The explosions’ shockwaves still rang in his ears, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. Sienna was waiting by the getaway car, engine running, her face tense.

“Come on!” she yelled.

Mahomes dove into the passenger seat just as another explosion rocked the ground behind them. The fire consumed everything—Hawthorne’s empire, his research, his twisted dreams. And Hawthorne himself. As they sped off, Mahomes looked back through the rearview mirror. Somewhere in that inferno, the man who had torn so many lives apart was taking his final breath.

But one life remained. The baby stirred, pressing his tiny face against Mahomes’ chest. Alive. Safe. For now.

But not everyone was gone. Through the smoke, a figure emerged—limping, bloody, but standing. Dante. He watched them go, his face unreadable. But in his eyes, there was something dark. Something unfinished.

Mahomes turned away. He’d deal with that fight another day.

Two days later, deep in the countryside, Mahomes rocked the baby gently on the porch of a secluded cabin. Sienna sat beside him, watching the stars.

“He needs a name,” she murmured.

Mahomes looked down at the child—at the life he’d fought so hard to protect. “Yeah,” he said softly. “He does.”

A rustle in the distance. Unseen eyes watched from the trees. The storm wasn’t over. Not yet.

The fight isn’t over. Mahomes may have escaped with the baby, but powerful enemies are still out there—watching, waiting, planning their next move. Will he be able to protect the child from the forces that won’t stop hunting him? And what dark truths about the experiment remain buried, waiting to be uncovered? Stay tuned for the next chapter in this gripping, high-stakes thriller. Because some secrets refuse to stay hidden—and some battles never truly end.