Chapter 3: The Mastermind’s Challenge

But to my surprise, there was no bomb in the abandoned building. Instead, a sharply dressed man stood there, clapping as he watched me.

He looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine—tailored suit, perfect hair, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Too perfect.

"Not bad. You passed the test. You’re qualified to keep playing my game. I thought you might not solve it. That would’ve been so boring!"

His voice was smooth, almost friendly. I hated him instantly.

I clenched my teeth.

Every muscle in my body screamed for action, but I forced myself to stay still.

"Who the hell are you?"

My voice echoed off the empty walls. He didn’t even flinch.

He smiled at me.

The kind of smile you see in nightmares—charming, but cold as ice.

"Take a guess."

He cocked his head, like a game show host waiting for the wrong answer. He wanted me to guess wrong.

My blood boiled. I swung at him, ready to land a punch. But he just grinned.

He dodged with ease, hands still in his pockets. I wanted to wipe that smirk off his face.

"Don’t you want your wife to live?"

The words stopped me cold. My fist hovered in the air, useless.

I froze. But then it hit me—this is a law-abiding country; would he really go that far? He was probably bluffing. I tried to grab him, but he just kept smiling.

He sidestepped, almost dancing. His confidence was infuriating.

"Your wife is pregnant. Don’t you want your child to live, too?"

The world spun. Pregnant? That couldn’t be. My mind reeled, searching for any sign, any clue I’d missed. My stomach dropped.

I stared at him in disbelief.

For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. My vision blurred at the edges.

"What do you want?"

The words came out rough, desperate. I’d never felt so powerless.

The man finally turned serious.

He straightened his tie, eyes narrowing. The game was over—at least for now.

"I want to hear a heartfelt apology from you."

His words hung in the air, heavy as lead. I had no idea what he meant. I hated that.

Back home, I couldn’t calm down. What did he mean by "a heartfelt apology"? I was sure I didn’t know this man. I couldn’t think of any grudge between us. And no matter how you looked at it, he was impressive—young, handsome, wealthy, smart. My wife was beautiful, but I didn’t think he was after her. With his looks and money, he could have any woman he wanted.

I paced the living room, replaying every conversation, every argument, every mistake. Nothing fit. It was like trying to read a book in a language I didn’t understand. I was lost.

I took a deep breath, sorting through my thoughts. Had I done something wrong? If so, what? What did he mean by "heartfelt apology"? These questions became a riddle that haunted me.

They buzzed in my brain like angry bees, keeping me up long after midnight. Sleep was out of the question.

Soon, I realized something else: my wife hadn’t come home! I’d been too rattled to call the police earlier, but now it seemed necessary. Still, I had to wait—she hadn’t been missing for twenty-four hours yet. Most importantly, the man never said he had her. His words were vague, not enough to prove she was in his hands.

I checked my phone every five minutes, hoping for a text, a call, anything. The silence was torture.

I waited at home until the twenty-four hours were up, then went to the police station. The officers patiently took my statement and asked where my wife might have gone. They searched all day but found nothing.

They were kind, but I could see the skepticism in their eyes. Another husband, another missing wife. I felt invisible, lost in the system.

The next morning, the police called me in. They told me my wife had come to the station on her own, saying she’d just had a fight with me and didn’t want to go home. Since she was emotional but otherwise fine, they let her leave.

The relief was overwhelming, but it quickly curdled into confusion. Had she really just left, or was she being forced?

I was stunned. This had to be that man’s doing. But the police said there was nothing they could do. The computer explosion couldn’t be linked to anyone. The man never threatened a bombing—he just set a countdown. All they could say was to avoid contact with him; he might have mental issues. As for everything else, it was just a civil matter between spouses, not a criminal case. If I needed mediation, they could help, but otherwise, they couldn’t intervene.

I left the station feeling smaller than ever. Justice was slow, indifferent. I was on my own. Again.

I thanked them and went home. After thinking it over, I decided to start with my wife. If I could find out who she’d met or talked to, maybe I could identify the man. I’d helped set up a lot of her passwords, so I could check her accounts easily. But it was like she knew I’d look—almost everything was deleted. Her posts only showed the last three days, her favorites were empty, and her call history was normal. I realized she was probably under that man’s control. This was his doing—no doubt in my mind.

I stared at the empty screens, feeling like I’d lost her all over again. The digital erasure was more chilling than any argument.

I thought about it—since he knew my dog training tips, maybe he knew that client. I arranged to meet the client, but he told me lots of people knew my methods. He’d shared my tips in a pet owner group chat, and they’d gotten good feedback. I checked the group from his phone, but there were no useful clues.

I scrolled through endless messages—memes, advice, photos of dogs in sweaters. Nothing sinister, just ordinary life marching on. Nothing.

For days, the man seemed to have vanished completely. I felt helpless, like I had all this energy and nowhere to use it.

I tried to lose myself in work, but every time the bell over the shop door rang, my heart jumped. Every customer was a potential threat.

A week later, a call came from an unfamiliar number. I answered, and the man’s voice came through:

"Getting anxious? Don’t worry, I’ve got a special gift for you—you’ll like it."

The words were syrupy sweet, mocking. I wanted to throw my phone across the room.

Ding! He hung up, and just then, my doorbell rang. It was a courier with a box, delivered same-day. It was from that man.

The delivery guy smiled, oblivious. Just another package.

Given what happened with the last box—a bloody dog’s head—I sniffed this one first. No blood, so it should be safe. Still, my heart raced. I’d seen movies where people get boxes with severed limbs or heads. I was terrified this time it’d be my wife inside…

I set the box on the kitchen counter, staring at it like it might explode. Sweat trickled down my back.