Chapter 1: Eyes for Ransom, Hearts on Trial

On live camera, the kidnapper mercilessly gouged out my son's eyes. My wife, Autumn, sobbed uncontrollably beside me.

The harsh glare of the studio lights caught every twitch on the kidnapper's face—every trembling sob that wracked Autumn's body. My heart hammered in my chest, but I forced my face to remain stone cold, feeling the judgmental gaze of the world through that relentless blinking red camera light. It was surreal, like some twisted reality show gone off the rails, but the agony in Autumn's cries was all too real and inescapable.

"Graham, this is your only son. Are you going to save him or not?" The kidnapper's voice crackled through the speaker—chilling, almost gleeful, as if he'd rehearsed this moment and was relishing every ounce of power he held over us. The taunt hovered in the air, heavy and merciless, making my skin crawl.

He demanded ten million dollars. My wife—Autumn—dropped to her knees, begging me—please, save our son.

Her knees hit the hardwood with a dull thud. She clasped her hands in desperate prayer. Mascara streaked down her cheeks as she pleaded, her voice raw and ragged, echoing off the walls and ricocheting into the cold, unblinking camera lens. I could hear her breaths hitch, every syllable torn from her throat by a sob.

With everyone watching, I calmly hung up the video call and shook off Autumn's desperate grip.

My fingers felt numb as I pressed the button to end the call. Autumn clung to my arm, nails digging in. I wrenched free, ignoring the horror etched on her face. Silence crashed down, deafening—broken only by the faint whimper from the now-muted screen.

"Ten million is too much. I'll just have another kid. This one's yours."

My words came out ice-cold, each one a slap across the face to everyone watching. In the hush that followed, the temperature in the room seemed to drop. Autumn's gasp was sharp, like glass shattering in the quiet.

I sent a hefty donation through the livestream, a show of cold defiance—letting the kidnapper do as he pleased, as if it meant nothing to me.

The donation notification flashed on the screen—a garish, celebratory animation that felt grotesque in that moment. I let it play out, my fingers steady as I pressed the button, almost daring the world to judge me for it.

"This kid's a handful. Even without his skin, he'd still be a good kid."

I typed the comment with a smirk, the words burning like poison in my mouth. The chat exploded. Somewhere in the background, a mug shattered against the floor.

As soon as I finished typing, someone lunged at me—driven by rage, desperation, maybe both.

A blur of movement. Someone from our staff—maybe a bodyguard—leapt at me, eyes wild. Hands grabbed at my shirt, rage boiling over in a way that almost felt comforting compared to the cold emptiness inside me.

"What the hell is wrong with you? That's your own son!"

The accusation hung in the air, sharp and unfiltered. The voice cracked with disbelief, echoing the outrage of thousands watching online. I barely blinked.

Autumn's face was streaked with tears. She clung to me, screaming in desperation.

Her sobs were hoarse, every word tearing at my resolve. She clung to me as if I was her last lifeline, her grip shaking, mascara smudged, eyes red and desperate.

On the other screen, seven-year-old Mason Graham—our son—was tied up in front of the camera, his eyes closed as he wailed, blood trickling from the corners of his eyes.

The image on the screen seared itself into my mind. Mason’s small body trembled, his cries thin and pitiful. Blood pooled at the corners of his eyes, staining his cheeks and shirt. My chest tightened. Still, I forced my face to stay blank.

My comment shot to the top of the chat, but the donation's flashy animation kept playing.

The chat scrolled by at lightning speed, angry emojis and accusations piling up on top of my comment. The donation animation—a shower of cartoon dollar bills—was grotesquely out of place. Somewhere, someone in the house cursed under their breath.

The kidnapper's laughter echoed through the speakers, and he brandished bloodied objects in his hands. Autumn's face was twisted with terror.

The kidnapper’s laughter, distorted and shrill, sent chills down everyone’s spine. Autumn stared at the screen, her mouth open in a silent scream, as the kidnapper brandished Mason’s bloodied eyes in his hands.

"Don't hurt my son! We'll give you whatever you want!"

Her voice broke—desperation and terror woven together. She reached for the screen as if she could pull Mason out by sheer force of will.

"Please!"

A single word, but it carried all the anguish of a mother on the edge. Her plea echoed through the room, unanswered and raw.

The kidnapper's face was hidden. Autumn's grip on my arm tightened, but the kidnapper didn't react at all.

His face stayed hidden behind a mask, posture radiating smug indifference. Autumn’s nails dug into my skin, but the kidnapper didn’t flinch at her pleas.

Crowbar in hand, the man walked toward the child, one slow step at a time.

Each step was deliberate, the crowbar glinting in the harsh light. The tension in the room grew unbearable. Every second stretched to eternity.

Suddenly, the screen went black. Someone covered the camera, and only Mason's screams echoed through the speakers.

The abrupt darkness was almost a relief—until Mason’s screams pierced through, chilling and helpless. The sound was so raw it made my stomach clench. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t.

The child's desperate cries for help sent the viewers into a frenzy.

The livestream chat went wild—people typing frantically, demands and prayers scrolling by in a blur. The collective panic was palpable, helplessness spreading like wildfire.

"Is this real? Are there really streams this brutal now?"

A viewer's comment popped up, disbelief and horror mixed together. The usual cynicism of the internet faded, replaced by genuine fear.

"Didn't you hear the name he called? He called out to the CEO. Was the kid really kidnapped?"

The chat started piecing things together. Some recognized Mason’s voice, others recalled headlines about my company. Paranoia and rumor spread like wildfire.

"Ten million—can he really come up with that?"

Skepticism crept in, but underneath it was a current of dread. People speculated about my net worth, as if money could erase the horror unfolding on screen.

[medstudent92]: "I'm a med student. The eyeballs in that video looked real..."

Even the med students chimed in, their professional detachment cracking. The chat filled with debates about gore, some trying to convince themselves it was fake.

"They really gouged out the kid's eyes!"

The realization sent a fresh wave of revulsion through the viewers. The horror was undeniable. No one could look away.

Ever since I married Autumn, we've only had Mason. We've cherished him—hovered, afraid he'd slip away if we weren't careful. I never imagined that the child who always had a team of bodyguards would be kidnapped after just one morning out of sight.

We’d built our lives around Mason—every schedule, every security detail. I remembered birthday parties with hired clowns, the backyard always filled with laughter and the distant hum of walkie-talkies. The idea that he could be taken, even for a moment, was unthinkable. Yet, here we were.

Maybe the kid was too much to handle.

Sometimes, in quiet moments, I wondered if we’d overprotected him—smothered him. Maybe he’d rebelled, slipped away from his bodyguards for just a minute. The guilt gnawed at me, but I shoved it aside. There was no time for that now.

I said I wouldn't care, so I didn't. I pulled Autumn away and, with a casual flick, gave the kidnapper a like in the livestream app—another digital gesture of apathy.

She tried to hold onto me, but I shrugged her off. My finger hovered over the screen before I tapped the 'like' button. The digital thumbs-up felt like flipping off the world.

I wanted to keep sending donations, but Autumn lunged at me again—this time, her hand raised, ready to slap me.

She moved faster than I expected, fury burning in her eyes. Her hand arched back, trembling with emotion, ready to deliver the slap I probably deserved. Time seemed to slow.

"Graham, are you insane?"

Her voice was shrill, nearly unrecognizable. The words bounced off the walls, sharp and biting. The sound lingered, making the air vibrate.

"That's our child! If anything happens to Mason, I won't go on living!"

Her threat was more than just words—it was a promise, a line drawn in the sand. The room felt colder, the stakes suddenly even higher. I could feel the weight of her despair pressing down on me.

Trembling all over, Autumn's usually flawless makeup was smeared and streaked, her face a mask of utter despair.

Her hands shook so badly she could barely keep them at her sides. Tears streaked her cheeks, black rivers of mascara tracing the lines of heartbreak. The sight was almost too much to bear.

I caught her hand in mid-air. Her face was pale, her eyes brimming with hopelessness.

I gripped her wrist before she could strike, my touch firm but not cruel. Her eyes searched mine, desperate for a flicker of humanity, but I gave her nothing. The space between us was colder than ever.

"Ten million means nothing to us. We can always earn more money!"

She tried to reason with me, her voice cracking. She reminded me of all the late nights we’d spent building our company from the ground up, the sacrifices we’d made. Her desperation was palpable.

"Mason can't wait any longer. You hung up the video. Do you know what kind of torture he'll go through? He's still so young!"

Her words hit hard, images of Mason’s suffering flashing through my mind. But I steeled myself, refusing to show any weakness. I wouldn't let her see me break.

"This company—I built it with you. Half of it is mine."

Her tone shifted, pride and pain mingling. She stood a little taller, trying to remind me of our partnership—our shared dreams and struggles.

"I don't want the money. I want our child!"