The Missing Girls of Little Saigon

Gordon drove through Little Saigon, navigating the slick streets until he reached the neighborhood's northeastern edge. Despite the hour and the rain, the city pulsed—headlights slashed across wet pavement, horns barked through the damp air, and umbrellas bobbed above clusters of clubbers spilling from bars. He circled the blocks until he found a parking spot and eased the car in.

It wasn't the neighborhood that made him feel out of place—it was the suit under his beige coat. The night crowd shimmered in neon and sequins, dressed for indulgence. Flashy, loud, and cut too tight in all the right—or wrong—places. He adjusted his coat and walked, scanning the streets until he found the building.

At the end of the block, near the jagged coastline, an old brick husk slumped behind a sagging chain-link fence. Rust and time had chewed through it, leaving the structure pockmarked and weary.

He followed the fence along the Atlantic, the salt air thick, damp. The warehouse was like the others—weathered, unremarkable. But then he saw it. The same symbol he'd spotted on the girl's wrist, etched into a side door near the alley.

He pushed. No resistance. The door swung inward.

Inside, his footsteps echoed, swallowed by emptiness. Shadows pooled in the corners. Light fractured through cracked windows, breaking across the concrete floor in thin, ghostly slashes. No dust, no debris.

He stepped back into the rain, retracing his way toward the main street. Outside a liquor store, a group of men loitered, their stares heavy. He met their eyes, held them—until the sudden crash of shattering glass cut through the night.

Gordon turned. A homeless man sifted through a trash can, bottles clattering onto the ground.

"Hey." Gordon approached, slipping a twenty from his wallet. "You heard of any parties in that building?"

The man hunched, eyes flicking from Gordon to the bill, then to the liquor store crew.

"Nah. Haven't heard or seen nothing." He stuffed a few empty bottles into his coat and melted into the dark.

Gordon lingered, scanning the street. The men outside the liquor store hadn't moved. Their presence itched at the back of his neck. 

As he headed for his car, the feeling followed. A sense that he was being watched then a footstep—faint, just behind him.

He turned.

Nothing.

Just wet pavement and the dull gleam of streetlights bleeding into the mist.

Sliding into the driver's seat, he exhaled, flipping open his notepad.

"Trench foot. Fresh cuts and scrapes on her palms—but not defensive." He murmured the details, tapping the pad against his palm.

Fresh cuts.

Something shifted in his gut. A puzzle piece, snapping into place.

His grip tightened on the wheel. The rain drummed steady against the roof, ticking down like a slow, deliberate countdown.