I wasn’t supposed to be out that late. After a double shift at the diner and missing the last bus, I took the back way through Jefferson Avenue—rundown, silent, and not exactly safe.

That’s where I saw her. A golden retriever puppy, tied to a rusted bench with a frayed rope. No food. No note. Just a rhinestone tag and a pair of sad, silent eyes.

I found a crumpled note behind the tag: “If you’re reading this, don’t take her to the shelter. They already tried to kill her once.”

I took her home. Named her Daisy.

The vet said she had a microchip—and had been declared dead three weeks ago, after an “incident” at the city shelter. Someone erased her from the system.

Weeks later, someone broke into my apartment and left a new note: “You were warned.”

Milo, my tech-savvy friend, uncovered a rescue group funneling dogs to pharmaceutical testing. Daisy had escaped.

We set up a sting. Milo’s cousin, an investigative reporter, posed as a buyer. At midnight, in a warehouse near the docks, a man arrived—with cages.

We recorded everything. It wasn’t just about Daisy anymore. It was about all of them.

And we weren’t letting it go.