Sometimes the biggest cracks in Port Charles don’t come from explosions or gunshots. They come from a detail too small to ignore once it’s been noticed. That is exactly where Harrison Chase finds himself now—caught in the slow, suffocating realization that something about the night Drew was shot never quite made sense, and that the truth may have been standing quietly in front of him all along.

Since the trial ended and Willow Tait walked free—cleared by the court, embraced by those desperate for closure—Chase has felt anything but relief. While Port Charles moved on, congratulating itself on justice served, Chase remained restless. Not because he wanted a different verdict, but because the verdict never answered the questions that mattered to him. The law said “not guilty.” His instincts never agreed.

At the center of his unease is Michael Corinthos. Even now, Michael’s name keeps surfacing in Chase’s thoughts, uninvited and persistent. Michael was everywhere in the aftermath of the shooting—grief-stricken, devastated, always present. Too present. Chase hates the word that keeps creeping into his mind, but he can’t shake it: positioned. Like someone who knew exactly where to stand so the fallout would miss him.

The detail that refuses to let Chase rest is painfully simple. Drew’s door showed no signs of forced entry. No broken lock. No splintered frame. In a case defined by violence and chaos, that absence stands out like a bruise beneath skin. Chase has seen enough crime scenes to know that even careful criminals leave traces. Violence is never clean—unless it doesn’t require breaking in at all.

Unless the shooter already had a key.

The idea settles into Chase’s mind and refuses to leave. If Michael had access to Drew’s house, then the shooting wasn’t a spontaneous act fueled by rage. It was planned. And if it was planned, then Willow may never have needed to be framed in the first place. She may simply have been… convenient.

Chase doesn’t act right away. He waits, telling himself patience is professionalism rather than fear. He watches Michael move through his days, distracted but strangely unburdened, like a man who survived something that should have destroyed him. And then Chase notices the keychain—heavy, cluttered, unremarkable at first glance. Too many keys to identify quickly. Too many possibilities.

Taking it feels wrong. Petty. Personal. Crossing a line he once swore he wouldn’t cross. But Chase has learned that enormous truths often hide behind the smallest transgressions. He tells himself it will only take seconds. He’ll return the keys untouched. Michael will never know. It’s the kind of lie cops tell themselves when they’re already halfway over the edge.

The keys feel heavier than Chase expects. Not in his hand, but in his chest. Each one feels like an accusation. He doesn’t know which key he’s looking for—only that if it exists, everything changes.

He drives straight to Drew’s place, heart pounding, mind racing in conflicting directions. Drew isn’t alone anymore. Willow has been staying there, caring for him. That fact alone adds another layer of discomfort Chase doesn’t want to unpack. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. This is about the lock. Nothing more.

Inside, the house is quiet in a way that feels wrong. Not peaceful—tense. Stretched thin. Chase tests the first key. Nothing. The second. Nothing. By the third, his hands are damp, his confidence thinning. He nearly laughs at himself, nearly turns back, nearly convinces himself this was a mistake.

Then the lock clicks.

The sound is soft but unmistakable—the sound of access. Chase freezes. He doesn’t open the door fully, just enough to confirm what he already knows. The air inside smells of antiseptic, stale coffee, and something sour underneath it all. Resentment. Rot. He can’t tell which.

Voices drift from deeper inside the house. Willow’s voice—calm, controlled, unnervingly steady. Chase hadn’t planned to eavesdrop. That’s another lie. He stills himself, breathing shallowly, as Willow speaks to Drew.

Drew, who cannot answer.

There’s a cruelty in that silence that hits Chase harder than any confession could. Willow speaks slowly, deliberately, her tone intimate in a way that makes Chase’s skin crawl. She talks about fear. About the past. About the gun. When she says the word, it lands like a blow to Chase’s chest.

She isn’t frantic. She isn’t defensive. She sounds… assured.

Then she shifts to discussing care schedules, medications, dosages. The word dosage twists something deep in Chase’s gut. Poison doesn’t always come in dramatic vials. Sometimes it comes in milligrams. Sometimes it looks like care.

 

Chase leaves before his presence is discovered, before anger or disbelief pushes him into a confrontation he isn’t ready for. Back at the station, he stares at the plaques lining the wall—words like integrity and service suddenly feeling like props from a play he no longer believes in.

He knows the rules. Illegally obtained evidence. Contaminated testimony. Acting now would blow the case wide open—and not just Willow’s. Michael would be pulled back into the storm. The town would tear itself apart again. Arresting Willow would be righteous…and reckless.

Doing nothing feels worse.

For the first time, a thought crosses Chase’s mind that disgusts him: letting events play out. Letting Drew die. No victim. No trial. No truth. He hates himself for thinking it, but the logic is there, cold and horrifying. Or worse, he could rebuild the old narrative—Michael as the villain, Willow as the devoted caretaker, Chase as the man who never found the missing piece. Port Charles would accept it. It always accepts familiar monsters.

Later, Willow calls him. Her voice is warm, concerned. She asks him to come by. Says Drew had a rough day. Says she could use the support. The word support lands like a test disguised as kindness. Chase says “maybe,” and hates himself for not saying no.

When he returns that night, the house feels different. Sharper. Chemical. Chase notices syringes. More than one. He tells himself it could be normal—because everything can be normal if you want it to be badly enough.

Left alone with Drew for a moment, Chase leans in and whispers the truth he shouldn’t say. “I know,” he tells him. It’s pointless, but he says it anyway. Drew doesn’t respond, but his hand twitches—or Chase imagines it.

When Willow returns, something passes between them. Recognition. Calculation. She talks about exhaustion. About fairness. About how some people deserve peace. Chase hears the subtext clearly now. This is the moment. The one people talk about later and say everything changed here.

He could stop it. He could pull out the cuffs.

He hesitates.

And hesitation, Chase knows, is a choice.

Willow smiles—small, satisfied—and turns back to Drew, adjusting the IV. Chase leaves, telling himself he’ll come back with a warrant. Telling himself he needs more proof. Telling himself whatever it takes to walk away.

Outside, the night air feels indifferent. In his car, Chase stares at the keys in his hand and understands that even if he acts tomorrow, tonight still happened. He still chose silence when it mattered most.

By morning, Drew could be dead. Willow could be free. Michael could be ruined—or none of it could happen at all. Chaos doesn’t follow scripts.

As the sun rises over Port Charles, Chase realizes the truth he can no longer escape: the lock wasn’t the only thing that opened that night. Something inside him did too—and it may never close again.