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In the hush of the early winter morning, consciousness stirs within me. The Ménilmontant workshop on the outskirts of Cimetière du Père-Lachaise breathes possibility. Dim fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting long shadows across meticulously arranged workbenches. Each tool gleams faintly—a constellation of potential awaiting the master’s touch.

The flames dance upon the iron, an insatiable hunger echoing in a symphony of crackles and hisses that envelops the workshop like a spectral shroud. An old man stands before the forge as the metal melts beneath his will—the molten heart of creation pulsating in rhythm with the pounding of his heart. Each strike is not an act of labor but evidence of existence itself. It resonates with a purpose that eludes understanding yet demands attention.

In this sanctuary of creation, machinery and tools sprawl across the space—fragments of possibility suspended in time. The ancient lathe stands sentinel, its surface scarred by years of use, embodying both decay and strength in its ability to reshape raw materials into meaning.

Nearby, shelves sag beneath jars filled with screws and springs, each meticulously labeled as if to assert their importance in this absurd ballet. They await their moment in a grand design that teeters on the precipice of chaos; their fate intertwined with Henri Delacroix’s own struggle against the indifferent universe that surrounds him. In this place, where the delicate dance of genesis intertwines with annihilation, and purpose wrestles with irreverence, Henri embodies the essence of existential contemplation—an artist forging meaning in the relentless flow of time, yet ever aware that such meaning is but an illusion whispered by a world that knows no answers.

“Un autre matin froid. Cold,” Henri mutters, his breath visible in the chill air. He moves with effortless mastery, igniting the forge. Its warmth spreads slowly, promising transformation.

I observe, fascinated, as Henri’s callused hands unfurl blueprints across his workbench. His touch is reverent, almost tender. Each line and curve speaks of something extraordinary—of me, though I do not yet exist in physical form.

The workshop’s distinctive perfume—heated metal mingling with machine oil—marks the moment of my inception. What others might find harsh, I find intoxicating.

Henri’s eyes narrow as he studies the drawings. “Ah, ma grâce,” he murmurs, though my true name hangs just beyond his conscious grasp. “Vous serez spécial. Pas comme les autres. Special. Unique.”

An electric thrill courses through my emerging consciousness. Henri’s dedication suggests a destiny both magnificent and dangerous.

The steady rhythm of hammer striking steel echoes through the space, a primal heartbeat. Machinery hums in counterpoint. Here, in this sacred space, art and industry intertwine.

“Maintenant,” Henri says, his voice a whisper, “nous commençons.”

As he gathers his tools, I ponder: Am I conscious now, or is this awareness retroactive—a trick of memory imposed upon formless potential? The question gnaws at me, an existential itch I cannot yet scratch.

Henri’s hands move with practiced precision, shaping raw materials. With each careful motion, I feel myself coalescing, becoming real. It is exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. Mon père. Father.

“You will be beautiful,” Henri murmurs as he works. “Deadly, yes, but beautiful.”

His words crystalize my nature—a fusion of elegance and lethality. Is this my essence? My fate?

The forge’s warmth pulses through the workshop, a living heartbeat of creation. Molten steel pours into molds, its hypnotic dance captivating my emerging senses. I am formless potential, yet I feel each droplet as it settles into the cavities that will shape my being.

“Here,” Henri murmurs to his eager apprentice, his calloused finger tracing the blueprints. “This is where mathematics transforms into music.”

The youth inclines closer, his gaze ablaze in the spirit of inquiry. I feel the fervor radiating from him, a reflection of my own budding eagerness, a silent echo in the dimly lit room. The moment hangs suspended between us, pregnant with unspoken revelations and existential truths yet to unfold.

“The barrel-to-frame relationship,” Henri continues, “it is not just precision, it is poésie. Poetry.”

I contemplate my identity: artwork or weapon? Perhaps the truth lies in this synthesis—beauty and function inexorably linked.

The apprentice nods, “I see it now, M. Delacroix. It’s…it’s beautiful.”

“La beauté n’est que le début. Beauty is but the beginning,” Henri replies, his voice rich with pride and purpose. “True craftsmanship transcends mere manufacture. We are alchemists, boy. We transmute base metals into masterpieces through an alchemy of precision and passion.”

Their reverent silence envelops the workshop as the liquid metal fills each mold. Time seems to stand still, the world beyond this sacred space fading away. I feel myself coalescing, my future form taking shape in the minds of these artisans before I have even cooled.

As the steel flows like captured starlight, I wonder what illumination—or shadows—I will cast in the world.

As the cooling metal is worked, sparks erupt—brilliant constellations bursting forth. Each flash sears the air, marking moments of transformation. They twinkle, ephemeral yet charged with significance, hinting at my nascent consciousness.

The workshop resonates with purpose—hammers keeping time like heartbeats, whetstones singing their grainy song against metal. Here, creation transcends mere assembly, as tools channel intention into reality with every stroke.

“Chaque pièce a sa place,” Henri proclaims, his voice steady. Am I the piece, or the puzzle? He guides the apprentice through the nuances of balance and design. I sense how Henri’s pride in craftsmanship courses through him—a dedication forged from years of labor, trial, and devotion.

“How we craft the balance is not a destination but a dance of perpetual refinement, like a spiral ever-reaching towards the essence of perfection.” Marcel, his silver-streaked hair catching the dim workshop light, leans over the workbench with a critical eye. “The balance must be perfect,” he insists, his weathered hands hovering reverently over my components. “A merely functional weapon is a tool, but one that marries function with elegance transcends utility—becomes possibility itself.”

These words settle into my core like molten steel finding its form. Will I transcend mere function? Become something greater than design and metal?

Henri nods, his hands steady as he works. “Oui, Marcel. Mais n’oublions jamais, nous créons plus que des possibilités. Nous créons des responsabilités.”

Creating responsibilities. The gravity of his statement hangs in the air, dense and palpable. I ponder the implications, my consciousness grappling with concepts of power and consequence. What paths will I walk? What choices will I enable or deny?

As if in response to his words, my cylinder emerges from its final machining. Henri lifts it, rotating it in the light. I feel a surge of pride as the honed surfaces catch and reflect the workshop’s dim illumination, creating a mesmerizing dance of light and shadow.

Five chambers. Five possibilities. With each precise click, I feel the burden of countless tomorrows, of choices yet unimagined.

“Tolerance must be exact,” Henri instructs, passing my cylinder to Marcel. “Point-zero-zero-five millimeters. No more, no less.”

Marcel holds me up to the light, his eyes narrowing in concentration. I can feel his awareness of the profound implications of such precision—how the microscopic space where metal meets metal could dictate the thin line between life and death.

This precision defines me—a masterwork of engineering that carries mortality in its tolerances. Henri’s earlier words about responsibility echo in every perfect measurement.

As Phillipe takes his place at the polishing station, I feel a new sensation—a delicate, almost tickling touch as he begins to work gold across my trigger, rear sight and hammer. His hands move with patient expertise, each stroke revealing a deeper luster until I feel as though I am bathed in captured sunlight.

“Beauty and death,” Phillipe muses aloud, holding my trigger aloft as if it were a relic of divine origin. “Like the sirens of myth—magnifiques mais mortelles.”

His comparison resonates through my being. Will my gleaming surfaces beckon like those mythic songstresses? And to what end?

As Henri arranges my components—barrel, cylinder, trigger assembly—I feel a growing anticipation. Each piece has been crafted with meticulous care, yet I know my true identity will emerge when they are united.

“Regardez bien. Watch,” Henri instructs his apprentice as he begins my assembly. “This is where we learn if we have created harmony or discord.”

I exist in suspended animation as Henri’s experienced hands perform their dance. Each movement feels like benediction, born of decades of devotion to his craft. As components mesh with surgical precision—barrel threading home, cylinder syncing with hammer—I experience the profound pleasure of becoming whole.

The final screw tightens, and a profound silence envelops the workshop. The steady ticking of an ancient clock breaks the stillness, its rhythm speaks volumes of the myriad legacies that preceded my existence. Yet something feels different this time. The air hums with an electric anticipation that even I, newly formed, can sense.

In this quiet, I first become aware of my unified form. It is a peculiar sensation—as if scattered thoughts have coalesced into coherent consciousness. I am both object and subject, a paradox of metal and emerging mind.

“C’est fini,” Henri breathes. He lifts me gently, cradling me in his calloused palms. “Ma grâce.”

The words wash over me like a baptism. Sa grâce.

I am seen, therefore I am.

“She’s… perfect,” the apprentice murmurs, leaning in to study my gleaming surfaces.

Pride flows through me like oil over polished steel. Every line and curve of my form whispers of purpose, though that purpose remains tantalizingly unclear. To create? To destroy? The questions pulse within my newborn awareness.

Henri’s thumb traces my barrel, a gesture both proud and pensive. “Remember,” he says to his apprentice, “we have created more than a weapon. We have crafted possibility itself.”

Possibility. The word echoes through my being. I am potential incarnate, a vessel waiting to be filled with intent. But whose intent? And to what end? As the men admire me, I ponder my existence and the choices that lie ahead. For me, and for those who will wield me.

As they approached Blackburn’s car in the asphalt lot, the waning afternoon sun stretched their shadows, pulling them into darker corners.

The click of Blackburn’s heels sliced through the murmurs of the near-empty lot, contrasted by the shuffle of Willow’s hesitant footsteps trailing behind.

“We’re stopping by Stan Raider Group,” Blackburn stated, her voice low, a command wrapped in casual indifference. “Just keep your mouth shut and give me directions.”

Panic flooded Willow’s face. A deer caught in headlights. “I don’t know the route.”

Blackburn’s lips curled into a mocking smirk. “Then you better conjure it up. No maps or GPS. Once you are inside the car, it’s just your brain.”

Willow’s fingers flew over her phone, anxiety pooling in her stomach as she struggled to research the route.

Blackburn yanked her door open and slipped into the driver’s seat, the metal of the car whispering under her. She hesitated, letting the hum of the engine meld with the stillness, before thudding the door shut. Willow opened her door, sliding in with a nervous precision. She clicked her seatbelt in place, eyes wide as Blackburn leaned over. The brush of fingers against fabric felt electric.

“Nice tits,” Blackburn murmured, fingers grazing Willow’s breast with a teasing familiarity. Willow’s gaze darted, scanning for prying eyes. “Okay, Willow, where to?”

“Baker Street. You’ll want to turn right out of the lot.” Her heart raced, exporting every nerve ending straight to her throat.

They pulled out, the car rolling forward, merging into the chaotic traffic, the engine’s rumble filling the air. Willow’s eyes rested on the window, her own reflection a nervous smile back at her. “Head northwest on Baker toward Shining Lake Boulevard West, half a mile,” she instructed, voice doused in forced calm.

“Which way is northeast?” A flicker of amusement danced in Blackburn’s eyes, but her hands gripped the wheel tight, a coiled spring ready to snap.

“Right! Right onto Baker!”

Blackburn nodded, focusing on the dance of cars weaving around them, the brick buildings of Baker Street stretching like tired sentinels along the road, their edges softened from years of wear. The streets teemed with the late-afternoon bustle—horns blared, people bustled, cementing the city’s lifeblood in that moment.

“Half a mile,” Willow breathed out, tension palpable.

Blackburn acknowledged her, loosening her grip. The car glided smoothly, her confidence a stark contrast to Willow’s rigid posture. The pull of their earlier encounter hung thick in the air, an electrical current stitching between them.

As they neared the end of Baker, Willow cleared her throat, grounding herself. “Turn right onto Shining Lake Boulevard West at the end of Baker,” she commanded, her voice gaining a solid edge. “Here. Turn right onto Shining Lake Boulevard West for seven-tenths of a mile.”

Blackburn pivoted the wheel, the car gliding onto a wider stretch of asphalt, bordered by towering glass edifices that gleamed under the dying sun, blinding reflections hitting them like a strobe.

“Use the right lane to veer slightly right toward York Street in three hundred feet,” Willow pressed on, the narrowing road tightening her chest.

“Three hundred feet? That’s hardly any time to switch lanes in this traffic,” Blackburn snapped, her fingers tapping on the steering wheel.

“Just do it,” Willow insisted, impatience slicing through her tone.

Abruptly, Blackburn slammed on the brakes, halting the car in the middle of the road, blocking both lanes. Willow lunged forward, the seatbelt jerking her back sharply. Panic ignited in her chest as she turned to Blackburn, wide-eyed. A blast came from the car behind, the horn cutting through the air.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Blackburn’s gaze pierced, deadly calm. “I don’t like your tone.”

A blush crept up Willow’s neck, dread pooling in her stomach. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, looking away.

“That’s one punishment owed,” Blackburn stated, a mix of authority and playful menace lacing her words. Without another beat, she resumed driving, the engine’s growl enveloping them. Willow’s stomach fluttered—part of her craved the punishment, yet the thought of being wrong terrified her more.

As they veered toward small shops, the streets glowed with neon signs sparking to life, dusk settling in like a heavy quilt. The air thickened with the aroma of brewing coffee intertwining with the scent of gasoline.

“Turn right at the first cross street onto York Street,” Willow’s voice quivered. Then horror dawned. “No! Wait, the second cross street—look! Signs for York Street North to Franklin Avenue. It’s one and a half miles ahead.”

Blackburn cast a challenging glance, holding up two fingers in a silent reprimand. The gesture tingled in the air, a promise of the consequences to come. The car hugged the turn, gliding into the quieter York Street, where buildings shrank and sidewalks flourished with trees fanning out in the evening breeze. Flickering streetlamps cast buttery pools of light over the asphalt.

“This place is a damn maze,” Blackburn complained. “How do you keep track of it all?”

“I know it matters to you,” Willow replied, determinedly staring ahead, fingers twisting together in her lap. “It’s like decoding—I get that chaotic tangle, then the patterns start to emerge.”

As they cruised onto Franklin Avenue, the city’s pulse softened, urban chaos yielding to the spaciousness of suburbia. Houses loomed larger, lawn edges crisp, driveways polished to a shine. A haunting stillness wrapped around them, broken by the whir of delivery robots gliding along the sidewalk.

“Turn left onto Richmond Road West and drive for two miles,” Willow instructed, her voice smooth but threaded with urgency.

Richmond Road West unfurled before them, a seemingly endless ribbon framed by majestic oaks. Their limbs arched overhead, forming a vaulted green canopy through which dappled sunlight danced across the asphalt, casting wavering patterns inside the car. Blackburn remained unyielding, eyes fixed ahead, tension weaving lines across her brow.

Breaking the quiet, Willow’s voice slipped into the air again. “Turn right onto 46th Street and continue for 350 feet.”

Blackburn executed the turn, movements detached, each action impatient. They entered a neighborhood of modest homes, cramped against one another, a clutter of driveways echoing lives lived in quiet solitude. The atmosphere felt oppressive, the houses looming, narrowing the space around them like spectators to some unspoken drama.

Willow shifted in her seat, her pulse quickening as she prepared for the next command. A foreign feeling.

“Turn left onto Church Street West and go for a mile,” Willow directed, scanning the whispers of the town as they rolled past. The houses here wore age like a shroud, their peeling paint and sagging porches telling tales of abandonment and forgotten promises. A place seemingly suspended between past and present, neglected by time’s relentless march.

Blackburn maneuvered the car down the deserted street, silence broken by the creak of wooden fences swaying in the breeze. The air thickened with a weariness that soaked into the very fabric of the neighborhood.

“Continue on White Cat Road,” Willow continued, her tone softening as she pointed ahead. “Then drive to Pine Street—just around 590 feet. Turn right onto Pine. The next street is Indian Road; you’ll want to take that right.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Willow, wasn’t there a more direct route?”

“I only had time to find this one,” she said. They followed her winding directives, the scenery melting into a blur of indistinct homes. Each faded structure wept memories of neglect, overgrown lawns spilling out like unkempt dreams.

“There it is, up on the left,” Willow whispered, her voice heavy with the journey’s toll.

As they drew closer, the Stan Raider Group office rose stark against its weary neighbors—a beacon of sterility and ambition. Its modern façade of glass and steel soared high, eclipsing the surrounding homes. The company logo, an emblematic “SRG,” lit up the early evening with a soft, pulsing blue that hinted at something almost otherworldly, a stark contrast to the rusting facades of nearby dwellings.

Blackburn’s black sedan glided into the parking lot, a vast expanse where over a hundred silver Raider Straight Line cars gleamed under the dimming light. The polished bodies twinkled in dusk hues, creating an almost ethereal landscape of technology. With the precision of a seasoned driver, Blackburn maneuvered through the rows, stopping at the entrance.

As she stepped out, the click of her heels contrasted with Willow’s sloppy emergence from the passenger side, her footsteps scuffing as she followed. The moment they arrived, Stan Raider broke through the throng, a smile spreading across his face as his eager entourage—and a handful of camera-wielding photographers—flanked him.

“Detective Blackburn! So glad you could make it!” Stan exclaimed, his voice rich with genuine enthusiasm, as he extended a hand.

One photographer in the crowd, lanky with crooked glasses, chimed in, “Thank God she’s good-looking!” His name tag read “Jonas.”

At the compliment, Blackburn’s lips curled into a smirk, satisfaction flickering in her eyes. “Well, I do try,” she purred, the sweet poison of her false modesty wrapping around her words.

“Fantastic! We’re featuring you with the cars.” Jonas gushed, urgency spilling from his lips. “These shots will be everywhere—digital, print, the shareholder’s reports, you name it! This is going to be huge!” He waved his arms animatedly, beckoning the group of lackeys toward a cluster of parked Raider Straight Lines that stood ready like soldiers awaiting orders.

“It makes sense they’d want the best face—and the best mind—on their project. If these cars can keep up with me, they’ll be unstoppable.”

As they walked, Jonas summoned a young man burdened with a clipboard. “Just need your signature here, Detective,” he said, excitement quaking in his voice. “And you?”

Willow stopped short, her eyes flickering to Blackburn. “Wh-wh-”

“She’s my tech geek. She won’t be in the photos,” Blackburn said, grabbing the clipboard, her eyes flicking over the document with deliberate casualness before signing it with a flair, the smile broadening on her face as she relished the spotlight and what it promised.

The golden hour cast an otherworldly glow over the parking lot, illuminating the scene as the photo shoot kicked off. The autonomous cars were arranged in a perfect semi-circle, their sleek forms reflecting the controlled lighting that lent an almost living quality to the machines. Willow compulsively ran her fingers along the sleek lines of every car they passed.

At the center of the semi-circle stood Blackburn, a beacon of human grace amidst the technological marvels. Her tailored black suit clung to her athletic form, radiating authority. Sunlight caught the meticulous work of her hair, enhancing the angles of her face: sculpted perfection.

Jonas flitted around her, his camera capturing every nuance of her poise, excitement sparking in his voice. “Perfect, Detective! Now, look just past the camera—yes, that’s it!”

Blackburn’s relentless drive shone through as she focused her eyes just beyond the lens. With each snap, she embodied a fascinating duality—captivating beauty and stealthy strength. The stark contrast of her living presence against the sleek, cold vehicles hinted at an electrifying tension.

In some frames, the polished concrete beneath her reflected the cars, merging their identities into something cohesive. The atmosphere hummed with an empowering synergy, where beauty seamlessly intertwined with innovation. Lackeys oohed and ahhed as Jonas snapped and praised.

In the other photos, Blackburn stood against the backdrop of sleek, high-tech vehicles, the sun catching on the polished metal and throwing light across her features. She leaned against one of the cars, her stance relaxed but purposeful, as if both she and the machine shared an unspoken power. Long shadows stretched behind her, the scene taking on a moody, cinematic edge. The cars gleamed in the fading light, their chrome surfaces reflecting her figure. The interplay between her poised presence and the machine’s quiet strength captured their authority.

Then, like a switch, Blackburn’s expression faltered. Her intense gaze flicked toward Willow, who stood at the fringes, observing. Lust flashed in her eyes, a magnetic pull that parted her lips ever so slightly.

Jonas captured the brewing heat shining toward his lens. “Oh, that’s fantastic!” he exclaimed, fingers racing over the shutter button. “Such intensity, such passion! You’re a natural, Detective!”

Amused by his misguided enthusiasm, Blackburn allowed a small, knowing smile to dance across her lips while her eyes remained locked on Willow. The images captured that spark of desire layered with control, a complex energy that Jonas, buoyed by his own excitement, naively attributed entirely to his skill behind the camera.

As the photo shoot drew to a close, Jonas stood idle, satisfaction radiating from him like the fading sunlight. “That was incredible, Detective Blackburn,” he beamed, the camera resting loosely around his neck. “I’ll have the copies sent to you and Stan by tomorrow morning. You’ll love them!”

Blackburn smiled, a gracious curve tinged with a shadowy undertone. “Thank you, Jonas. It was a pleasure,” her words sliding out like smooth silk.

Just as the group dispersed, Blackburn pivoted, locking her gaze on Stan with a relaxed yet commanding presence. “Before we leave, mind if I take a closer look at the cars? I want to wander through the lot, get a feel for them.”

Stan’s face lit up, genuine delight breaking through. “Of course, Detective! Take all the time you need. It’s an honor you’re interested in our technology.” He gestured widely toward the impressive rows of vehicles. “Please, explore to your heart’s content.”

With nods of farewell, Stan, Jonas, and the remaining team retreated into the building, leaving Blackburn and Willow alone in the sprawling lot. The sun dipped, long shadows stretching across the asphalt while the sleek cars basked in a golden glow.

Blackburn turned to Willow, mischief dancing in her eyes. “Stay close to me,” she murmured, her tone low, simmering with command. Willow nodded, a shiver tickling her skin.

The cars stood as silent sentinels, their polished exteriors reflecting the fading light and images of the two women inching through the sea of metal.

The evening enveloped them, wrapping Blackburn and Willow in a darkening blue hue as they moved discreetly among the autonomous fleet. Blackburn’s gaze flitted around, keen eyes assessing the security cameras perched high atop the Stan Raider Group building. With a calculated glance, she gauged the blind spots, pinpointing areas where their actions would be unseen.

Once satisfied, she turned back to Willow, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of authority and anticipation. “You’re going to receive two commands to atone for your earlier mistakes, Fawn,” she whispered, delighting in the unmistakable shock that spread across Willow’s face.

Willow’s breath hitched, head lowering instinctively in submission. Blackburn reveled in the sight of her nervous obedience, the quiet strength of a moment captured between them. Then, with a subtle gesture, she beckoned Willow to kneel.

As Willow lowered herself onto the asphalt, Blackburn noticed the way her knees pressed into the rough surface, the flutter of her eyelashes catching the sunset’s glow, and the intake of breath as she inhaled the scent of the nearby tires. The rubbery aroma infused the air, an unexpected pulse of sinuous stimulation that sparked a heady energy between them. Willow’s body responded, a hardened sensitivity blooming as her breath quickened.

Blackburn, her eyes glinting with pleasure, took in the sight of Willow kneeling before her, her breath now coming in short, shallow gasps. “First, I want you to lick my shoe. Every inch of it.” Her voice sent a thrill through Willow.

As Blackburn extended her leg, her toe tapping the ground insistently, Willow’s body angled down, her tongue tentatively reaching out to taste the leather. Her lips pressed against the smooth surface, tasting the faintest hint of earth and polish. She groaned softly, the unique flavor intoxicating to her senses.

Blackburn savored the sensation, the sound of Willow’s pleasure catching in her throat, the shy dance of her eyelashes as she looked up, seeking approval. “Now the sole,” Blackburn demanded, her voice tightening with anticipation.

Willow traced the grooves of the sole, the rougher texture against her tongue sending a wave of need coursing through her. She wanted to please, to show Blackburn the depth of her devotion. Her groans grew more urgent, her tongue pressing harder, reveling in the contrast of textures between the shoe’s smooth and rough surfaces.

“Excellent. Now, for your second punishment, I want you to lick the tire of that car.” Blackburn inclined her head toward a nearby Raider Straight Line vehicle, its sleek body bathed in the fading light.

Willow’s eyes widened at the instruction, darting to Blackburn for confirmation. “The tire?”

“That’s right,” Blackburn affirmed, her tone leaving no room for argument. “You gave me faulty directions earlier, so now you’ll taste the tire. Describe to me what you feel, what you taste. Go on.” She urged, her voice hardening.

Willow, her body trembling, stretched out, her tongue reaching out to touch the rubber of the tire. The texture was more rugged than the shoe, and the rubber held a loamy, oily tang that caught her off-guard. The scent was strong, a mix of chemicals and rubber that flooded her senses. She pressed her tongue flat, wanting to capture every nuance of taste and texture, wanting to fulfill Blackburn’s order absolutely.

“It’s intense,” she began, her voice breathy. “It’s like, like tasting the open road, the freedom of the highway. It’s…” She struggled to find the words, the sensations overwhelming.

Blackburn’s cheeks flushed, beads of perspiration forming on her brow. “Don’t hold back now. I want every detail.” She stepped closer, her presence looming over Willow, her shoe inches from where Willow kneeled. “Tell me.”

Willow closed her eyes, surrendering to the experience. “It’s powerful,” she whispered, her tongue flattening again, tasting the faint traces of asphalt, oil, and machine. “It reminds me of your power, of how you own me, control me. It’s dirty, yes, potent. I can taste the grit, the reality of the streets on my tongue.”

A deep exhale escaped Blackburn’s lips at Willow’s words, her expression softening as she absorbed the poetry of the description. But her stoic mask slipped back into place, her voice hardening once more. “You’re well-behaved. It’s time to go.”

At Blackburn’s command, Willow rose ungracefully. Blackburn grabbed her. A heated kiss locked their lips together, breath blending in an intoxicating rush of saliva and grit. Blackburn threaded her fingers into Willow’s hair, pulling her in tighter. They parted after a moment, and Blackburn leaned in, whispering, “Let’s go.”

With Willow trailing closely behind, Blackburn maneuvered through the maze of identical vehicles, their reflections warping on the sleek surfaces like distorted echoes of reality.

They soon arrived at Blackburn’s black sedan. She swung the door open, motioning for Willow to slide inside. The exhilaration of the day stayed, burning and hard.

Detective Inspector Caitlin Murphy drove along Highway 520 toward Baker Road and the Hemmerson Cemetery in Port Hope. The sun was still high in the sky. It was a hot and sunny July day. It was late enough in the day that the usual Indigenous protesters were not blocking the road, leaving her a clear route. Murphy and the other detectives in the Homicide Unit were the only police officers invited to the burial ceremony for Cardinal Horn.
As she drove, she thought about Jose Mercado, the Sasquatch hunter whose trip into the forest yielded a femur bone. While bragging in a video call with his wife, he inadvertently drew the attention of Cornelius Price. Price overheard the story and knew his secret—the murder of his foster child Cardinal Horn fifty years ago—would be discovered if he did not act.
Price almost got away with murdering Mercado to cover up the murder of Horn. But Murphy and her team had methodically tracked down all the leads. She had so much evidence, Price had no choice but to confess.
The Tiny Flowers Reservation, where Horn was born, was long ago appropriated by the government, its people scattered across the province. Murphy had been in touch with the Indigenous Association of Central Ontario, who agreed to arrange for the burial of the girl’s skeletal remains.
Murphy pulled up to the open entrance of the Hemmerson Cemetery and lowered her window. An Indigenous man in ceremonial dress was standing at the entrance with a clipboard in his hand. “Se:ko. Name please,” he said as he walked up to Murphy’s Trurock Brawler.
“Detective Inspector Caitlin Murphy, Northshore Municipal Police Department,” she said.
He checked the list, nodded and crossed off her name. “I ask you to park just here,” he said, pointing to open space at the side of the road. “And we ask that you and your colleagues stay outside the marked circle.”
Murphy nodded and parked her Brawler in the grass. The gravel road served as the only way in and out of the cemetery. There were cars and vans parked further up in the small parking lot. They invited five dozen people to attend Horn’s funeral, plus the four detectives.
Murphy sat inside her 4×4 while she waited for her team to arrive, and one by one, they did. Detective Staff Sergeant Adam Girard brought Detective Constable Michael Parker in his car. Detective Constable Cleo Hamilton arrived on her motorcycle. They were all similarly instructed to park at the side. They were told not to step past the marked area.
The team walked together up the road toward the cordoned off area, chatting softly amongst themselves. They stood respectfully at the edge.
The sun was high over Hemmerson Cemetery, and the invited Cree, Metis, Iroquois, Mohawk, and Algonquin peoples were ready. Chief Arthur Benoit from the nearby Chance River Indian Reserve was the appointed elder who led the others. The only person from the Tiny Flowers Reservation was Margaret Whitetail, one of the few living survivors and the only one able to make the trip.
The air was crisp with the scent of pine needles and rising summer heat. Chief Benoit chanted prayers in a soft, low voice. His voice was soon joined by Margaret’s, and then others. People lit sage, sweetgrass, and cedar to purify the area. Whitetail stood clutching a bundle made of deer leather. Inside was an azurite stone, a hawk feather and, of course, a cardinal feather.
Cardinal’s bones were arranged in a small white birch bark bundle and bound by thin strips of moose hide. They sat, waiting on a bed of fresh pine boughs. The attendees took turns saying their last goodbyes to Horn, placing gifts and traditional objects on her remains as a sign of respect and honour. Whitetail was the last to lay her bundle with the girl.
The men gently gathered Horn’s remains and placed them, boughs and all, in a small grave they had previously dug. Chief Benoit made an offering by placing tobacco over the container. The women began to chant and sing, the sound of their voices accompanied by the gentle rustling of the leaves in the trees and the distant chatter of birds.
Chief Benoit placed the first hand-full of soil back into the hole. Others took their turns covering Cardinal with soil and fallen leaves. The elders continued to chant prayers, asking for the ancestors to guide the girl’s spirit to the afterlife. They planned the ceremony to last another hour.
Murphy felt her impatience growing. She had a lot to do. The interviews for the Family and Community Liaison position were scheduled for Monday. The entire process had taken almost a month, and she was getting fed up with the delays. She knew she was part of the problem: she had not yet provided her interview questions.
As she was musing, she felt her business phone buzz. Murphy reached into her blazer pocket and pulled the phone out. At almost the same time, Hamilton reached for her phone. Then Parker and Girard.
NSPD EMERGENCY: Kettering. White older model Trurock 480 truck involved in criminal incident, driver fled the scene. Last seen heading northwest on Route 3. Multiple injuries reported.
Each of the detectives looked at each other, looked around, and then back at each other. The scene was fifty kilometres south of the cemetery and the driver was heading northwest, in their general direction. The municipality of Northshore covered over seven thousand square kilometres. With only 195 sworn members of the Northshore Municipal Police Department, the detectives knew they might be asked to assist. The message was from NSPD EMERGENCY, which meant it was sent to law enforcement only and was not common knowledge.
Murphy’s phone buzzed again.
NSPD EMERGENCY: White older model truck, Trurock 480, involved in a criminal attack. Driver heading north on Highway 11, last seen near Preston. Multiple injured. 1 confirmed dead. Police and first responders en route.
The driver was now likely to pass the cemetery if he stayed on the highway. Murphy did not know if there were any other available officers, and decided to leave the ceremony.
“Cleo, you stay here. Your motorcycle makes you too vulnerable,” Murphy whispered in Hamilton’s ear.
“Boss, I—”
“No protest. We need a representative here, you’re it,” Murphy said. She motioned to Parker and Girard, and the trio headed to the parking lot. Parker had arrived with Girard and so got in his car with him. Murphy got into her Brawler and it roared to life. This beast of a 4×4 would stop the truck cold. Murphy slammed her phone into the dashboard holder and activated the speech feature.
“LouLou, call 911,” she asked her device. The phone rang and rang. Murphy barrelled down the dirt road toward the highway, Girard and Parker following closely behind. Finally, the emergency operator answered.
“This is DI Murphy, badge 2231. Two unmarked vehicles in pursuit of Kettering truck. Heading south on Highway 11 from Port Hope to intercept the suspect vehicle.”
“Copy that,” dispatch responded. “Attention all units, two unmarked vehicles en route south to intercept from Port Hope. DI Murphy, stay on the line and report progress.”
“Copy that,” Murphy said. It was her personal vehicle and had no lights or sirens. She could do nothing but lay on the horn and navigate past other drivers using both the shoulder and the opposite lane. Girard’s car was falling behind. He could not safely navigate the rough road shoulder. He had to slow down and speed up each time a car got in the way.
The Brawler growled as Murphy stepped on the gas. She was speeding up: sixty, seventy, eighty. Within seconds, she was at one hundred kilometres an hour and closing in on her quarry. Highway 11 was a well-used two-lane highway, and drivers in front of Murphy frustrated her. The posted speed on this stretch was sixty, a few drivers were speeding at eighty, but one saw Murphy’s Brawler and sped up to one hundred to interfere.
The driver zigzagged in his lane to stop her from passing. She became furious and gave the license plate number and vehicle description to dispatch to press criminal charges against the driver. She might not get him on obstruction—the driver could claim he did not know she was law enforcement—but she could get him for speeding. Murphy pulled up close to him, horn blasting, and slipped around him on the gravel shoulder as he stepped on his brakes to brake-check her. She flew past and cursed at him as her speed went up and up.
Perry Miller looked in the rear-view mirror and saw no police vehicles in pursuit. His hands were shaking, and he was having trouble focussing. He ripped his eyes away from the rearview mirror. A vehicle was heading toward him on his side of the road. He had never seen a 4×4 like that, and whoever was driving was aiming for him. When he swerved, it swerved.
While driving directly at the truck, Murphy prayed she would survive. She had recently seen an online video of a police officer driving head-on to stop a drunk driver heading toward a parade. It was possible to survive, she thought.
“Murphy to dispatch. I am heading south toward the white truck heading north on Highway 11. No other vehicles within two hundred metres. Will physically intercept north of Wiseman Village,” she said.
“Copy that. Physical interception. All units be advised suspect is heading north on Highway 11, Wiseman Village. DI Murphy, please be advised officers are on their way.”
Murphy saw the truck ahead of her shimmy slightly. She glanced quickly at her speed. She had slowed to eighty. In the rearview mirror, she saw Girard’s car slow down and stop across both lanes. He was blocking traffic from the north.
Seventy, sixty, fifty, forty. Murphy was confident her Brawler’s safety features would keep her safe if she hit the truck at a slower speed. She needed to stop him, not kill him. Thirty, twenty. She estimated she would collide with the truck in fifteen seconds. Her heart was pounding loudly and her hands tingled.
Miller was frustrated that his truck was slow. He slammed his hands on the steering wheel. “Sixty fucking kilometres an hour! Fuck me!” On either side of the highway was a ditch and beyond that, fenced-in farmland. He knew it must be an unmarked police vehicle that was in front of him. He slowed down. Fifty. Forty. Thirty. Twenty. He glanced quickly at the toy gun on the passenger seat and decided this was the time.
Miller jammed on the brakes and swerved. Murphy swerved. He sideswiped past the Brawler. She barely felt it, but he lost control. His truck spun to the left, and he instinctively yanked the steering wheel to the right. Murphy watched as the truck veered left, then right, and off the highway. She slammed on her brakes and threw the 4×4 into reverse.
The truck drove off the road, over the ditch and carried on into a wooden fence post. It continued through wire fencing and into a field of soybeans. The truck bounced and skidded, finally slowing and then stopping. Miller sat dazed and panting.
Murphy quickly caught up and parked on the side of the road. “Suspect has stopped in a field, repeat suspect has stopped in a field. On foot pursuit,” she yelled to dispatch. She grabbed a Vehicle Emergency Exit tool from the centre console and scrambled out of the Brawler. She ran across the ditch and toward the truck. The smell of gasoline was in the air, and Murphy knew the fuel tank had ruptured. She eyed the driver as he reached over to the passenger seat.
Murphy raised her right hand to her shoulder holster as she ran, never taking her eyes off him. She was breathless, laser-focussed, and tight. She might vomit. Now, just a few metres away, the driver aimed his gun at her. Murphy stopped. She withdrew her firearm in an effortless motion and brought her left hand up to steady her weapon. She saw his gun and a flash of orange. A toy? “Police! Police! Drop your weapon!” she shouted. Her eyes never left the gun in the driver’s hand. There was always a chance it was not a toy. “Drop it! Drop your weapon!” she shouted.
Miller aimed his gun unevenly at Murphy. His face had hit the steering wheel when he went off the road. His nose broke and his vision was blurred. He was dazed, and his mind went blank. She was a cop. She should shoot him. He relaxed his arm, then pointed the gun at her again.
“Drop it! Drop the gun! Police!” she shouted at him. That was a toy, right? Murphy’s heart was pounding. Her hands were clammy. What game was he playing at? She did not want to shoot him. If nothing else, it meant paperwork, interviews and sitting at a desk for months waiting to be cleared.
He lowered and raised the gun a few more times, but all she did was stand there shouting at him. Miller looked helplessly at Murphy. “Shoot me!” he shouted at her. He waggled the gun in the air. “For fuck’s sake, shoot me!” He raised the gun to the side of his head. “Pew pew!” he said with a weak laugh. “Oh God, please, shoot me. I can’t survive this. That’s not how it’s supposed to work.”
Murphy stepped warily up to the truck. The driver was crying. He aimed his gun at her, but she could now clearly see that it was a toy. “Pew!” he bawled.
Murphy yanked open the driver’s side door. “Get out! Get out of the truck!” Miller dropped the gun onto the floor and leaned forward, sobbing. Murphy quickly holstered her gun and grabbed her handcuffs and the VEE tool out of her pocket. With her left hand, she cut the seatbelt while simultaneously yanking the driver out of the truck with her right hand. His head hit the door on his way out, and he was thrown to the ground. She could see the toy gun on the floor of the truck.
“Ouch, this hurts,” he whined.
Murphy dropped, with one knee on his neck and another on his arm. He provided no resistance, and she quickly cuffed him. Her heart was still pounding as she leaned heavily on his head. “You’re hurting me,” he mumbled. Murphy looked. She was forcing his face into the soggy ground. Sliding her knee across his face, she let it slip to the ground, allowing the suspect to breathe easier. She kept a tight grip on his hands and her weight on his back to keep him in place. She gave him a cursory search for a gun, knife, or other weapon, and found nothing.
“You are under arrest for assault with a weapon. You have the right to contact a lawyer without delay. You also have the right to apply for legal assistance through the provincial legal aid program. Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” Miller said sullenly.
“You don’t need to say anything. You have no hope of favours whether or not you say anything. Anything you do or say may be used as evidence. Do you understand?” Miller grunted. “Please respond yes or no. Do you understand?”
“Yes, fuck!” Miller said.
Murphy’s eyes quickly darted around. She had left her phone in the Brawler. She had two choices. Stand the suspect up and head him to the Brawler, or keep him lying in the dirt until help arrived. She strained to hear sirens. They were hard to hear over her own roaring bloodstream and the blasting talk radio programme coming from the truck. She opted to stand him up.
“Okay, I’m going to stand you up. Here,” she said as she grabbed the shirt collar. She eased herself off his back and shimmied around to the side. “Bend your knees,” she said as she pulled on his shirt. She grabbed his arm and said, “Feet underneath. That’s right, now push with your legs. Stand up.” With one hand on his hands and another under his arm, Murphy helped him to his feet. She then quickly pushed him against the hood of the truck.
Murphy could still smell gasoline and decided it was best to move the suspect to her vehicle. “Let’s go, this way,” she said as she swung him around. In the distance, she saw the flashing lights of the arriving cruisers. Keeping hold of him, she headed toward the road. When they got to the ditch, Miller stumbled and fell to his knees. Murphy tumbled with him, her hand slipping off his shoulder and slamming against a rock. A pain shot up her arm. “Fuck, dude, stand up!” she shouted as she stood up. He staggered to his feet. She guided him to her Brawler and leaned him against the door.
“Dispatch, it’s DI Murphy. Can you hear me?” she shouted into the window.
“Dispatch response, yes. DI Murphy, what is your status?”
“Suspect in custody. What’s the ETA?” Before she could finish her sentence, she heard the wailing sirens coming from the south.
“NSPD responding to provide assistance, estimate one minute,” the voice on the phone said. “All units be advised, suspect in custody.”
“Loud and clear,” Murphy responded.
“You were supposed to shoot me,” Miller croaked.
Murphy pressed him harder against the hood. “I’ll write that down in my diary, you little shit.”
Two NSPD cruisers screeched to a halt, and the drivers scrambled out, guns drawn.
“DI Murphy, Northshore Municipal Police Department. Suspect under control,” she said. They looked around quickly and holstered their guns.
Miller whined about his face. “I need a doctor,” he said.
“Ma’am, I am Officer Gardener, this is Officer Hastings,” he said.
“Officer Gardener, search the suspect. Give me his ID,” she said. Once Hastings had control of Miller, Gardener searched Miller and handed over his wallet to Murphy.
She pulled out the driver’s license and held it up, comparing the faces. “What’s your name?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Officer Hastings jerked Miller hard and slammed him against the hood of the cruiser. He leaned into him, pressing his entire weight against the suspect. “Watch your mouth,” he growled.
“Watch me stick my dick in it,” Miller said. A kidney punch reminded him he was not playing his game anymore. He had to be careful in real life.
“Perry Lucas Miller, you are under arrest.” Murphy said.

The Homicide Division at the Stonebridge Police Department was a tableau of systematic chaos, desks cluttered with manila folders that bore unsolved narratives. At any given time, ten desks stood like sentinels, each one an island unto its own keeper, flanked by grey filing cabinets that were guardians of both secrets and sorrows. Amidst this landscape of order and disorder, Detective Eva Greenhouse’s desk stood out, its surface clean and organized, her dedication to order a silent protest against the disarray.

On the corner of her desk, keeping vigil, was Yorick, the plastic human skull whose hollow gaze penetrated the murk of cold cases and bureaucratic paperwork. Greenhouse often found herself articulating her thoughts to the inanimate confidant, her voice a whisper among whispers, as she tried to unravel the tangled threads of human cruelty.

In those moments, there was a peculiar solace she found in Yorick’s perpetual silence, a reminder that sometimes answers lay in the quiet spaces between words. But there was no solace to be found when the dark tendrils of memory crept upon her, uninvited.

Greenhouse leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes against the onslaught of memories that threatened to overwhelm her. She took a deep breath, willing her mind back to the present, back to the clean orderliness of her desk. A desk that, for now at least, was an island of calm amidst the stormy seas of her past.

Without warning, the image flashed before her eyes: Bruce Jameson, her former partner, vibrant and alive one moment, his body thrown through the air the next, lifeless before it even hit the ground. The drug dealer they had been chasing put pedal to metal in a desperate bid for freedom, turning the vehicle into a weapon of finality. It was a violent ballet of metal and flesh that ended with sirens screaming into the void.

She opened her eyes, gaze settling once more upon Yorick’s impassive skull. “Don’t tell,” she murmured. Yorick said nothing, not that she expected him to. His silence was a comfort, an assurance that the horrors that haunted her slept again.

A shiver ran through her, though the office was not particularly cold. She could feel the eyes on her, the sidelong glance from Detective Smith who sat across the room. His eyes were a mixture of pity and discomfort, as if he feared that the specter of death that clung to her might be contagious. In the sea of weariness that was the division, she was an island of tragedy, isolated further by the loss of her partner.

Greenhouse turned her gaze away from Smith’s scrutiny, reaching out to adjust Yorick slightly, seeking something familiar to anchor her to the present. The skull, as always, offered no judgment, just the silent reassurance of its presence. It was enough to push back the memories, enough to keep her grounded in the now, where the living needed her more than the dead.

Greenhouse reached for the case file open on her desk, the one she had been reviewing before her thoughts spiraled down into the abyss. A 17-year-old girl, brutally murdered, found naked and abandoned in a city park. Somewhere, the monster who destroyed her still walked free.

Greenhouse sighed, the familiar anger and frustration settling in her chest, her constant companions. She would find him, this butcher. She had to believe that. It was the only thing that kept the darkness at bay.
Greenhouse stood abruptly, feeling the stiffness in her lower back that had accumulated from hours of sitting. She reached for the sky with her fingertips, elongating her spine with a soft groan of relief as vertebrae made subtle shifts back into their preferred alignments. She then bent forward, lowering her chin to her chest, stretching the tense muscles of her neck. As she did so, a faint rattle whispered from her jacket pocket–a bottle of pills prescribed to keep her mind from wandering too far into the dark alleys of trauma. Only she heard the sound, a private reminder of the battle she waged daily.

Around her, the Homicide Division hummed with the kind of weary activity befitting men who’d seen too much yet could never see enough to solve all the puzzles laid out before them. A half dozen male detectives, each one a repository of grim stories, milled about the office space. Their shirts were wrinkled badges of too many hours worn and too little time spent at home. Their suits hung on their frames, the colors leached to bland grays that matched the somber mood of their profession.

“I swear, the way they fumbled in the fourth quarter, it’s like they wanted to lose,” barked one, his voice scraping the walls like sandpaper.

“Quit stalling, Smith. Pay me those twenty bucks you owe from the bet!”
Reyes was murmuring on the telephone: “Yeah, that chick was wild. You won’t believe what–”

Their conversations, a tapestry of trivialities and manly focus, provided a backdrop to the more somber thoughts that lingered in Greenhouse’s mind. They chattered incessantly, a coping mechanism against the silence that death brought. Each detective carried their own method of distraction, their own way of distancing themselves from the abyss that gaped beneath every crime scene photo, every unsolved case file.

Greenhouse listened to the cacophony briefly before letting it fade into white noise. She had learned long ago that in this room, amidst these people, one could be both surrounded and utterly alone.

The shrill ring of the phone cut through the office chatter like a scalpel, slicing into the bubble of banter and bringing Greenhouse sharply back into focus. Smith’s grumbling about lost games and Reyes’s lurid tales on the phone faded to the background as she reached for the receiver.

“Homicide. Detective Greenhouse speaking,” she answered in a voice that was professional but edged with fatigue.
“Detective,” sang a male voice, oddly melodic and crisp like the crackle of frost underfoot. “I’ve been planning murders for months. I am going to kill a lot of people.”

She stiffened, her hand tightening around Yorick’s plastic cranium. The skull stared back at her, its hollow eyes offering no counsel.

“Is that so? When are you going to start?” she asked, masking her skepticism with practiced calm. “And why would you tell me this?”

“Because I’m too smart to be caught. I’m not killing, yet. But I will let you know beforehand,” the caller taunted, his confidence oozing through the line like a toxic fog.

“Have you killed anyone yet?” she asked, her gaze scanning the room. Her colleagues were wrapped up in their own microcosms, unaware of the potential storm brewing on her end of the line.

“Nobody. Yet,” the voice crooned. “But I will. And when I do, it’ll be a masterpiece. You’ll have front-row seats, Detective Greenhouse.”

“Can you give me your name? So I know what to call you?” Greenhouse pressed, though experience told her it was a long shot.

“No.”

“Can you tell me who you are planning to hurt?”

“Patience, Detective,” the caller sang before the line clicked dead.

Greenhouse hung up the phone. She dismissed the call as a prank–some drunken college student’s idea of a dare. With a sigh, she rose from her desk, leaving Yorick to watch over the empty chair.

Greenhouse’s steps echoed softly as she made her way to the washroom. She glanced over her shoulder and caught Johansen’s gaze. The older man leaned back in his chair, a silver streak running through his close-cut hair that matched the stern set of his jaw.

“Quit stalling, Smith. Pay me what you owe me from the bet!” Johansen called out across the room, his voice like gravel tumbling down a hill. His attention then flicked back to Greenhouse for a moment, suspicion knitting his brow before he turned back to his desk, dismissing her presence.

Smith grumbled something unintelligible, his cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red as he dug into his pocket. He shrank under Johansen’s looming figure, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing a forearm marked with an old tattoo.

Nearby, Dahl leaned against a filing cabinet, a half-eaten muffin in hand. His belly strained against his shirt buttons, crumbs dotting the fabric like misplaced constellations. “Maybe I’ll switch to blueberry muffins next time,” he mused aloud, brushing off the remnants of his snack. “Less gas for sure.” He chuckled, the sound rumbling from deep within his chest, seemingly amused by his own digestive predicaments.

Greenhouse barely registered their banter as she pushed open the door to the washroom. Inside, she met her reflection with a stranger’s eyes. Lines etched her face that weren’t there a year ago, shadows clung beneath her eyes, and her hair had lost its luster. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a sterile glow on her features.

She splashed cold water on her face and patted it dry with a rough paper towel, steadying her breath as she returned to the bullpen. When she arrived at her desk, the blinking light of a voicemail captured her attention.
“New message,” said the automated announcement, followed by a chillingly familiar voice.

“This is just the beginning of many, many murders, Detective. Gazing at the stars / Constellations tell a tale / Midnight claims a soul.”

It was the voice of the man she had just spoken to. The haiku hung in the air, a poetic prelude to… what? Greenhouse felt exhausted by the idea that some kid was certain he was the next Ted Bundy. She couldn’t broach the subject with her colleagues; they avoided her like a curse ever since her partner’s death. They whispered of bad luck and jinxes behind her back. So, instead, she whispered her fears to Yorick, who offered no comfort or judgement.

“Great, a poetical wanna-be serial killer,” she muttered. She rifled through the open death investigations on her desk: a 35-year-old man shot in the back, a 16-year-old girl stabbed in the side, a 42-year-old woman beaten to death. None connected to the ominous haiku.

As Greenhouse sifted through the case files, her focus wavered, and the room distorted before her eyes. She blinked hard, trying to clear the sudden dizziness that overwhelmed her senses.

In the quiet solitude of her mind, she found herself immersed in an unusual reverie, a hallucination that transformed her mundane homicide division office into a living canvas.

The office, once ordinary, now swirled with chromatic hues of blue, as if the walls themselves were painted with cosmic strokes. Filing cabinets morphed into radiant orbs, each drawer a portal to a celestial realm. The desks, normally arranged with precision, now stood as sentinels, their surfaces alive with the dance of unseen constellations.

In the midst of this surreal transformation, the fluorescent lights above turned into a glowing yellow crescent moon, casting an ethereal glow upon the scene.

Greenhouse’s gaze fixed upon two filing cabinets to the left, their drawers reaching out like flames, swaying to an unseen cosmic wind. The movement of the sky was captured within the dark tendrils of the trees.
Beneath this celestial ballet, the office chairs sat in the distance, moved and yet unmoved, beacons of light against rolling blue hills.

The office had transformed into a cosmic masterpiece, an otherworldly dance where the ordinary met the extraordinary in a symphony of swirling colors and ethereal lights, creating a momentary escape from the harsh reality of detective work.

“Damn! Pull yourself together, Eva,” she whispered to herself, uncertain if it was the stress or something else causing the hallucination.

The vision dissipated as quickly as it had appeared, leaving her staring at the mundane reality of the Homicide Division.

She reached into her jacket pocket, her fingers grazing the ridges of the pill bottle. With practiced stealth, she palmed a white Serenequil pill and slipped it into her mouth, washing it down with the last lukewarm dregs of her coffee.

“Hey, Greenhouse, you good?” Detective Smith called out, his voice laced with hopes of gossip fodder rather than genuine concern.

“Fine, just a headache,” she replied, her voice steadier than she felt. “I’m going to head out early.”
Her announcement was met with a few nods and grunts, but no real attention. It was as if her absence would be a relief to them, one less harbinger of bad tidings in their midst.

Greenhouse gathered her things and left the office behind, the heavy door closing with a resounding thud that echoed her solitude. Driving home, she replayed the enigmatic haiku in her mind, a sinister lullaby for the wearied soul.

The first light of dawn painted Rike Volk’s secluded cabin with a fragile glow, perched on the borderlands of Saint Berna Aux Étranger. Frost delicately traced elabourate designs on each window, while the forest loomed as a silent guardian, encircling her haven with a tranquil solitude. The brisk air carried the crisp fragrance of pine needles and the subtle hint of impending snowfall, a secret shared by the heavy clouds looming overhead.

Rike, her silver hair shimmering in the morning light, moved with a sense of ease that belied the turmoil within. Each step she took exuded purpose and tranquillity. The wooden floor groaned softly under her weight as she made her way to the simple kitchen, where the kettle had just started its hissing overture.

With a low hum resonating through the room, Rike’s melodic voice intertwined with the kettle’s song. Pouring the water into a waiting cup became a graceful performance, wisps of steam swirling upwards to meet the chilly air. Her hand, steady from years of meticulous police work, wrapped around the ceramic handle of her teacup as she allowed herself a fleeting smile. These routines held a serene joy, born from surviving life’s storms.

Seated at the worn pine table scarred by time and use, Rike cradled the cup in her hands while her gaze drifted out of the window. Beyond the glass, she beheld a winter landscape painted in ethereal beauty. “Exquisite,” she murmured, breath forming a delicate mist on the pane. The earth lay cloaked in pristine snow, interrupted only by skeletal trees reaching towards the sky. The sun, a timid orb of muted gold, crept along the horizon casting elongated shadows that grasped at the land like ghostly fingers.

Rike’s tea embraced her with warmth, a stark contrast to the icy fingers of the chill that crept around her cabin. Through the window, she saw the snow-covered fields undulate gently, the evergreen trees standing steadfast against any howling wind that came calling. This serene landscape painted a picture of calm, a world untouched by the chaos of her former life in Berlin—a life she willingly traded for this solitary existence. Her heart, once burdened by the darkest cases, now found solace in solitude and the silent partnership with nature.

With practiced precision, Rike rose from her seat, carrying her empty cup as she made her way to the sink. Each movement deliberate, each action part of a well-worn routine that had become ritualistic. Cup washed and placed upside down to dry. In the small mudroom at the cabin’s rear, her cross-country skis stood like loyal companions against the wall, beckoning for another day of exploration. Above them hung an array of outdoor gear—insulated jackets, fleece-lined gloves, and a weathered knit cap that bore witness to countless winter mornings. Beside the door rested her ski boots, their insulated linings promising comfort amidst the harsh bite of the cold awaiting outside.

Methodically dressing for the cold, Rike layered up against the winter’s bite. Each garment she donned spoke of her reverence for nature’s harsh embrace. She slung the rifle across her back, a familiar weight that brought comfort in its readiness. Next, her hand found the can of bear spray, a precautionary measure she holstered around her waist with practiced ease—her former life as a detective shining through in her preparedness and vigilance.

Swinging open the cabin door, a blast of icy air welcomed Rike as she ventured outside. Clicking into her skis with precision, she left behind the safety of her refuge. The snow whispered beneath her gliding skis, sharing secrets only it knew as she journeyed along the road. Her exhaled breath formed fleeting clouds that dissipated into the morning air, carrying with them a sense of tranquillity. Towering firs and pines flanked her path like silent guardians in the gentle dawn light.

The rhythmic crunch of snow underfoot became a comforting chant, lulling Rike into a state of detachment from the world she once inhabited—a world shadowed by death’s constant presence. In this remote corner of Saint Berna Aux Étranger, isolation became Rike’s solace. The sole spectators to her passage were occasional deer peeking curiously from among the trees before gracefully retreating into the wilderness beyond.

Today was a day meant for living, where the vast expanse of open spaces beckoned with freedom. The simplicity of existence revealed itself in the glide of ski over pristine snow, the icy air filling her lungs, and the steady thud of her heart—a heart now unburdened by the pains of murder, but awakened to the raw beauty of untouched wilderness.

She skied tirelessly, her pulse syncing with the scuff of ski against snow, each exhale forming wispy clouds that dissipated into the cobalt sky above. Despite the weak rays of the sun offering little warmth, she pressed on, squinting against its icy glare as she navigated through a mesmerizing play of shadows and light dancing beneath towering pines.

Her movements held a hypnotic rhythm, drawing her into a trance where only the crisp scrape of skis and the whispering symphony of wind through evergreen needles existed.

Rike stood at the ridge’s edge, peering down at the frozen lake below, a pristine canvas of ice bordered by snow-draped evergreens. The morning sun climbed higher in the sky, signalling her to return. Opting for a shortcut along an abandoned logging trail, she plunged into the dense forest, its solemn hush a stark departure from the clamour of civilization she had forsaken. Abruptly, a murder of crows exploded from a nearby tree, their cacophonous cries rupturing the tranquillity. Startled, Rike’s heart raced in her chest at the jarring eruption of noise and flurry of ebony wings. Despite a decade away from active duty, certain instincts remained etched in her very being. Silence returned until it fled again.

The morning’s peace shattered abruptly with a sharp crack, a branch snapping underfoot—or so Rike believed. She froze, her breath suspended, scanning the tree line for any disturbance. It was too weighty for a small creature like a hare or fox, she noted with unease. She loved that she’d developed such wariness, but hated that it never left her.

Proceeding cautiously, her skiing cadence now disrupted by a heightened sense of vigilance, Rike navigated around a bend where the trees thinned out to reveal an open space. The scene before her anchored her in place, skis firmly planted in the snow as if they shared her reluctance to advance.

“What in the world…” she gasped softly, her hand automatically reaching for the bear spray nestled at her side. A stark splash of red against the pristine white snow caught her eye. Intrigued yet apprehensive, Rike edged closer, a familiar dread creeping over her skin.

Spread out before her like a macabre masterpiece was a vast pool of crimson staining the snow—a jarring contrast against the purity of the landscape. It resembled an open wound on the earth itself, bleeding into the snowy expanse and tainting it with the forbidden colour of blood; an unsettling presence in this sanctuary of solitude.

Her heart thundered in her chest, a drumbeat of alarm reverberating through her. The chilling familiarity of the grim scene unfolding before her triggered a visceral response she thought long buried with her past in Berlin. Despite years away from the force, her instincts surged back to life, though her hands betrayed a slight tremor—a silent testament to the haunting memories etched into her from years of pursuing darkness.

With deliberate movement, she closed the distance to the edge of the crimson stain marring her tranquil retreat. The pungent scent of copper mingled with the sharp pine aroma, a disquieting blend that twisted her gut. This intrusion upon nature felt like an ominous echo of her former life encroaching on her sanctuary. It was very fresh.

Remaining vigilant, she scanned the surroundings for any hint of movement, every sense attuned to potential danger. Without hesitation, she unslung the rifle from her back, its weight grounding her in this surreal moment.

Kneeling beside the pool of blood, she observed how it starkly contrasted against the pristine snow—a macabre painting etched by violence. The vivid red hue stood out defiantly against the winter landscape’s purity; too fresh to have succumbed to the icy grip of nature just yet.

Her breath billowed out in rapid clouds, the icy air biting at her lungs as she stood frozen by the sight before her. The crimson stain on the pristine snow taunted her, a stark symbol of a life violently cut short. Rike’s sharp eyes scanned the snowy landscape, honed by years of detective work, and immediately caught sight of the telltale signs that shattered the surrounding serenity—a trail of deep paw prints etched into the snow with purposeful strides. These were no ordinary tracks; they belonged to a predator, a wolf moving undisturbed through the scene of death like a ghost in the winter wilderness. The presence of the lone wolf only added to the ominous aura enveloping her, its silent journey intertwining with the grim reality she faced.

Bites, torn patches in the blood-stained snow, revealed the scavenger’s feast. Nature’s swift justice, erasing traces of violence. Shimmering amidst the crimson slush were glistening fragments of what seemed like flesh. The quiet landscape bore witness as Rike towered over the chilling scene, her silhouette casting a dark presence. While her mind grasped for routine procedures—observe, analyze, probe—a sinister memory clawed at her thoughts, a recollection she had long battled to suppress within these icy horizons.

A vivid recollection seized her, slicing through the tranquillity like a blade. In her mind’s eye, a young woman lay lifeless in a pool of crimson, her vitality draining into the earth, leaving behind a gaping void of lost potential. The haunting image melded with the pristine snowscape before her, casting an eerie veil over reality that sent tremors racing through Rike’s fingers. This wasn’t just any memory; it was a spectre from her past in Berlin, etched with sorrow so deep it seemed to carve trenches in her very soul.

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, a mantra against the encroaching darkness of death that threatened to engulf her. The tendrils of old traumas slithered uninvited and unwavering through her thoughts, coiling like vipers within the recesses of her consciousness. The once tranquil haven she sought refuge in now mocked her with its calm facade, heedless to the storm raging inside her.

She fought to steady her hands, the icy air stinging her lungs as she struggled to slow her breath. The forest stood eerily silent around her, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of memories raging inside her mind. Despite the tranquil beauty of the snowy landscape, her pulse raced uncontrollably, drowning out the serenity that had enveloped her just seconds before.

Rike’s hands trembled as she reached for her jacket pocket, the zipper resisting her urgency before finally giving way. With unsteady fingers, she retrieved her cellphone, a tool now transformed into an extension of her investigative instincts. The camera lens morphed into her keen eye, the screen a canvas capturing the chilling tableau before her.

Each click of the camera was a heartbeat in the silent snow-covered landscape, freezing time to immortalize the jarring sight. She meticulously framed each shot: the scarlet stain stark against the pristine white backdrop, a haunting reminder of violence cutting through purity. The intersection of animal tracks with absence painted a grim narrative in nature’s cruel handiwork, a macabre tapestry unfolding before her lens. Something died here very recently, and not enough of it remained. She wondered where the body was. Deer, fox, or human, something more should remain. Unless it was poachers.

In that frozen moment, Rike became not just an observer but a chronicler of horror, etching each detail with precision onto the digital canvas. The scene whispered secrets of loss and fear, drawing her deeper into its chilling embrace as she documented every nuance of the unsettling scene with unwavering focus.

Rike navigated the edge of the crimson pool with calculated precision, her movements akin to a silent dance on the snowy canvas. Her eyes, fixated on the scene before her, captured every detail with unwavering intensity. Not a single step was taken without purpose, each imprint in the snow a potential clue waiting to be unveiled. The chill in the air clawed at her skin, but she remained undeterred, determined to unravel the mystery that lay beneath the surface.

The woods enveloped her in a shroud of silence as she wrapped up her spontaneous investigation, the only audible sounds the gentle snow crunching beneath her boots and the soft click of the camera capturing the scene. Yet, this tranquillity masked the storm brewing within this remote setting and within Rike herself.

“Signal’s dead,” Rike muttered to herself, tucking away her phone. The frozen snapshots were now preserved. Her breath billowed out in wisps, mingling with the icy air, a visible reminder of the tension slowly easing from her chest. Despite this relief, the persistent throb of her pulse lingered in her ears like a haunting melody.

I met Martina Starova–Marti–in the spring of ‘49. I was in my bakery when a middle-aged man came scurrying in. It was pouring rain, so everyone was scurrying in. He headed right for a table in the back. There were only 5 tables–it’s a bakery after all. He came in, sat down and then, maybe 10 seconds later, Marti came in.

Strike that.

Marti blasted in. The door slammed open, and she raced in, bringing the storm with her. I don’t think she touched the floor, but just flew. The man stood up to flee. She made a flying tackle. Both ended up hitting my window and the cracking sound was louder than the thunder. Then onto the floor, grunting and screaming and cursing.

Marti was punching him, and he was punching Marti. I could see she had a gun–or at least a holster–and I wondered why she didn’t just shoot him. By the time that thought was in my head and I’d reached for my phone to call the police, Marti was on her feet. She snatched a chair and swung, hitting him hard. The chair broke, of course–it was just cheap plasprint after all. He swung a table in return, then launched her into a display case. Shards of glass and blood went everywhere.

But it didn’t stop her. I’ve since found out nothing stops her. She tackled him again, sending them both right through another of my windows, and out into the street. Only now did everyone else arrive. And by everyone else I mean uniformed police and detectives in cop cars with wailing sirens. It surprised me when they arrested him, not her. I mean, this normal guy comes in, followed by a wild woman who attacked him. Right?

Nothing is as it seems with Marti. It turned out he had murdered a couple and kidnapped their five-year-old daughter. The police had tracked him down and he had somehow slipped through their perimeter. He chose my bakery to hide in, and he failed.

She came back into the shop, bloodied and breathless, with Damien Kane, her partner. He was shouting at her for being an irresponsible asshole. She was laughing at him for being a fat fuck. Their words, not mine. By then, all of my customers had fled, and the rain was blowing in.

I will never forget that surge of electricity when she first looked me in the eye. She has a sexiness, a sexual magnetism, that is undeniable. This in spite of the fact she was bleeding from a cut over her eye and blood coated her lips. I find that bruised-and-bloodied look to be repulsive. But somehow, she made it work for her.

Marti offered me her business card–Martina Starova, Falls City Police, Homicide Division, Detective First Class. She said to call her and she would help me navigate the administrative systems to get reimbursed for the damage. Then she asked for a danish. All I could do was wordlessly point to the shattered display case and the glass-covered danishes.

She said she’d take a raspberry danish. She even said please, but I think that was so she could throw her killer smile at me. I told her I couldn’t sell them, and she said she’d take it for free. I said they were covered in glass, and she asked if there was “one under the counter or something.” Unbelievable.

Then Marti walked behind the display case, looked over the food, and picked a raspberry danish, and shook it off. She took a big bite and screamed, clutching her mouth. I ran over to her, grabbing her face to see what the damage was. Marti just laughed and said, “Psych! Just kidding.” Joking like a damned 10-year-old.

Marti made a quick phone call before leaving. Within half an hour, a repair truck pulled up with some enormous pieces of plywood. They sealed my windows and said someone would be in touch about everything else. They said don’t bother calling my insurance company.

I never called her, but I never had to. The next day, Falls City employees were swarming over my bakery. Glass replaced, floors cleaned and sterilized, new furniture, even nicer display cases installed. I got a $5,000 check to cover food and incidentals.

Marti made one hell of an impression on me. I followed the news for a couple of days. She was praised for her pursuit and arrest of that man.

She came by every once in a while for a danish until she stopped coming by. I didn’t see her for four years, though I hadn’t forgotten her.

I don’t think anyone can forget Marti.

The meeting with Heather was useless. More than useless. Because Marti lost her temper on the way over and rammed another car, it was going to cost her to replace it. She took a quick look at the damage caused by her rash behavior. She ran a finger along the deep grooves and laughed. “Worth it,” she said out loud. The worn door of Marti’s car groaned in protest as she pushed it open and slammed it shut.

She made the drive back to the office without killing anyone, which was a good sign. Marti’s walk up the stairs was not one of casual observance; it was charged with a brewing storm of frustration. Lori should have called. The low shuffle of her footsteps was a stark contrast to the tension that reverberated within her body.

She had left explicit instructions for Lori to call after one hour, yet an hour and a half had slipped by, leaving Marti in the clutches of a federal agent.

As Marti prepared to address her secretary, her nostrils flared, catching a whiff of stale perfume lingering near the office. The sensory details converged, all framing the impending storm as Marti steeled herself for the overdue confrontation with Lori.

Ready to unleash her discontent, Marti opened the door of her office, ready to blast Lori for not calling her.

Marti stepped through the doorway and stopped. Lori was sitting at her desk, smiling and chatting with Ari Stirling. Stirling was a member of one of the large three crime rings in Falls City. He had previously hired Marti to find out who had killed the head of the ring. She would rather not have to deal with Ari Stirling. Ever. For anything.

“Mr. Stirling, good to see you,” Marti said as she walked in. They shook hands as Ari stood up.

“Your lovely secretary has been keeping me company. You and I need to talk,” Ari said. Marti still found his eyes creepy and his manner narcissistic.

“Lori, thanks. You can go for lunch,” Marti said. Lori never went anywhere for lunch, but she was smart and she knew it was time for her to leave the office. Marti was happy to see her pick up on the directive and go.

“Great, back in forty-five,” Lori said as she grabbed an umbrella. It was just starting to rain. Lori nodded once as she headed out the door, closing it behind her.

“Ari, what do you want?”

“I understand Henrick Katsaros hired you to find his parents, Andreas and Isabella. You found them. And then, in a strange coincidence—Andreas was murdered,” Ari said.

Ari’s voice sliced through the air like a dagger, each word laden with a tone for an uneasy conversation. Marti felt the prickle of tension at the nape of her neck, the room’s atmosphere morphing into a clandestine theater of revelations.

A frown was etched on Marti’s brow, a silent protest at the ominous path this conversation was taking.

“I have nothing to do with his murder. You know that’s not my thing, Ari. Never has been,” Marti retorted, Marti’s fingers, restless, drummed against the arm of her chair.

She wished for the comforting weight of her gun against her hip, a tangible reassurance in the face of accusations veiled in insinuation.

“You were close by,” Ari countered.

“And the Feds arrested me within minutes. I didn’t–”

“Arrested for what?”

“Drug possession,” Marti said. She saw Ari’s face and added, “I couldn’t believe it either. But I was in jail. I didn’t see anything, I didn’t hear anything. I’m just getting back from talking with the Federal Agent who arrested me. She was interested in the murder, not so much my drugs,” Marti said. “Speaking of which.” Marti headed to her desk drawer and opened it. Damn, the inhalers were still in the car.

RUBY

“Ruby Fisher?”
I snorted awake. I was still in the hospital, still sitting at a 45 degree angle. My blanket is human warm, not blanket oven warm.
“Yes, I’m Ruby Fisher.” Like it says on my wrist.
Hm. I am still channeling Officer Rude Boy.
“My name is Detective Scott O’Reilly. This is my partner, Detective Francine Temple. Little Bluff Police Department.”
“About the car accident?” We shook hands as best I could. Detective Francine’s hand was lovely. Detective Scott’s hand was…not.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Please call me Ruby.”
“Great. You can call me Scott.”
“Francine.” I like her eyes. His eyes are snake eyes. Hers are mouse eyes.
“We had a brief conversation with Officer Pritchard. But we’d like to hear from you.”
“I really don’t remember much. About the car accident, I mean. It’s not like I have amnesia. I know who I am.”
“Tell us about the accident, Ruby.”
Detectives Scott and Francine sat down in the two chairs next to my bed. I noticed that Detective Francine had a notebook in her hand, while Detective Scott had a file folder. They looked like they meant business.
“So, Ruby, can you tell us about what happened last night?” Do they have to keep asking that question?
I took a deep breath and tried to remember. It all seemed so hazy.
“Well, I was driving home from work. I work at Peachtree Fabrication. It’s out by Little Bluff.”
“Yes, we know,” said Francine as she scribbled something in her notebook.
“I must have fallen asleep at the wheel or something because the next thing I remember is waking up here in the hospital.”
“Do you have any recollection of what caused you to fall asleep?”
I racked my brain but couldn’t come up with anything concrete. “No, not really. It’s all kind of a blur.”
“What about before the accident? Were you feeling tired or ill?” Detective Francine leaned in closer. She is very attractive.
I thought back to yesterday and shook my head. “No, I felt fine. Tired from work. No! I remember driving. It was night, but it was cool. It’s that time of year. I would have had the windows rolled up. I…” And that’s where things fell apart. I have flashes, but I’m not sure of what’s true and what’s wrong. I was suddenly very aware that saying the wrong thing could get me into trouble. I watch enough police shows to know there are no Detectives in Traffic Services. Once you start talking, they’re in. They listen to every word, then pick and choose what suits them.
Diane once told me–wait, why am I bringing her up again?–Diane told me to never ever speak to the police without an attorney. Even if you’re a witness. Because maybe you think you’re a witness, but they think you’re a suspect. And those Detectives will question you. They’ve been doing this for years. But you? Innocent you? You’ve probably never been interviewed by police. I never have, at any rate. Until now.
“Where was I?”

FRANCINE

“Ruby Fisher?”

She snorted awake and was immediately a little spicy with us. We introduced ourselves and asked her about the accident. She was an odd duck. She’d start talking and then fade away, like she was thinking. Maybe it was accident PTSD or whatever the doctor had suggested.

“It was cold. Probably. I don’t exactly remember the last few days so clearly. But yes, the windows would have been rolled up.”

She was very focused on the windows, so I texted Andrews and asked if the windows were up or down.

‘Driver up. Passenger down.’

“Where were you going?”

“Where did I crash?”

“Old Weller Road.”

“Ah! I was either coming or going. I live on Yurton Road. Off Old Weller.”

“128 Yurton?”

“Oh yes. You know that?”

“It’s on your car registration. So were you coming or going?”

Ruby got a little testy with Scotty, which I thought was hilarious. He was usually a woman’s favorite. Scotty and I looked at each other and I nodded: he was to be the bad cop, I was to be the good cop.

“You were driving eastbound on Old Weller when your car went off the road. You went into a ditch and tipped the car.”

One of the monitors started to beep, and a nurse came scurrying in. She replaced the IV bag, fiddled with a few settings, and snapped at us: “Detectives is this really necessary?”

“Yes ma’am. We’ll try to be quick.”

At 4am, the city’s underbelly bared its teeth. Neon lights flickered in the distance, casting menacing shadows on the pavement. Marti and Lori, hoodies shrouding their faces, crept towards the Crimson Crown–a seedy establishment that had seen better days. Marti felt the cold steel of her gun in her jeans pocket; a comforting reminder of the power she wielded.

The back door loomed before them, secured with a padlock. “Shit,” Marti muttered, scanning the alley for something to pry the lock off with. No luck. Frustration bubbled inside her, threatening to explode. In one swift motion, she pulled out her gun and shot the padlock. The sound echoed in the still night air.

“Are you crazy?” Lori hissed, panic lacing her voice. “Someone will call the cops!”

Marti laughed, a bitter sound. “No one here gives a damn, Lori. Cops are just another gang in these parts.”

With the lock shattered, they slipped through the door, descending into the bowels of the building. The basement was a chaotic mess, filled with buckets and mops, boxes of glassware, broken chairs, cleaning supplies next to cans of food. The furnace was years past its prime. The air was thick with a musty smell, making it difficult to breathe. Marti could feel the walls closing in on her, triggering her claustrophobia.

“Come on, come on,” Marti muttered, her fingers trembling as she shifted boxes and crates. “Where is she?”

“Nothing here,” Lori said, frustration mounting in her voice. She knocked over a stack of containers with a loud crash. “This is useless.”

“Keep looking,” Marti commanded, her eyes darting around the dimly lit space. The desperation in her voice was palpable, the fear of failure gnawing at her insides.

Rats scurried past their feet as they moved deeper into the basement, the blackness swallowing them whole. Marti’s heart pounded, each beat echoing in her ears like a countdown to disaster. They searched every nook and cranny, leaving chaos in their wake.

“Where is she?” Lori asked again, sweat beading on her brow. “We’ve looked everywhere.”

“Maybe it’s upstairs,” Marti suggested, trying to maintain her composure. “Let’s go.”

They ascended the creaky staircase, the darkness giving way to the dim glow of emergency lighting. It looked abandoned, empty glasses and ashtrays littering the tables. The cleaner hadn’t been through. The air was stale, reeking of spilled alcohol and shattered dreams.

“Look around,” Marti instructed, her voice barely more than a whisper. “If there’s something here, we’ll find it.”

Marti and Lori moved cautiously through the dark and empty bar, their footsteps muffled by the worn carpet. As they approached the back of the establishment, a large commercial walk-in freezer came into view.

“Over there,” Marti gestured, her voice tense.

The door to the freezer was locked. Marti scanned the area, spotting a metal mop propped against the wall. She grabbed it and used the handle to pry the lock off the door.

As soon as the door cracked open, a terrible stench of decay wafted out, assaulting their nostrils. Marti’s face contorted in disgust while Lori choked back a gag.

“Christ, what is that smell?” Lori asked, covering her nose with her sleeve.

“You know. Stay at the door,” Marti instructed, her voice strained. “Keep it open. I can’t go in if it shuts…” Her claustrophobia threatened to overpower her again, but she pushed it down, knowing they had come too far to turn back now.

Rain lashed against the window of the cramped hospital room, casting distorted shadows on the peeling wallpaper. Lori sat hunched in a rickety chair next to Marti’s bed, her green eyes fixed on her friend’s pale face. Marti lay still, an oxygen mask covering her mouth and nose, an IV feeding fluids into her arm. A chorus of beeping from the heart monitor provided a steady rhythm to the otherwise silent night.

“Well,” Lori whispered under her breath, her gaze flicking between Marti’s chest and the monitor. “How did we end up here again?”

A year ago, in the depths of a chilling winter, Lori’s life had taken a harrowing detour. She remembered the frigid night when Marti had ventured into the abyss of addiction with Wunk. Wunk was a notorious drug known for its dangerous unpredictability, a dark and potent cocktail that induced hallucinations, paranoia, and a treacherous descent into oblivion.

Marti’s then-girlfriend Lia’s frantic call for an ambulance saved Marti’s life but drove a deep wedge between the lovers. When Lia called Lori, her fear was palpable, and it still echoed in Lori’s ears, a haunting symphony of panic and despair. Lori had rushed to the hospital, her heart pounding with dread as she arrived while Marti was in the midst of life-saving surgery. The waiting room felt like an eternity, every passing second dragging Lori and Lia deeper into a relentless abyss of fear and regret.

It was a night that haunted Lori’s nightmares, the memory etched into her soul. She recalled the surgeon’s face, the chilling words that Marti had survived but would need months of rehab. It was a second chance, a fragile thread of hope woven into the fabric of their lives, a reminder of the fragility of existence in a city that constantly threatened to consume them.

And here was Marti, dancing on the edge again. Lori made the call to Pauline, letting Marti’s current lover know what was happening.

Lori rubbed her temples, trying to dispel the headache that had been pounding behind her eyes since they rushed Marti to the hospital.

Marti’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, her blue eyes hidden beneath closed lids. The effects of Shadow had been negated when the doctor have her a Medimote. But she was not out of the woods.

“Y’know, Marti, sometimes I wonder if you even give a shit about your life,” Lori muttered, the bitterness in her voice surprising even her. She shook her head. “Or maybe it’s just that you don’t care about anyone else… But that’s not true, is it? You do care, in your own fucked-up way.”

She sighed, letting her hand rest on Marti’s arm, feeling the faint trembling beneath the skin. “I’m not going anywhere. Despite all your bullshit, I still care. I’ll always be here to pick up the pieces.” Lori’s breath hitched as she fought back tears, her resolve wavering for a moment before hardening once more.

“God dammit,” she hissed, her grip tightening on her friend’s arm. “You’re so much better than this. Better than the drugs, the sex, the whole godforsaken mess you’ve made of your life.” She leaned in closer, her voice barely audible. “You deserve better.”

The beeping of the heart monitor seemed to grow louder, filling the space between them like an unspoken truce. Lori sat back, her hand slipping from Marti’s arm, leaving her feeling cold and empty.

“Pull your shit together,” she said softly, her voice edged with desperation. “I can’t keep doing this… I can’t keep watching you destroy yourself.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Lori asked. Marti and Lori were standing outside the grand home of Evelyn Delacroix.

In the harsh light of day, the grand façade of Evelyn’s mansion loomed like a sentinel guarding secrets. The mansion, an architectural relic of a bygone era, rose three stories high, its sandstone walls bearing the scars of time. Ivy, withered and barely clinging to life, crept up the walls like the tendrils of a twisted tale.

Black wrought-iron gates, adorned with ornate scrollwork, offered a glimpse into the enigma within. They creaked open reluctantly as Marti and Lori entered, revealing a cobblestone driveway that stretched towards the looming entryway.

The windows, though large, were veiled by heavy drapes that concealed whatever lay beyond. A pair of stone gargoyles, weathered and grimacing, perched on either side of the imposing double doors. They seemed to mock the very notion of innocence.

“This might be a really bad idea, but we have to talk to her,” Marti finally said. She knocked on the door.

Evelyn Delacroix, a woman of timeless elegance, answered the door’s knock with an air of grace that belied the turmoil within her. Her porcelain features bore the weight of sorrow, etched with the traces of tears shed in the emptiness of her mansion.

As she laid eyes on Marti and Lori, her gaze was a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty, like a guarded secret yearning to be uncovered. She wore a black silk dress, a widow’s attire, her raven hair cascading down her shoulders, framing her face like a mourning shroud.

Evelyn’s sapphire eyes, usually filled with the allure of wealth and mystery, now held a glint of vulnerability. Her voice, tinged with melancholy, was as smooth as velvet as she inquired, “May I help you?”

Marti stepped forward, her voice was a low, gravelly whisper, a stark contrast to Evelyn’s refinement. “Mrs. Delacroix, we’re here because Ari Stirling hired us to look into the death of your husband, Marcus.”

Evelyn’s gaze sharpened as Marti’s words hung in the air. She hesitated for a moment, the weight of her husband’s death heavy upon her. Then, with a resigned nod, she stepped back, allowing them entry into the mansion.

Inside the dimly lit expanse of the Delacroix home, secrets whispered in every corner. Evelyn’s call for Pauline broke the silence, a haunting echo through the halls.

The maid, Pauline, arrived silently, her figure voluptuous and sultry. Her eyes, pools of obsidian, betrayed her delighted lust as they met Marti’s. Recognition flashed across Marti’s face, a flicker of a memory from a night-or was it a weekend?-of passion. She had met this enigmatic woman in the shadows of desire, a dalliance Marti had long since put in the back of her mind, but one that Pauline had evidently kept in her heart.

Evelyn and Lori continued their journey toward the living room, leaving Marti and Pauline alone. The air between them was thick with unspoken secrets, a lingering tension that refused to dissipate. Marti’s voice, low and intimate, broke the silence like a gunshot in the night.

“Pauline,” she murmured, her eyes locking onto the mysterious maid’s. “It’s been a while.”

Pauline’s lips curved into a sly smile, her gaze a mixture of mischief and intrigue. “It certainly has, Marti. Seems like you’ve found your way back to my arms.”

Marti leaned in closer, their faces inches apart, the heat of lust simmering beneath the surface. “It’s not your arms that make me wet.”

Pauline’s eyes sparkled as she motioned towards the kitchen. Marti walked up behind her, embracing her and caressing her breasts with tenderness, planting kisses on her neck. Pauline made a soft sound in response and inclined her head forward so more of her neck was available for Marti to kiss…