The control room of Crestwood Police Headquarters had surrendered to silence. Only the hum of machines and the metronome tick of the wall clock broke the stillness—a sound that felt less like timekeeping and more like a countdown.
On the largest screen, a live broadcast streamed from an unknown location. Captain Lily Marquez and Rhea Desai sat bound to chairs, ropes cutting into their shoulders, their wrists bloated and raw. Above them, two massive metal containers hung suspended by chains, swaying with groans that seemed to promise something awful.
The masked figure stood before them—a presence that somehow chilled the room from miles away. The mask was unlike anything anyone present had witnessed: a flat triangular plane of bone-white, streaked with faded red. Three hollow eye sockets gaped—two where eyes belonged, one carved into the forehead—each ringed with grooves that wept dark paint like scars. An inverted spiral wound inward from the edges, drawing the viewer's gaze relentlessly toward the polished void at its center. Across its surface lay a six-fingered handprint, ghostly and burned, as if something had seized it and never let go.
Behind the figure loomed a painting that arrested every eye. Neoclassical in its rendering, chiaroscuro shadows threw the scene into brilliant, crushing relief. Hercules grappled with Cerberus at the mouth of a cave. The three heads existed in perfect tableaux: one snarled at a shattered war helmet, another tore into a spill of golden coins, and the third sank its teeth into the hand of a faceless, shadowed figure. Hades sat enthroned in the darkness beyond, pale white hands gleaming like marble monuments. From Cerberus's neck, a heavy chain stretched backward into the black throat of the cave, disappearing into depths that suggested nothing good waited there.
The kind of image that didn't merely depict—it demanded interpretation.
Detective Nia Santoro's boots struck tile with each restless stride across the room. Her hands wouldn't still, fingers flexing at her sides, and her voice came low, almost haunted, as she replayed the masked figure's broadcasted words:
"One head barks for justice, the other two feast on gold. The master of this hound thinks his hands are clean. But the third head, it bites the hand that feeds it. You will find the truth where the beast's chain is anchored."
When she stopped pacing, she turned back to the screen. Her voice had hardened. "The painting isn't random. The riddle bleeds into it."
Frank Weller rubbed his forehead as though trying to smooth away the wrinkles of exhaustion. His grunt came low, dismissive. "Or we're being played. Mythological theater. Noise designed to strangle our focus."
Anthony Stroud stood with arms folded, silent for long minutes. His eyes tracked the spiral on the mask as if following it might lead somewhere—anywhere—other than here.
Owen Cole leaned against the desk's edge, his posture almost casual, his expression unreadable in a way that felt calculated, deliberate.
Nia stepped closer to the screen, ignoring Frank. Her voice carried the weight of certainty. "No. Look at the composition. Hercules, the beast, the chain descending into the cave. It's not decoration. It's directional. It's telling us where to look."
"She's right," Anthony said, his voice cutting through. His eyes flickered toward her before returning to the image. "That mask didn't take its place in front of that painting by accident. Whoever this is—Witnessing of Hollow—they staged this with intention."
Nia's thoughts began to crystallize aloud. "The first head barks for justice—law enforcement, maybe. The second and third are greed and betrayal. The master believes his hands are spotless. Maybe that's the courts. Or someone positioned above the law itself. But the truth, the riddle says, it lies where the chain anchors. The anchor is everything."
Frank exhaled with frustration. "Mythology as roadmap. Cerberus—guardianship, death, the underworld. Maybe it points to something physical in Crestwood. The bronze hound outside city hall. Hell, half the gangs paint dogs on their colors. Could be his hideout."
His voice wavered slightly even as he tried to project reason.
Then—a sharp click from the speakers.
On screen, an hourglass descended into frame beside the masked figure, suspended on a platform. Sand began to fall, each grain a small mercy running out.
The room seized.
Nia's chest tightened. "What the—"
Above Lily and Rhea, the metal containers groaned. Pressure released with a hiss that cut through the speakers like something alive.
Owen's voice came low and edged with steel. "It's a trigger. When the sand empties, the containers open."
Anthony's tone sharpened. "Those aren't filled with water."
The room fell into a suffocating quiet.
"Acid," Owen finished.
Nia's stomach dropped. Around her, faces turned pale, jaws tightening. This wasn't theater anymore. This was a clock and a deadline written in something that would dissolve flesh.
---
Across Town — V-Tube Livestream
In a small apartment, an off-duty officer's eyes locked on his tablet screen. His fingers moved across the chat with mechanical precision:
@BlueShield97: "Halvern fingerprints. Mind games. You telling me we just watch this?"
@StreetAngel: "Look at them breathing. This isn't staged. This is real fear."
@CrowdNoise:"WTF?? WitnessingOfHollow CerberusRiddle"
The chat spiraled. Some begged for the stream to shut down. Others demanded the detectives solve faster. A chant began to form: #ChainAnchor. Thousands repeated it like a digital prayer, as though repetition could change the hourglass's pace.
---
WELB 7 News
On the monitor at HQ, Janet Lowell's composed anchor voice carried the weight of horror:
"The individual has identified themselves as Witnessing of Hollow. An anonymous message claims the riddle must be solved before the hourglass empties. If not, both hostages will be submerged in hydrochloric acid."
Her co-anchor shifted. "That's—"
"Fatal," Janet finished quietly. The word hung in the air like a judgment.
--
In a diner, arguments bloomed over cooling coffee. In a living room, a mother killed the broadcast while her son protested. In a garage, teenagers streamed their live reactions, and comments exploded with theories:
CorruptionCerberus
ChainAnchor
On the darknet, threads multiplied like a plague:
HollowSeeker: "The chain's anchor. City Hall. That's where Crestwood's leash runs."
AcidWatcher88: "Money. The gold. Follow the banks. The Halverns."
VoidMirror: "Look at the captain. What if she's not innocent?"
A pinned post flickered: *When the sand runs out, two people die.*
---
Twitter / X — The City's Collective Scream
Screens in HQ lit with trending tags. The feed scrolled so fast officers could barely parse it:
@Tru Justice41: "Cerberus isn't a dog. It's the department. #Chain Anchor"
@angelinared: "Women about to die on live TV while you debate POETRY? #DoYourJob"
@cryptovulture: "Cerberus head eating gold. Banks. Halverns. Money laundering. #CerberusRiddle"
@norahearts:"If Rhea Desai dies like this… we burn this town. #Protect Rhea"
#@lawdogsupreme: "Chain anchor = the courts. Judges chained to money. System rot. #WitnessingOfHollow"
Nia read some of them in a whisper, as though the city's voice was crashing through the walls.
---
Back to HQ
Frank's curse came sharp and bitter. "So we're supposed to play philosopher while our captain drowns? The hell with this."
Nia met his anger with calm precision. "No. There's structure. Method. The first head represents law. The second is greed. The third is betrayal—someone turning on those who feed them. These aren't random pieces."
She turned to Anthony. "What do you see?"
Anthony's gaze remained locked on the painting, his eyes gleaming with something cold and penetrating. When he spoke, each word fell with deliberate weight.
"It's not mythology. It's allegory. This isn't about Cerberus as myth. It's about Crestwood as metaphor. Justice that barks but never bites. Greed fattening itself at the trough. Leaders who claim clean hands while shepherding monsters they can't control. And the third head—that's betrayal. The rot from within."
His voice grew harder, more certain. "The truth lies where the chain anchors. Where does Cerberus's chain lead? Back into the cave. Into the darkness that owns him. That's Crestwood's chain. The corruption holding this beast in place."
Owen leaned forward slightly. "Then the beast isn't myth. It's us. The department. All of it."
The silence became a presence of its own.
Frank turned, eyes narrowing. "You're telling me this psycho's message is that we're corrupt? That we're the monster?"
"I'm saying maybe the mask isn't lying," Anthony replied, unmoved.
Around the room, faces hardened. Some looked away. A young detective muttered something violent under her breath. The air felt suddenly hostile, as if everyone had simultaneously realized they were being examined from within their own circle.
On the screen, the hourglass sand continued its relentless fall. Lily's eyes darted upward at the containers. Her breathing came in sharp, panicked bursts.
The spiral on the mask seemed to shimmer faintly in the broadcast's light, and the polished void at its center caught and held the gaze like a mirror reflecting something you didn't want to see.
For a moment, Nia wondered if the riddle wasn't meant to be solved. Maybe it was meant to be lived—to turn everyone in this room into its final answer.