Chief Slate's office door creaked open with a deliberate slowness that made the silence of the morning feel heavier. The sharp, unyielding click of polished boots echoed across the marbled floor. Slate's eyes narrowed at the sudden intrusion, his fingers clenching the edge of his mahogany desk. But the moment froze him in place: a man in a crisply tailored suit, flanked by two uniformed officers, stepped inside with an unflinching, meticulous air. In his hand, the man revealed a badge, its metal glinting coldly under the fluorescent lights.
"Chief Slate of Crestwood PD," the man said, his voice calm, almost surgical. "I'm afraid I will have to place you under arrest for collaboration with the deceased Mr. Blackwell in illegal Effexaine and cocaine smuggling, as well as suspicion of conspiracy in attempting to tamper with evidence of Mr. Blackwell's illicit dealings involving yourself."
Slate blinked, utterly stunned, as the words hit him like a hammer. His mouth opened, but no coherent response formed. Panic rippled through him as two officers stepped forward, their hands holding gleaming handcuffs.
"You can't—this is absurd! I'm the damn Chief of the Crestwood PD!" Slate bellowed, his voice trembling. "Do you even have any evidence of what you're claiming?"
The man, Anthony, stepped closer. His eyes were sharp, unwavering, and he held up a small device. "This file," he said, tapping the screen of his phone, "contains all the proof of your crimes. It was anonymously tipped to me. Every illicit transaction, every act of collaboration—everything is documented here."
Slate's hands trembled as he reached for the phone, eyes widening in disbelief. "No… this can't be happening. What about Blackwell? Look at him! He—he's the strange one!"
Anthony didn't answer immediately. Instead, he gestured subtly toward the window overlooking the parking lot. Outside, the homicide team had carefully encircled Mr. Blackwell's lifeless body, now lying on the cold concrete floor. The scene was clinical, almost surreal. No movement, no breath. Just the silent, chilling finality of death.
"He knows," Anthony said quietly, his tone devoid of sentiment. He tapped his phone, and suddenly a live transmission played—Chief Slate being escorted, hands cuffed, as he screamed in disbelief and rage. Comments scrolled along the screen: WTF, another corrupt officer?, No loyalty among thieves, Looks like Halverns have dumped the mayor and the Chief of Crestwood PD.
Slate's face drained of color. "No… no! It's that Azaqor bastard! You should be finding that murderer! Perhaps I might have been framed!" His words spilled out in a mixture of fury and desperation, but the officers were methodical, gently but firmly guiding him out as he continued to yell and flail, his authority utterly evaporated.
Anthony stepped back, folding his arms, his expression a mixture of concern and calculation. He watched Slate being taken away, and the rare hint of unease shadowed his otherwise controlled demeanor.
From the corridor, Nia appeared, her presence calm yet carrying the weight of foreboding. "I'm afraid… these troublesome problems aren't over," she said, her voice soft but insistent.
Anthony turned toward her, furrowing his brow. "What do you mean by that?"
She glanced at him, her gaze grave. "Before Mr. Blackwell came to Chief Slate's office, he and his wife were arguing over something concerning their two teenage children—Ron and Richie Blackwell. Apparently, they left the home without informing anyone."
Anthony frowned, processing the revelation. The corridors of Crestwood PD seemed suddenly colder.
Nia continued, "I don't know if you've heard, but at Ever Thorne College, among the Azaqor killings, one of the victims was Larry Blackwell—firstborn son of Mr. Blackwell."
Anthony's jaw tightened. "You mean… the Azaqor killer might now be targeting them? Just like Vivian Wycliffe is being targeted?"
Nia nodded. "It's all… odd. The Azaqor killer—or whoever is orchestrating this—seems to be planning something substantial."
Owen appeared from a side corridor, cutting through the tense atmosphere with his usual sharpness. "Guys, I don't know if you've been paying attention, but a certain somebody hasn't been present during any live broadcasts of the Witnessing of Hollow." His voice grew cautious but pointed. "Caleb Saye, their lieutenant detective—not once during any investigation, including the murders of Marlene Wynter, Karan Mehra, or the disappearance of Arjun Desai's daughter, Rhea. He's always absent during key crime scene work. And you know what? All those cases seem connected."
Nia's eyes narrowed. "No. You can't just be talking about such things behind his back."
Anthony's expression hardened. "I'm afraid Owen is right. These coincidences cannot be ignored. But, personally, I suspect Caleb might have more connection with the Halverns than with the Azaqor killer."
Owen raised an eyebrow, gesturing toward the building's stark corridor. "What if the Azaqor killer is just a gimmick? A distraction? The real masterminds could be the Halverns themselves."
Anthony nodded. "We cannot rule that out."
He gathered the officers in the station, his voice firm, authoritative. "We beef up security within the North and South Crestwood precincts, plus HQ. Civilians may panic, considering the captain has been killed and the chief arrested. Every unit, every checkpoint—remain vigilant."
The officers snapped to attention, saluting. "Yes, sir!"
As they dispersed, Nia whispered, "We need to focus on finding Fredrick's wife. Her disappearance might lead us to Ron and Richie Blackwell—both teenagers could have been lured by the Azaqor killer."
Anthony nodded in agreement, the weight of responsibility evident in his gaze. Frank, a senior detective, spoke up. "What about tracking Caleb's whereabouts?"
Owen's gaze sharpened. "Leave that to me."
Anthony consented, the lines of tension still etched on his face.
---
The scene shifted, away from the city's looming shadows, to a deserted location bordered by dense woods. The trees stood like silent sentinels, their branches twisting into grotesque angles, leaves whispering in the wind. A worn, abandoned building appeared at the road's end, its once-white facade cracked and covered in dark moss, the windows jagged with shattered glass. The structure exuded a foreboding aura, a silent proclamation of danger.
A black Gwagon car emerged from the dusk shadows, headlights piercing the forest gloom. Inside, Elijah drove, his grip firm on the wheel, while Chloe sat beside him, her fingers tightly interlaced. The vehicle hummed softly, breaking the suffocating quiet with its mechanical purr.
Elijah broke the silence, his voice low but tense. "We need to be extra careful. It's possible we're walking straight into the Azaqor killer's trap."
Chloe's gaze remained fixed on the darkening road. "Aubrey hasn't called me since that day… the day she gave me the location of Elmbourne. Her phone went silent, and I… I'm worried."
Elijah glanced sideways. "Wasn't the Azaqor killer the one threatening you to come here? Using your family's Halvern consortium company as leverage?"
Chloe nodded grimly. "Yes. And now… I think they're using me as bait."
Elijah's eyes narrowed. "Do you still believe Lucian is behind all of this?"
Chloe's expression hardened, unwavering. "I'm positive. More than ever."
The Gwagon accelerated, tires crunching over loose gravel as the abandoned building drew closer. In the fading light, a sinister emblem became visible: the Negasign.
It hovered above the building, a concentric inverted spiral encased within a three-eyed, closed triangle. Each eye leaked dark, inky tears, the black droplets glistening like molten metal in the twilight. A handprint surrounded the shape—five-pronged, yet impossibly bearing six fingers. At its center, a void opened like a mounted billboard, glowing an unnerving, deep crimson. Even from the far distance, the red light reflected across the landscape, its intensity reaching the eyes of Chloe, making them widen in fear.
Elijah reached across, taking her hand with one strong grasp while maintaining control of the steering wheel with the other. "I've got you," he said, his voice steady, reassuring. "I won't let anything happen."
Chloe swallowed, heart racing, but as she met his determined gaze, her fear began to harden into resolve. Her jaw set, eyes narrowing. Whatever awaited them in that cursed building, she would face it.
The Gwagon surged forward, engines growling as they raced toward the ominous structure. The glow of the Negasign seemed to draw them closer, a beacon of dread and promise, illuminating the path that neither could retreat from.
Chloe's
fear transformed into determination. Together, they would confront the darkness ahead.