Hillcrest may have been where the survivors hid their private lives, but Marylynne was where the city tried to convince itself everything was under control again.
The Crestwood Police Department Headquarters sat there—a monument of steel and glass, its mirrored façade reflecting a city that had just begun to breathe again after the storm called Azaqor.
This morning, the usual drone of patrol cars and radio chatter was replaced by the hum of a ceremony. Rows of tents stretched across the courtyard, white canvas rippling faintly in the crisp autumn breeze. Folding chairs were lined in neat grids beneath them, filled with officers in crisp uniforms. Their badges caught the sunlight like chips of gold, but the eyes above those badges were tired—haunted, curious, still reeling from what the city had become.
Near the edge of the tents, a cluster of mid-ranking officers huddled close together, their voices lowered but animated. Even in formal ceremonies, gossip was as alive as gunfire.
"Man, can you believe all this?" murmured a stocky sergeant with a coffee in hand. "A year ago, we were chasing street pushers. Now it turns out half the big names in Crestwood were knee-deep in blood and drug money."
"Half?" scoffed another officer. "Try three-quarters. The Halverns practically ran this town. Azaqor—" he lowered his voice, glancing around "—that whole nightmare exposed every rotten thread holding this place together. Laundering, weapons trafficking, contract killings. You name it, they had their fingerprints on it."
A female officer leaned in, her brow furrowed. "Still doesn't make sense to me. They built that Azaqor persona to scare the city, right? To clean their tracks, silence witnesses, keep people guessing. But somehow it all backfired." She shook her head slowly. "It's like their own creation turned on them."
The stocky sergeant chuckled darkly. "Word is one of their hired assassins—the mole—went rogue. Exposed everything from the Effexaine pipeline to the Halverns' puppet distributors. Remember that guy, Karan Mehra? The perfect fall guy. They had him locked up, painted him as the kingpin. Turns out he was just a puppet while the Halverns and our former chief Slate were the real movers."
"That footage still gives me chills," said another, younger officer. "Slate's confession, Mayor Blackwell getting shot right there on tape… and all that talk about shipments, payoffs, and cover-ups. It was like watching the whole city eat itself alive."
The female officer crossed her arms. "You think that footage was legit?"
"It had to be," muttered the first sergeant. "Mayor Blackwell's blood was all over the podium. You can't fake that."
Another, more bulky-faced officer leaned forward on his knees. "Heard even the former mayors before Blackwell got taken out. One by one, cleaned off the board."
"Yeah, yeah," said someone else, waving a hand. "And the rogue killer—whoever he was—had some personal beef with Blackwell. That's why he turned on them."
The woman frowned. "That doesn't add up. I read the internal report. Higher-ups said Viola Saye ordered the hit on Blackwell's kids, not the rogue assassin. The assassin only handled Blackwell himself."
"Doesn't matter who pulled the trigger," the bulky officer muttered. "Point is, they were all monsters. Halverns, their cronies, the assassins, the moles—all of them broken people."
The group fell quiet for a moment, letting the murmur of the ceremony preparations fill the gap. A pair of recruits jogged past, arms full of floral arrangements for the memorial platform. The faint sound of a brass band warming up drifted from the far side of the lot.
Then the female officer spoke again, quieter this time. "You know who shook me the most? Lieutenant Detective Caleb. Guy turned out to be worse than any of them. Psychopath in a suit. Covered for his sister—a killer. Framed an innocent woman for a murder she didn't commit. That woman's kid snapped, killed his father, and the whole thing spiraled from there."
She rubbed her arm as though cold. "Then Caleb just… vanished. Some say he killed himself. Others say something worse found him first."
A younger officer exhaled sharply. "Man was the head of Homicide for two decades. Twenty years! Who knows how many real killers he let walk while throwing innocent ones in jail. Serena Drayke, those others… they might've been the lucky ones who got caught. The real monsters are probably still walking around Crestwood like nothing ever happened."
"Don't even joke like that," said another, glancing around uneasily. "You really think there are killers still in the department?"
"Wouldn't surprise me," the younger officer said grimly. "Corruption's like rot—it doesn't stop just because someone cuts down the tree."
The female officer gave a dry laugh. "Well, at least today's supposed to be about cleaning that rot up. New appointments, commendations, all that PR sparkle."
The bulky-faced officer took a long sip of his drink, then muttered, "Let's hope whoever's taking Slate's place isn't another wolf in uniform."
"Better keep your voice down," warned another. "They'll start soon."
Right on cue, a voice boomed through the speakers mounted under the tent. "Ladies and gentlemen, officers of Crestwood PD, honored guests—please take your seats. The ceremony will begin shortly."
The group shuffled into their chairs, the gossip fading into low whispers as the murmur of the gathered crowd settled. From their vantage point, they could see the red carpet unrolled down the central walkway, gleaming under the sunlight. Photographers clustered near the front, lenses snapping as vehicles pulled up near the barricade.
From one of those cars stepped the Master of Ceremonies—a lean man in his late thirties, with neatly combed hair and an air of practiced authority. The announcer identified him as the Executive Officer of the Crestwood Council, there to oversee the department's official restructuring. His smile was crisp, but his eyes carried the look of someone who'd read one too many classified reports and hadn't slept well since.
Two guests followed behind him.
The first drew every gaze in the courtyard.
She was tall—commanding even without speaking. Her uniform bore the insignia of the highest rank, the threads of gold at her shoulders stark against the dark navy fabric. Her hair, pinned in a severe bun, gleamed almost silver under the sun. Every movement she made was precise, economical, betraying a mind wired for control. Her expression, however, was colder than her attire—eyes like glacier glass, unreadable yet piercing.
She did not need to speak to make her presence felt. The air around her seemed to cool.
One of the gossiping officers leaned toward the female officer beside him and whispered, "Hey, look. That's gotta be the new chief. She's… intimidating."
The female officer shot him a look. "Ceremony's about honoring the fallen and rebuilding the department. Try focusing on that."
Her gaze, however, shifted elsewhere. Near the red carpet, standing beside the icy new chief, was a young man in detective's attire. His badge gleamed faintly on his belt; his posture carried quiet confidence. There was something familiar about him—an energy, a steadiness that set him apart from the weary crowd.
She felt a small knot tighten in her chest, equal parts envy and curiosity. "Guess some people really are lucky," she murmured, half to herself.
"Who?" asked the bulky officer beside her.
She tilted her head toward the young man. "Him. Standing next to the chief and the council officer. Looks like he's about to make headlines."
The others followed her gaze and murmured in recognition.
"That's Owen Kessler," one of them said, eyes widening. "The detective who cracked the Azaqor trail. Heard he went toe-to-toe with Caleb himself before that psycho disappeared."
"Yeah, that's him," another said quietly. "The guy who put half of this mess to rest."
The band struck a low, formal chord, signaling the beginning of the ceremony. The murmurs died completely now. Officers straightened their backs, caps aligned perfectly on their knees.
Owen Kessler stepped forward toward the podium. The council officer extended a hand to him in greeting, a proud smile flashing briefly. Owen nodded in acknowledgment, his expression composed but his eyes alive—bright with something between excitement and resolve.
The icy woman beside them did not smile. She only watched, her gaze sweeping over the assembled ranks like a silent judge cataloguing every soul in the yard.
For a heartbeat, everything seemed still—the sunlight, the flags, the breath of a thousand officers.
Then the loudspeaker crackled again, and the voice of the announcer carried across the courtyard:
"Ladies and gentlemen, the Crestwood Police Department welcomes its new leadership. Together, we look forward to a future of accountability, honor, and truth."
The crowd erupted in polite applause, though beneath the clapping hands and ceremonial calm, whispers began to stir again. Whispers of ghosts that refused to stay buried. Of truths not yet spoken.
And as the sound echoed through the tents, Owen Kessler lifted his gaze—steady, alert, and filled w
ith the quiet determination of a man who knew the fight wasn't over.