The Marylynne District had always been the pride of Northern Crestwood—neat avenues lined with government complexes and the faint hum of order that lingered even in silence. This afternoon, however, the air around the Crestwood Police Department Headquarters was anything but quiet.
White ceremonial tents stretched across the courtyard, anchored beside the main glass building whose reflective panels shimmered in the pale sun. Rows of chairs filled the open space, occupied by officers in blue and gray uniforms. The soft flutter of flags, the hum of distant chatter, and the occasional click of cameras painted a picture both formal and uneasy.
A red carpet led up to the podium—polished wood and brass, framed by banners bearing the city's emblem. The podium itself was flanked by two seats reserved for the guests of honor, while a few higher-ranking officials stood along the side, rehearsing what would soon become another ceremonial speech about "reform" and "new beginnings."
Amid this mild chaos, Nia Halloway sat quietly in the second row from the front, her posture composed, hands resting on her lap. Her dark uniform gleamed under the filtered light, and her eyes—steady, reserved—lingered briefly on the crowd ahead before drifting somewhere distant.
Behind her, three female officers occupied a narrow cluster of chairs—the kind of group whose chatter filled the empty pauses between formalities.
The first leaned forward slightly, voice low but audible enough to ripple through the quiet. "Wait," she whispered, her eyes narrowing, "isn't that Miss Nia Halloway? You know, the one from Caleb's homicide unit?"
The second officer turned with a curious frown, brushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "Yeah," she said. "Apparently she worked with Owen Kessler on the Azaqor murders. Caleb had assigned them both before… well, before everything went sideways."
The third—a shorter woman with lively eyes and a tendency to dramatize—gasped quietly, clutching her arms in exaggerated shiver. "Ugh, goosebumps already," she muttered, tilting her head as if reliving the headlines. "I still can't believe that man played his own homicide unit like a fiddle. Assigning them to chase down the Azaqor freak when he knew it was just a cover—a mask his sister and William Halvern used to do their dirty work. Can you imagine? That level of deceit?!"
She shook her shoulders with mock horror, eyes wide for emphasis, and the other two snorted lightly, trying not to laugh.
The second woman sighed. "Yeah, and rumor is Caleb vanished right after his sister got caught. The guy practically ghosted out of Crestwood. Office of Special Investigations has him marked as a rogue now."
The first officer followed her line of sight toward the front, pointing subtly with her chin. "Speaking of which… how come Owen Kessler gets all the glory? Look at him up there—seated like some celebrity near the guests of honor. Meanwhile, Miss Nia's here like she's invisible. Doesn't seem fair, does it?"
The third officer clicked her tongue, crossing her legs. "You've got a point," she said. "She risked her neck too. Without her, half those leads wouldn't have even surfaced."
The blonde officer lifted her brows. "True, but come on—Owen Kessler was the one who found the real link between Caleb and the Halverns. He's the one who turned in Caleb's phone to the OSI—with all those call logs. Remember? The Effexaine trafficking, arms deals, the works. That phone was the key."
The first leaned back, interest rekindled. "Oh right, the one that tied former Chief Slate to the shipments. And that creepy footage, the confrontation between Viola and William Halvern—that's all thanks to Owen too, right?"
"Exactly," the blonde said. "That hidden camera caught Viola confessing she killed Theodore Halvern, not Serena Drayke. That footage practically dismantled the Halvern empire overnight."
The dramatic one pursed her lips. "Okay, but how did Kessler even manage to plant that camera in the first place? Seems risky, even for him."
The blonde gave a knowing smile. "Apparently he didn't do it alone. There was some geek—name's Elijah Marcus Isley. He helped him pull it off."
"Elijah Marcus…" the dramatic one repeated, snapping her fingers. "Wasn't that the guy who used to date Miss Chloe?"
"Yep."
"Then how did Kessler know the guy wouldn't betray him? I mean, boyfriend of the Halverns' niece? That's practically sleeping next to a hornet's nest."
The blonde shrugged. "He took a risk. And it paid off. You know what they say—risk's just the unknown waiting to be turned into a certainty."
The other two glanced at her, impressed but mildly confused. She continued, her tone shifting into something oddly assured.
"Think about it," she said, folding her hands over her knee. "Most people fear the unknown. They stay within what's safe, predictable. But that fear—" she tapped her chest lightly "—that's what keeps us from ever moving forward. Kessler didn't wait for certainty. He created it. He made his gut feeling true by acting on it. He trusted Elijah when logic said not to. And that trust turned the tide of this whole investigation. That's what courage looks like."
The dramatic one blinked, then laughed softly. "Okay, since when did you turn into some kind of motivational speaker? That was… weirdly deep."
The blonde smiled faintly. "Let's just say I've been reading a lot lately."
The first officer raised a brow, teasing. "And where exactly did you get that kind of speech from?"
The blonde leaned closer, lowering her voice but with a hint of pride. "From Dr. Rex Whar. You know, the scientist. The one everyone's been quoting lately. He talks about perception, self-awareness, risk, all that stuff. His book—honestly, it changes how you think."
The dramatic one straightened, curious now. "Wait, that Rex Whar? The same one with those world theories floating online? Where do you even get that book?"
A small sigh escaped the blonde's lips. "You can't, not easily. It's almost impossible to find a copy. My uncle lent it to me—temporarily. He works under the Ontological Forge, where Dr. Whar oversees most of the research. Uncle's not a scientist, though," she added quickly, "just runs errands, helps the real brains handle their equipment. Still, he gets paid more than some deputy chiefs."
The other two exchanged skeptical glances—the kind of look shared between friends who silently question someone's tall tale but won't say it aloud. The dramatic one raised an eyebrow high enough to make it theatrical.
"More than a deputy chief?" she repeated slowly, her tone playful yet doubtful. "Wow. Must be nice delivering coffee to geniuses."
The first officer hid a small smirk, pretending to adjust her badge. The blonde caught their expressions and rolled her eyes, but her smile didn't fade. "Laugh all you want," she said, "but it's true. My uncle says Whar's research makes the world look like it's folding in on itself. Like reality's… elastic. Kind of poetic, if you think about it."
The other two exchanged looks again, this time more intrigued than mocking.
Their small laughter and whispers blended into the general murmur of the crowd—the sound of medals being arranged, microphones being tested, officials clearing throats.
Up at the podium, Owen Kessler adjusted his collar, glancing at the empty seat beside him where the new chief would soon sit. His expression was composed, almost unreadable. Cameras flashed briefly in his direction, catching the faintest curve of a smile that looked equal parts pride and exhaustion.
From her seat, Nia Halloway watched quietly. The light breeze caught the edge of her sleeve, brushing against her wrist. The voices of the women behind her—their half-whispered stories and interpretations—drifted to her ears like distant echoes.
She didn't turn. She didn't interrupt. She simply listened—every word about Owen, about Caleb, about Elijah, about Rex Whar—sinking like stones into still water inside her mind.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the fabric of her uniform trousers. The applause starting near the podium barely reached her awareness.
The world keeps turning, she thought, her gaze fixed on the stage. But I can't shake the feeling something's still buried—something none of them are ready to see.
Her expression stayed calm, unreadable to anyone watching. But behind those steady eyes, thoughts churned like quiet storms.
And as the ceremony began, Nia Halloway sat still under the bright tent, her reflection shimmering faintly in the metal badge pinned to her chest—lost in thought, alone amid applause.