The hum of murmurs quieted beneath the canvas roofs of the tents.
Darwin Wielder adjusted his microphone, the sunlight glinting against the polished edge of his cufflinks. A faint smile curved his lips, the sort of political smile that was half warmth and half performance.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, voice carrying clearly through the speakers, "the investigation into the Azaqor murders, and their deeply rooted ties to the Halvern family, would never have come to light—had it not been for the courage and diligence of a few remarkable individuals within our very own Crestwood Police Department."
A rustle went through the rows of seated officers. Some straightened up, curious.
Darwin's tone sharpened with pride.
"Even when deception had crept into our walls—when one of our own, a trusted lieutenant, was revealed to be compromised—it was through the keen observation and fearless resolve of a single officer that the truth was unearthed before it could drag this institution deeper into ruin."
He turned slightly, lifting a hand toward the guest of honor's section, where a man sat poised in a crisp navy suit.
"That young man," Darwin declared, his finger extending toward him, "is none other than Detective Owen Kessler."
Applause broke out across the tents.
A few officers whistled. Others clapped in polite rhythm. The sound echoed faintly across the courtyard.
Owen rose from his chair with a practiced smile—modest, though it carried a glimmer of self-satisfaction. He gave a small wave toward the rows of officers, then to the flashing camera from WELB-7 News, whose lens caught every second. The cameraman zoomed in as Miss Janet murmured off-screen, "There's the man of the hour."
Owen's grin stayed steady as he straightened his tie. The sun caught the corner of his hair, turning it gold for a moment. The camera flash popped again.
In a smoky bar down in Belcroft Street, the speech played on an old television mounted above the counter.
The old man from earlier squinted up at the screen, a half-empty jug of booze wobbling in his grasp. His buddies were slumped around the table, one already dozing off.
"What a masochist," the old man slurred, pointing at the TV with an unsteady finger. "This is the guy—the guy—they expect us to believe cracked the case? The fella who supposedly found out Caleb was cozying up with the Halverns? What a load of celestial dung!"
His voice rose over the din of the bar. A few heads turned, but no one bothered to stop him.
"If this Kessler kid's the hero, then my granny's the queen of heaven," he added, laughing to himself before hiccuping. "A buffoon, that's what he looks like!"
One of his drinking pals blinked lazily, glancing at the wobbling jug. "You gonna finish that, or just serenade it?"
The old man tried to lift the jug for another swig—but his coordination betrayed him. The jug tilted, half spilling across the table.
"Damn thing's got a leak!" he barked.
His buddy chuckled, subtly swapping his own full jug for the old man's nearly empty one.
When the old man tried again, he frowned in confusion. "Wait—where the hell'd it go?"
"You drank it all," his friend said smoothly, hiding his grin.
"Did I?" the old man mumbled, blinking at the jug, hiccuping, then shrugging. "Eh, must've evaporated."
The men laughed—rough, tired laughter that filled the smoky bar as the TV continued to blare Darwin's speech.
Back at the Crestwood HQ, Darwin continued, his voice rising above the applause.
"Officer Kessler's act of perseverance and courage embodies the very heart of Crestwood's law enforcement. And for that, today, we bestow upon him the highest recognition for courage, determination, intelligence, and perseverance."
He gestured to a nearby officer, who stepped forward carrying a black velvet tray. Upon it rested three medals—each distinct.
The first was a silver sunburst, engraved with the Crestwood insignia; the second, a blue-ribboned medallion marked with the words Valor and Vigilance; and the last, a golden crest plate, its edges inlaid with polished obsidian stones that caught and fractured the light.
Darwin lifted them one by one as Owen stepped up to the podium beside him. The crowd clapped again, camera flashes strobing across the courtyard like bursts of lightning.
Darwin's tone turned almost ceremonial.
"For his service and integrity—Detective Owen Kessler."
The first medal slipped around his neck. Then the second. Then the third—its weight resting against his chest.
The photographers leaned in as both men turned slightly toward the cameras. Darwin smiled with the rehearsed grace of a politician; Owen mirrored him, lifting a hand in acknowledgment as a new flurry of camera flashes ignited.
"Furthermore," Darwin said after a moment, "after careful consideration by the Crestwood Council, and consultation with my office, we have decided that the vacant position of Lieutenant Detective—previously held by the late Caleb Rennard—must be filled."
A ripple of anticipation passed through the seated officers. Darwin continued,
"Deputy Lieutenant Frank, who also assisted in the Azaqor investigation, has humbly stepped down from consideration. Therefore, the council and I have unanimously chosen the man most deserving of this position—Detective Owen Kessler."
A wave of applause erupted under the tents. The officers rose, clapping as camera shutters snapped repeatedly. Owen blinked once, almost in disbelief, then smiled broadly. He straightened his shoulders, shaking Darwin's hand as the applause rolled over him like thunder.
In the Belcroft bar, the old man was mid-swig when the words hit the television.
"—and hereby appoint Owen Kessler as the new Lieutenant Detective of the Homicide Unit—"
The old man froze, eyes wide, beer dribbling down his chin as his mouth stayed open. The jug trembled in his hand before slipping slightly.
"What the mother of all celestials—?!" he burst out, voice cracking. "Are the heavens being devoured and dragging us along?! That fellow—a lieutenant?! That's the biggest joke I've heard this decade!"
His friends were in stitches.
"Look at him!" he went on, staggering slightly. "Mid-twenties, fresh outta diapers, and they make him lieutenant? That's the council pulling strings! Puppet show! The elites always get their toys!"
He took another gulp—only to find his jug empty again.
He frowned, shaking it, hiccuping. "I swear this drink's got a black hole in it…"
His buddy chuckled, lifting his own refilled jug discreetly.
"Maybe it's divine punishment," he teased.
"Divine my—hic!—backside," the old man grumbled, blinking cross-eyed at the TV again.
Meanwhile, in Crestwood Town Square, the crowd before the big screen was in a flurry of mixed reactions.
"Owen Kessler? That kid?" one man scoffed. "There were senior officers more qualified."
"Maybe," a woman beside him replied, "but word is most of the senior homicide team were part of Caleb's camp. You know—the Effexaine trafficking ring."
Another man cut in, shaking his head. "Rumors. You think all of them were dirty?"
"Not rumors," someone else replied sharply. "Facts. The whole department was rotten, that's why Darwin's cleaning house."
Arguments sparked in small clusters—some cheering for reform, others muttering about backroom politics. The tension in the plaza was almost electric, the flickering screen reflecting in dozens of uneasy eyes.
Back at the headquarters, the camera flashes intensified. Darwin stood proud, gesturing to the new lieutenant beside him.
"Crestwood PD moves forward, stronger and purer than ever. Let this appointment mark a new era of transparency and justice."
Owen lifted a hand again for the cameras, smiling wide. For a moment, the world felt bright and vivid—the kind of glory he'd only imagined as a kid.
But behind that grin, his mind drifted somewhere else.
Elijah… this wouldn't have happened without you, he thought. Back at Delvin Orphanage—those days we swore we'd both make it out, make something real of ourselves…
His chest tightened. The medal ribbon pressed against his collar.
Then—
A sound. A high, shrill whistle—not from the crowd, but inside his mind.
Suddenly, a flash—
A forest, thick and shadowed.
A six-year-old boy—himself—running barefoot through mud, breath ragged, dogs barking behind him. The sky above was grey, the ground littered with leaves.
And over the noise, a woman's voice—distant, haunting—
"Run faster, little one…"
Then darkness. The vision blinked out.
Owen staggered slightly on the podium, hand clutching the side of his head. The applause dimmed around him, officers in the tent glancing up in confusion.
His breathing came shallow for a moment. The weight of the medals suddenly felt heavier.
Darwin leaned in, voice low. "You alright, son?"
Owen forced a nod, blinking rapidly. "Y—Yeah. Just… dizzy for a second."
As the last of the applause died down, he stared toward the crowd, his hand still pressed near his temple.
Wait… what was that?
The image of the forest lingered in his mind like a bruise—fading, but not gone.
And somewhere behind the cheering, the faint echo of that eerie whistle seemed to return… just once.