The applause began to fade.
For a moment, Owen Kessler stood still, his breathing uneven—his pupils unfocused. The ribbons on his chest gleamed under the pale light, but his face… his face said something else.
A crease formed between his brows. His lips parted slightly as if he'd forgotten where he was. His hand, still at his side, twitched once before stiffening again. Beneath the perfectly pressed suit, tension ran up his spine, his posture locked between alertness and confusion.
Darwin Wielder, standing beside him, noticed immediately. He leaned in, his voice barely audible through the mic.
"Owen… you alright, son?"
When Owen didn't answer, Darwin gave a small nudge to his shoulder—a grounding gesture, firm enough to bring him out of his daze.
Owen blinked rapidly, inhaled sharply, and looked around. The officers under the tent roofs were staring at him—rows of faces, curious and silent. The cameras still pointed at the podium.
He swallowed hard. Then, forcing a faint smile, he raised a hand and gave a small wave to the crowd.
"I—uh… thank you," he began, his voice cracking slightly before evening out. "I want to thank the Crestwood Council for placing their trust in me. This… responsibility means a great deal. I hope the people of Crestwood will offer me the same trust as I promise, with conviction, to do my very best as your new homicide lieutenant detective."
He tried to sound confident. But something about his tone—too careful, too rehearsed—made the silence afterward stretch uncomfortably.
For a second, no one clapped.
Then Darwin, ever the showman, began to applaud.
The sound echoed under the tent canopy, prompting others to follow. Soon the entire assembly was clapping again, cameras flashing, microphones turning back toward the podium.
But Owen could feel it—the slight delay, the unease behind the applause.
In the Belcroft Street bar, the air was thick with booze and exhaustion. The old man from earlier was slumped in his seat, a jug half-spilled before him. His pals had long surrendered to sleep—one snoring loudly on the table, another lying half-conscious on the floor, hugging an empty bottle like a pillow.
The television above the counter flickered with Owen's image. The old man squinted at it, his bleary eyes narrowing.
"Man…" he slurred, leaning back. "I smell bullshit from a mile away. You hear that, huh? That fake smile? That's what a rehearsed puppet looks like."
He hiccuped, pointing vaguely at the TV.
"They… they expect this buffoon to run an entire homicide department? Pfft. Council must be drunker than I am."
His voice rose into a half-cackle, half-cough.
"Whole bunch of outta-touch aristocrats playing dress-up with police badges."
He leaned forward again, trying to lift the jug, only to realize it was empty. His face twisted in confusion.
"Huh? Who the hell stole my drink?"
His hand groped around the table, hitting his sleeping friend's arm. "Hey, Phil… Phil, you thief…"
Phil snored in response, drooling slightly.
The old man blinked heavily, his head drooping. His eyelids fluttered once, twice—then closed. A crooked smile pulled at his lips as he mumbled incoherently.
Within seconds, his head hit the table with a soft thud, lost to sleep and whiskey fumes.
Back at Crestwood HQ, Darwin was smiling again, gesturing subtly for Owen to return to his seat.
"You've done well, son," he whispered as Owen nodded numbly and sat down.
Darwin turned back to the microphone.
"Now, before we conclude, there is one more announcement I am honored to make. Today, the council has also chosen the next Chief of the Crestwood Police Department."
The murmurs from the crowd returned, low and expectant.
Seated beside Owen in the guest section was a woman in dark chief's attire. The fabric caught the afternoon light with a muted sheen—commanding yet refined. Her hair was tied neatly, her presence composed.
As Darwin extended a hand toward her, she rose with slow, deliberate grace. The motion alone silenced the whispers.
Owen turned his head slightly, watching her stand. And then—
He felt it again. That same invisible pull.
A faint, unshakable awareness, as though unseen eyes were fixed on him. His neck stiffened.
He turned, scanning the rows of officers, the cameras, the blurred movement of the crowd—but nothing stood out.
When his gaze drifted back toward the woman, his breath caught.
For a fraction of a second, though her face remained composed toward Darwin, her eyes seemed—no, felt—as if they had been on him.
A cold tingle crept down his spine.
Darwin's voice broke through.
"Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce the new Chief of the Crestwood Police Department—Genevieve Gray."
Applause spread again, softer this time, curious.
Genevieve stepped forward beside Darwin. The cameras swiveled toward her.
The contrast between her and the bright tent lights was striking—her composure icy but elegant. Her posture was effortless, every movement measured, her gaze carrying a calm, surgical precision.
Even on live broadcast, through WELB-7's cameras, she exuded a peculiar charm. Viewers across Crestwood—watching from cafés, from living rooms, from the big screen in town square—were drawn to her presence.
She stood at the podium, the faint hum of microphones filling the momentary silence.
"It is an utmost honor," she began, her tone cool yet resonant, "to be entrusted with the duty of leading the Crestwood Police Department. My role is to ensure the safety of our citizens, and to restore the integrity and order that were shaken."
Her eyes swept across the gathered officers before her, and though her voice was calm, there was weight behind each word.
"All parties involved in the Azaqor murders will be found and dealt with—no matter who they are, or where they are. The reason such atrocities happened is clear: a few individuals built their reputations and their power on the backs of hardworking citizens, taking credit for everything while twisting the governing systems of the people for their greed."
The officers shifted in their seats, exchanging uneasy glances.
"Their dominion," she continued, "disconnected them from reality. And in that disconnect, they created monsters—personas like Azaqor, symbols of chaos and deceit. To them, these lives lost were merely pieces in a game."
She paused. Her gaze hardened.
"A game," she said softly, almost a whisper that still carried. "A lonely, lost, demented psychopath's game… born from the need to give meaning to his emptiness. And what better way, than to destroy the lives of those he despised."
A wave of murmurs swept through the tents.
"Wait," one cop whispered to another. "Did she just call Azaqor a psychopath, not an assassin?"
"I thought Azaqor were hired killers from the Halverns."
Yeah… what's going on here?"
Owen's pulse quickened. His gut twisted—somewhere between dread and premonition.
Where is this heading?
Then Genevieve's expression shifted—subtly, like a blade glinting in light.
"Before my appointment," she went on, "I served as a standing agent in the Office of Special Investigations, under the Department of Intelligence and Reports. Alongside Field Leader Anthony Stroud, we secretly monitored every case linked to Azaqor—old and new."
A low buzz of conversation started again. Darwin glanced sideways, but Genevieve continued, unwavering.
"Our findings revealed something chilling. The evidence collected no longer points to the Halverns as the origin of the Azaqor persona… but to another individual entirely. One who benefited most from the downfall of the Halverns. One whose involvement ties every thread together."
She looked straight ahead, the camera lights reflecting faintly in her eyes.
"That individual, whom we believe to be the true Azaqor… is Lucien Drayke—the boy whose mother was framed by Viola Saye."
The moment those words left her mouth, the crowd erupted.
"What?!"
"Lucien Drayke?!"
"I thought this was over!"
Shock rippled through the officers, their voices overlapping into disbelief.
Across Crestwood, reactions flared like sparks.
In Crestwood Town Square, the crowd before the giant screen froze mid-motion. A woman holding her child's hand gasped dramatically, her eyes wide.
"Oh my heavens…" she breathed.
Beside her, a man halfway through a corn dog stopped cold. The uneaten half hung from his lips until his friend absentmindedly bit it off, too shocked to notice.
Elsewhere, the teenage VTube influencer from before had her phone propped up, face bathed in neon light as thousands watched her stream.
"Oh my my—guys! Did you hear that?" she exclaimed, leaning closer to the camera. "This is so chilling! If you're as spooked as I am, drop a comment right now. We're breaking this down live—this changes everything! Like—what even?! Lucien Drayke???"
Hearts, comments, and digital gifts flooded her screen as her audience surged.
Back at the Crestwood HQ, Owen sat rigid in his chair, jaw clenched. His expression darkened—the applause gone, replaced by something grim and uneasy.
He felt the weight of Genevieve's words pressing against him. His gut tightened, every instinct screaming that her speech was not just revelation—it was warning.
Then, as if to confirm that thought, Genevieve's head turned slightly. Her icy gaze drifted for a brief second—toward him.
Their eyes met.
Owen froze. The air around him seemed to thin. Her look wasn't overt, but it cut deep, precise—a message without words.
Then, just as calmly, she turned back to the cameras, her expression unreadable.
Owen swallowed hard, the tension in his throat visible, his fingers curling slightly against his knees. His jaw twitched.
From the outside, he looked like any officer maintaining composure during a speech.
But inside—his pulse thudded in his ears, his thoughts tangled in a quiet storm.
Whatever had just begun, it wasn't over.
And Genevieve Gray… had just declared the next move.