The dim light of the apartment gave off an amber hue, spilling faintly over the unmade bed and the still-steaming mug of untouched coffee on the counter. Outside, the city of Crestwood stirred in slow motion—cars humming faintly in the early morning haze, rain beginning to drizzle against the window.
Elijah sat on the edge of the couch, the reflection of streetlights cutting faint lines across his eyes. He reached under the cushion and pulled out a small burner phone—matte black, plain, with no logo. A single crack ran across the corner of the screen. The kind of device meant to exist briefly, then disappear without a trace.
He scrolled to a number marked only by a symbol—no name, no saved history—and pressed dial.
Across town, in the quiet walls of the Crestwood Police Department, Lieutenant Owen sat behind his desk. The blinds were half-drawn, sunlight barely filtering through the dusty slats. A stack of reports lay open in front of him, the air smelling faintly of paper, ink, and stale coffee. His badge reflected a dull gleam under the fluorescent light.
He was halfway through reading a witness statement when his personal phone—the one not registered under department logs—buzzed twice. He frowned, glanced at the screen, and picked it up.
There was no greeting. Only a low, steady voice on the other end.
"Let's meet. Griffin Road. Crestwood Town. Lunch hour."
A faint crackle followed—then silence.
The line went dead.
Owen didn't need confirmation. He knew that tone anywhere. The calm wrapped around fire, the way Elijah spoke only when he had something serious to say.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the phone for a few seconds before slipping it into his pocket. His gut twisted slightly. It was never good news when Elijah initiated contact.
By the time noon rolled around, the drizzle had thickened into a fine mist that blanketed the streets of downtown Crestwood. The tall buildings loomed like silent witnesses over the narrow alleys and half-lit corners.
In one of those forgotten stretches of street—Griffin Road—the air carried the damp scent of rain mixed with asphalt. A single flickering lamp cast a cone of yellow light over two shadowed figures standing beneath it.
Elijah was the first to arrive. He wore a long dark coat that brushed past his knees, collar raised high to obscure his jawline. A hood hung low over his face, paired with black gloves and plain sneakers that made no sound against the wet concrete. Every movement he made carried that practiced caution—the deliberate kind that came from years of hiding more than just a name.
When Owen appeared moments later, he was dressed just as discreetly—navy coat, scarf pulled high around his neck, a cap shadowing his features. To anyone passing by, they were just two strangers waiting for the rain to stop.
"You sure no one tailed you?" Elijah asked quietly, his voice blending with the drizzle.
Owen shook his head. "I looped twice around District 6, switched cabs halfway here. No tails."
Elijah's eyes narrowed slightly, scanning him from head to toe. He stepped closer, brushing a gloved hand lightly over Owen's shoulder seams, then his coat pockets, tracing for any hidden wires or transmitters. When he found none, he gave a curt nod.
"Good," Elijah murmured. "You're clean."
The two stood under the hum of the streetlamp, silence pressing between them for a long moment before Elijah finally spoke.
"This entire situation…" His tone darkened, the calm veneer cracking just enough for something dangerous to bleed through. "It's getting unpleasant."
Owen said nothing, watching the way Elijah's jaw tightened. His fists were half-clenched in his coat pockets, knuckles faintly visible through the fabric. His eyes flickered with restrained fury, the kind that didn't need to shout to be terrifying.
"They're closing in," Elijah continued, his voice quieter now, but sharper. "The Office of Special Investigations linking Lucien Drayke to Azaqor wasn't random. Someone fed them the idea. Someone who knew."
He began pacing slowly along the narrow pavement, boots tapping softly against wet concrete. His reflection rippled faintly in a puddle near his feet.
"Could it be Caleb?" he muttered to himself. "Maybe he tipped them off. But that doesn't make sense. If he did, I would've intercepted the signal—any message sent out from Delvin Orphanage would've gone through monitored frequencies. There were none."
He stopped pacing and exhaled sharply, the mist from his breath curling into the cold air.
"It's heading somewhere I don't like. If they keep digging into Lucien Drayke's trace, it'll lead straight to me. I need to erase every thread before it's too late."
Owen swallowed, the sound barely audible. "You mean—?"
"I mean," Elijah interrupted, pulling his coat tighter, "anything that connects my past to the present dies with it."
For a second, the only sound was the soft hiss of the rain. Then Elijah's tone softened, regaining its usual control. "Maybe it's just a ruse," he said, almost musing. "A confidence trick. They act certain about Lucien being Azaqor so they can bait whoever's still active. They'll watch for a reaction—any movement, any anomaly—and when someone takes the bait, they'll confirm their theory."
Owen frowned beneath his scarf. "You're saying it's not a conclusion—it's a test?"
Elijah nodded slightly. "That's what I'm leaning toward. They can't be sure Lucien Drayke is Azaqor. But if I—or anyone associated—does something out of pattern, like, say… erasing Delvin Orphanage—they'll see it as confirmation."
Owen's eyes darkened. "That's risky. If they've already profiled every orphanage record, then—"
"They have," Elijah cut in, his tone cold and certain. "The Office of Special Investigations collected data on every orphanage in the country ten years ago. They know the files, the caretakers, even the fake identities. It'll take them time to cross-match everything, but eventually they will."
He looked down briefly, voice lowering. "The only physical photo linking me to Lucien is one—the picture of me and you when we were kids. It's still with Miss Jessica Simpson, the caretaker. Kept on her desk like a trophy."
"That's… dangerous," Owen muttered. "If they find that—"
"They won't," Elijah said sharply. "Not unless we do something stupid and send someone there. Any movement toward Delvin will raise suspicion. It's compromised ground."
Owen frowned, anxiety slipping into his voice. "Then what do we do?"
Elijah didn't answer immediately. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the same burner phone—its dull surface beaded with rain. It looked smaller in his gloved hand, plain and harmless, yet it carried the weight of every silent order he'd ever given.
He pressed a few keys, lifted it to his ear, and turned slightly away.
Owen stood beside him, watching in silence. He couldn't make out a word. Only fragments of Elijah's low tone, the faint shift of his jaw, the brief pause that meant he was listening to someone on the other end.
After a minute, Elijah lowered the phone, slipped it back into his pocket, and said nothing.
Owen's mind, however, was a storm. He's making another move, he thought grimly. But with who?
His eyes followed Elijah quietly, then drifted away, lost in thought.
I still can't piece it together. How did the Office of Special Investigations connect his past to Azaqor? When did they uncover that thread? If we knew when that link was found—the exact point of discovery—we could map a counter-strategy, mislead them, buy time.
Rain trickled from the edge of Owen's scarf, but he barely noticed. His mind replayed every recent event, every report, every unexplained surveillance gap. Somewhere in those details was the missing key—and possibly the person who'd tipped them off.
Then, unbidden, another image surfaced—that of Chief Genevieve Gray standing beneath the tent lights, her gaze cool and distant, yet too precise to be random.
He remembered that fleeting instant when her eyes had shifted sideways, meeting his for half a heartbeat. The look had been subtle—almost dismissive—yet underneath, there had been something else.
A glimmer of predatory confidence. The kind that didn't need words to convey I know more than you think.
Owen exhaled slowly, unsure whether it was memory or imagination. Was she actually looking at me? he wondered. Or was I just seeing ghosts in her eyes?
He wasn't sure.
But as the two men stood under the drizzle, silent and shrouded in gray, one truth pressed quietly at the edge of his thoughts—whatever Genevieve Gray knew, it was only the beginning.
And for Elijah… beginnings were far deadlier than endings.