The burner phone clicked shut with a dry snap that echoed faintly in the cold air.
Elijah straightened his coat, brushing invisible dust off the lapel, his expression composed and unreadable beneath the dim orange glow of the street lamp. The faint hum of the night surrounded the two men—Owen standing beside him, eyes darting between the shadows and his superior.
Owen opened his mouth, hesitation lacing his tone. "Elijah, is… everything handled?"
Elijah didn't look at him right away. He adjusted his gloves, the faint smirk tugging at his lips revealing quiet confidence. "Everything's taken care of," he said calmly, voice even, as if dismissing the weight of an entire case with a single sentence.
Owen frowned. "How?"
Elijah said nothing. Instead, he gave a slow glance toward the street beyond the alley, his gaze lingering on the rows of dim shop signs like a man watching the last pieces of a plan fall into place. Then he spoke again, softer but firm.
"You're the lieutenant detective of Crestwood PD now. Use that position wisely. Start pulling any correspondence between the Crestwood Council and the Office of Special Investigations. I want every lead they're exchanging about Lucien Drayke."
Owen nodded slowly. His jaw tightened, and he made a face—the kind that carried words stuck behind clenched teeth. His brows creased just enough to give away doubt.
Elijah noticed. "What is it?"
Owen exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "That new chief… she's not an easy opponent."
Elijah's eyes flickered with recognition. "She was part of Anthony Stroud's Intel and Combat Reporting unit. So it's no surprise she gives off that kind of presence." He adjusted his coat collar again, his tone turning advisory. "Be careful with her, Owen. People like that—they're trained to read body language, the twitch of an eyelid, the pause before a lie. Don't let her see through you. Act normal. Always."
Owen gave a humorless chuckle, trying to shake off the tension. "One of those freaks who can tell everything about someone just by looking at them, huh?"
"Not just sight," Elijah replied, eyes narrowing slightly. "Their methods run deeper. They read you through your habits—what you eat, your daily routine, how you breathe when you lie. Every little thing."
Owen nodded, his expression easing into one of reluctant understanding.
Elijah then shifted topics with the precision of a scalpel. "The real reason I called you here—did you and that idiot of yours handle the Aubrey situation? You took her to the location I told you about?"
Owen hesitated for a split second before replying. His eyes briefly fell to the cracked pavement.
Why did Elijah insist on faking Aubrey's murder? he wondered silently. He even made me plant a double, switch DNA reports... Is it guilt? Or some twisted desire to keep his enemy's daughter alive just to know she's suffering under his thumb?
He looked up—only to find Elijah staring at him. The older man's expression was sharp, unimpressed, almost dissecting. His brow arched slightly, and the faintest downturn of his mouth suggested irritation—a silent I know you're thinking something you shouldn't be.
Owen straightened, masking his thoughts. "Yeah, boss. Everything's taken care of."
"Good," Elijah said curtly. "Then get back to work. The longer you're away from the station, the more that 'chief chick' will start sniffing around you."
Without waiting for another word, Elijah turned and walked away—his coat sweeping behind him like a shadow folding into the night.
Owen stood still, watching him disappear around the corner.
Should I tell him about that weird flashback I've been having? he thought, rubbing his temple. That memory—dogs chasing me when I was a kid… What the hell was that?
His face twisted slightly, brows drawn tight, mouth half-open in frustration. One hand gestured aimlessly in the air as if trying to pull the thought out of his skull. Then, after a moment, he sighed and muttered under his breath, "Never mind. Maybe it's all in my head."
He shoved his hand back into his pocket and turned away, leaving the alley.
"Well," he mumbled to himself, "I better start counting how many drinks it'll take tonight to keep those visions away."
He emerged from the narrow lane into the open walkway. The night stretched wide—cars parked neatly side by side along the curb, their windshields reflecting the dull neon signs of nearby stores. The path itself was meant for pedestrians—lined with faded tiles, a trash can tipped slightly at the end, and a bench sitting quietly beneath a flickering streetlight.
Owen walked to the bench, sat down heavily, and took out a cigarette. The metallic click of his lighter broke the silence. Flame flared briefly, then dimmed as he inhaled, letting out a long, steady plume of smoke. It curled upward, thin and ghostlike, vanishing into the cold air.
His shoulders eased. For the first time that night, the tension slipped from his frame. He leaned back, legs stretched, eyes half-lidded.
From his coat pocket, he drew out a small, worn photograph. A young woman smiled in it—bright eyes, hair tucked behind her ear. Beside her, a boy in a sailor outfit clutched a lollipop, and a little girl in bunny ears grinned wide, both radiating innocence that now felt foreign.
Owen's eyes softened. He whispered, "Alex… Mom… I avenged you guys."
His voice broke. "But it won't bring you back."
Tears welled up, silent but heavy. They slipped down his cheeks as he slumped against the bench, holding the photo to the sky. The paper trembled slightly in his grasp, reflecting the faint starlight.
He gazed upward, lost—like a man staring through time, into a memory buried deep and aching.
Seventeen years ago.
(Owen's voice narrating, soft and reflective)
"Sometimes, when we drag ourselves home from work—tired, distracted, half alive—we feel it. That hollow space inside, whispering that something's missing. Maybe it's that version of us who once believed the world was a wonderland… before life taught us otherwise."
The world shimmered into a brighter scene—sunlight spilling over a playground. Laughter echoed. Children crowded around a sandpit, tiny hands sculpting castles and moats.
Among them, little Owen—no more than seven—busily packed sand into a bucket. His small face was serious, determined, eyes glowing with that fierce imagination only children could have.
Then—smash. A small hand knocked his castle flat.
A little girl stood over the ruins, hands on hips, tongue sticking out in triumph. "Your castle's ugly!" she declared.
Little Owen's cheeks puffed up. He snatched a plastic spade, raising it dramatically. "Taste my fire of the Sword of Arthur!"
In his mind, the sandpit vanished. He was standing in a wide, green field beneath a blazing sun, his spade now a shining blade. The girl, the "invader," ran away laughing, skirts fluttering like banners in the wind.
"Come back here, evil warrior princess!" he shouted, chasing her.
They tumbled together into the sand, giggling uncontrollably.
A shadow fell over them—a woman, beautiful and graceful, hands folded against her chest. She looked down at them with a mix of exasperation and affection.
"You two again?" she sighed. "I just cleaned your clothes this morning. Now look at you!"
Little Owen and the girl immediately hugged her legs, faces scrunching into apologetic smiles.
She shook her head, chuckling softly as she picked them both up. "You're getting heavy, Owen," she teased.
The little girl pointed at him and laughed. "See? Fatty Owen!"
Owen's face fell, eyes glimmering with wounded pride.
"Hey," their mother said, her voice gentle but firm. "That's not nice. Apologize to your brother."
The girl crossed her arms but finally muttered, "Sorry…"
Their mother sighed again, holding both of them close as she walked toward the parked car. The girl stuck out her tongue behind her mother's shoulder—unseen by her but caught by Owen, who glared playfully back.
(Owen's narration returned, older, wistful)
"Back then, everything seemed endless. The sun, the laughter, the love. I thought that world would never change… but I was just a fool who didn't know how fragile it all really was."
The scene faded as the mother carried the two children toward the car, the sunlight glinting softly over them—warm, fleeting, and already slipping away into memory.