The Cameron Police Station sat at the edge of a crumbling street corner like a forgotten monument to order that had long since given up.
Its walls were a faded beige, streaked with rust from corroded gutters and years of rain that never seemed to wash anything clean. The paint peeled in wide strips, exposing gray cement underneath. A single wooden sign hung crookedly above the entrance: *CAMERON PD – SERVING THE COMMUNITY.* The letters were chipped, half of them missing, as if even the station itself had stopped believing in its own words.
The windows were barred with iron grills, smudged with grime. Inside, dim fluorescent lights flickered unevenly, casting pale, sickly glows over wooden desks cluttered with coffee-stained reports and overflowing ashtrays. The air smelled of cigarette smoke, sweat, and something vaguely rotting—like hope left too long in the heat.
Two officers stood stationed at the entrance, leaning against the doorframe in wrinkled uniforms. Their badges were dull, their boots scuffed. One chewed on a toothpick, eyes half-lidded with boredom. The other scratched his belly absently, staring at nothing in particular.
Then, through the haze of the morning sun, a small figure appeared.
Little Owen.
He walked slowly up the cracked steps, his shoes making soft tapping sounds against the stone. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, his face set with a determination that didn't quite hide the nervousness underneath. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair messy—like he'd barely slept.
The two officers noticed him immediately.
The one with the toothpick straightened slightly, his brow furrowing. He nudged his partner with his elbow, tilting his head toward the boy.
"Get a look at that," he muttered, voice low and gravelly.
The other officer turned, squinting. His face was long and tired, eyes sunken with the kind of exhaustion that came from years of disappointment. His jaw was slack, his expression somewhere between confusion and mild annoyance.
"What's a kid doing here?" the second officer muttered, his tone flat.
The first officer pulled the toothpick from his mouth and flicked it to the ground. "Hell if I know. But look at him—kid's got more guts than half the adults around here."
The second officer—let's call him Officer Marv—let out a slow, weary sigh. His face twisted into something almost resentful, his lips curling downward as he stared at the boy.
"You know what gets me?" Marv said, his voice laced with tired bitterness. He leaned back against the doorframe, folding his arms across his chest. "Kids nowadays… they're full of surprises. First, it was my niece—just hit her teens and already knows how to use Vtube, making kid-friendly content, raking in cash like it's nothing. That brat makes in a *day* what I make in a month here."
He gestured vaguely toward the station, his face souring further. "And I'm stuck here, in this dump, filing reports about stolen chickens and domestic disputes that go nowhere."
His partner snorted. "You jealous of a teenager, Marv?"
Marv shot him a look. "Damn right I am. And now look—now even the *younger* ones have the boldness to walk into a police station like they own the place."
He stared at little Owen, who was now halfway up the steps, his small figure framed against the dusty morning light. Marv's expression softened slightly, though the weariness didn't leave his eyes.
His partner smirked, leaning in closer. "Bet you ten bucks the brat's here 'cause he lost his puppy. Probably wants us to find it—like we're some kind of animal rescue service."
Marv chuckled dryly, though there was no humor in it. "When I was his age, whenever I had trouble or didn't know what to do, I'd run crying to my mom's arms. She'd tell me everything would be okay, and I'd believe her."
His partner raised an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across his face. "You? Crying to your mommy?"
Marv glared at him. "What? What's with that face? We all went through that stage in life. The only weird thing now is how fast these kids are growing up—mentally, I mean. For their age, they're way ahead of where we were."
His partner shrugged. "Maybe it's all that internet stuff. Vtube, social media, whatever. Kids these days see everything before they're even ten."
Marv grunted in reluctant agreement, his gaze still fixed on little Owen, who had now reached the door and stepped inside.
---
Inside the station, the air was heavier—thick with stale smoke and the faint hum of an old ceiling fan that spun unevenly. The walls were lined with peeling wanted posters and outdated public safety notices. A row of wooden benches sat along one side, their surfaces scratched and worn.
At the front desk sat an officer with a recording book open before him. He was middle-aged, his face round and slightly puffy, his eyes ringed with dark circles. A half-empty cup of cold coffee sat beside him, a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray nearby. He looked up as Owen approached, his expression dull and uninterested.
"Yeah?" the officer said, his voice flat, almost robotic. "What do you want, kid?"
Owen swallowed, his small hands gripping the edge of the desk. "My mom… she didn't come home. She left last night and she was supposed to be back by dawn, but she's not."
The officer stared at him for a long moment, his face unchanging. Then he sighed heavily, rubbing his temples with both hands. His fingers pressed deep into his skin, his eyes squeezing shut as if he were trying to physically push away the thought of dealing with this.
His face twisted into something halfway between exhaustion and existential dread—jaw slack, brows drawn together, mouth pulled into a tight line. It was the face of a man questioning every life choice that had led him to this moment.
*Maybe,* he thought bitterly, *I should've stayed in school. Maybe I should've taken that factory job. Anything but this.*
He opened his eyes, forced a tight, polite smile, and gestured toward the bench along the wall. "Sit over there, kid. I'll… handle it."
Owen nodded quietly and walked over to the bench, sitting down with his hands folded in his lap. His legs dangled above the floor, too short to reach the ground.
A few moments later, another officer walked in from the back room, holding a half-eaten donut in one hand. He was shorter, rounder, with a thick mustache and a belly that strained against his belt. He took a large bite, chewing noisily as he glanced around the room.
His eyes landed on little Owen sitting quietly on the bench, then shifted to his comrade at the desk, who still looked like he was contemplating the meaning of life.
The donut officer walked over, leaning against the desk. "What's with the face, Eddie? You look like someone told you your pension got cut."
Eddie—the statement officer—groaned, rubbing his face. "I'm in a pickle, Carl."
Carl raised an eyebrow, taking another bite of his donut. "Why? What happened?"
Eddie leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "That kid over there—says his mom went missing. She didn't come home before dawn, so he came here to file a report."
Carl glanced at Owen, then back at Eddie. A slow grin spread across his face, and he let out a loud, barking laugh. "What, does this brat think we're some kind of search engine? Like he can just type in his feelings and we'll spit out solutions? 'Oh, your mom's late? Let me just pull up her location on my magic cop computer!'"
His voice was loud—loud enough that little Owen heard every word. The boy's hands began to fidget nervously in his lap, his fingers twisting together.
Eddie shot Carl a sharp look. "Keep it down, man. You're scaring the kid."
Carl rolled his eyes but lowered his voice slightly. "Alright, alright. So what's the problem? Just tell him to go home and wait."
Eddie leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Here's the thing—it's not that simple. The kid told me his mom got into a car before she left. And get this—he *remembered* the license plate."
Carl frowned. "So?"
Eddie's expression darkened. "So, I ran it. Guess what came up?"
Carl waited.
Eddie glanced around, then whispered, "Mayor Gustavo's signature plates."
Carl froze mid-chew, his jaw hanging open slightly. The color drained from his face. "You're kidding."
"I wish I was."
Carl set his donut down on the desk, his expression turning grim. "Well… that's not good news. Anything involving that fat bastard brings trouble to anyone who even *thinks* about looking into him."
Eddie nodded slowly. "Yeah. And here's the other thing—I heard from someone that the mayor… he brings in party girls. Escorts. He and his buddies… they play with them. For their sick pleasure."
Carl's face twisted in disgust. "Jesus."
He glanced over at little Owen, who was still sitting quietly on the bench, his small figure looking even smaller in the dim light. Carl's expression softened into something almost sympathetic—his brows pulling together, his mouth pressing into a thin line.
"If your guess is right," Carl said quietly, "then that kid's mom might've been one of those girls. And if she hasn't come back home…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "I doubt she's still alive."
Eddie's face tightened. "Why do you think that?"
Carl exhaled slowly. "Because I can't say it out loud. I don't want to end up in a grave without knowing how I got there."
Eddie nodded grimly. "I heard… Mayor Gustavo has a bodyguard. Some detective type. And the detective's sister—she's a high-end escort. Rumor is, she's connected to some powerful family in the country. And the detective? He's getting promoted soon—moving to another county where that family lives."
Carl let out a low whistle. "Those two are siblings? It amazes me how their lives are changing while we're stuck here in this dumpy place."
He sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging. Then he straightened, his tone turning serious. "Listen, Eddie. Best thing you can do? Pretend the kid never showed up. That statement he gave you? Delete it. For your own good."
Eddie stared at him for a long moment, his jaw working silently. Then, slowly, he nodded—his face resigned, his eyes distant. It was the face of a man who'd given up on something he once believed in.
---
Little Owen sat on the bench, his hands folded tightly in his lap. He could hear them—whispers drifting across the room, fragments of sentences that didn't make sense but somehow felt heavy, dangerous.
His mind couldn't process what he was hearing. The words were there, but they didn't connect. Not yet.
*(Owen's narration)*
*In that moment, I realized something I'd never understood before. The world wasn't the rainbow wonderland I thought it was—where you could love and be loved without fear. It was a battlefield. And in that battlefield, fantasy was only for those with power. The rest of us? We were prey.*
*Mayor Gustavo. The police. They were all higher than me. And I was just a kid sitting on a bench, too small to fight back.*
He felt a cold weight settle in his chest—something heavy and suffocating, like the air itself had turned solid.
A shadow fell over him.
He looked up.
Officer Eddie stood there, his face weary but not unkind. "Kid," he said quietly. "Go home. There's nothing we can do here."
Little Owen stared at him, his eyes wide, searching for something—hope, maybe, or reassurance. But all he saw was exhaustion.
Slowly, he stood, his legs trembling slightly. He nodded once, then turned and walked toward the door.
Behind him, the station fell silent again—empty, hollow, indifferent.
And outside, the sun climbed higher over the cracked streets of Cameron, indifferent to the boy who walked away alone.