Present Day
The night air was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. The city lights of Crestwood flickered faintly in the distance, their glow softened by the sprawling darkness of the mountain forest that loomed behind the quiet sidewalk.
A single bench sat nestled near the edge of the path, positioned just where the pavement met the wild—a solitary perch overlooking the shadowed trees and distant peaks. The view was serene, almost hauntingly beautiful, the kind of place where someone might come to think, to remember, to grieve.
Owen sat on that bench, his posture slouched, his elbows resting on his knees. In his hands, he held a small photograph, its edges worn and slightly creased from being handled too many times.
The image showed a lovely woman—her face radiant, her smile warm and genuine. Beside her stood two children: a boy on the right, his expression bright and carefree, and a girl on the left, her small hands clutching a stuffed bunny, her eyes sparkling with innocent joy. They looked happy. Whole.
Owen stared at the photo, his gaze distant, lost in the memory it held. His thumb traced the edge absently, his breathing slow and measured.
He moved to tuck the photo back into the front pocket of his coat—
—when suddenly, a figure darted out from the shadows.
A hooded person—face obscured, body cloaked in dark, baggy clothing—lunged forward and *snatched* the photo right out of Owen's hands.
"Gotcha!" the figure cackled, their voice high-pitched and mocking, laced with a childish, taunting glee. They spun on their heel and took off running, their laughter echoing through the night like a provocation.
Owen froze.
For a moment, his brain struggled to process what had just happened. His eyes blinked slowly, his mouth half-open in confusion.
Then—
"Hey! Hey, you there! Stop!"
He shot to his feet, his instincts kicking in. His legs moved before his mind fully caught up.
The chase was on.
---
The hooded figure sprinted down the sidewalk, their movements erratic and unpredictable. They weaved between lampposts, their laughter spilling out in bursts, their feet pounding against the pavement.
Owen followed, his breath coming harder now, his focus narrowing.
"Stop!" he shouted again, his voice sharp.
The figure didn't stop. Instead, they veered suddenly to the left, cutting through a cluster of pedestrians who had been walking leisurely along the sidewalk.
The hooded figure collided with a young man holding a coffee, knocking the cup from his hands. It splattered across the ground, the man shouting in surprise.
"Hey! Watch it!"
The figure didn't even slow down. They shoved past an elderly man with a cane, their shoulder slamming into his side. The old man stumbled, his arms flailing as he lost his balance—
—and fell backward, toppling off the curb and onto the road.
Owen's eyes widened.
A car was coming—headlights blazing, engine roaring as it sped toward the intersection.
Without thinking, Owen lunged forward. His body moved on pure instinct, his arms outstretched. He grabbed the elderly man by the arm and yanked him back onto the sidewalk just as the car roared past, its horn blaring loudly.
The old man gasped, clutching his chest. "Th-thank you—"
But Owen didn't have time to respond. His head snapped up, his eyes scanning the street ahead.
There—across the road, on the opposite sidewalk—the hooded figure stood, waving the photograph in the air like a trophy.
"Come and get it!" they taunted, their voice carrying across the distance.
Owen's jaw clenched.
He didn't hesitate.
He stepped off the curb and sprinted directly into the middle of the highway.
---
The world around him blurred.
Cars were coming from both directions—headlights cutting through the darkness, engines humming, tires screeching as drivers noticed the figure suddenly darting into traffic.
Owen's body moved with a speed and agility he didn't fully understand. His legs felt light, his movements fluid, as though some invisible force were guiding him.
A sedan veered toward him, its horn blaring.
At the last possible second, Owen twisted his body, his foot planting firmly on the ground. He pushed off—hard—and launched himself into the air, his body flipping backward in a perfect arc.
The car passed beneath him, its roof barely missing his back.
He landed on his feet, perfectly balanced, his breath catching in his throat.
*What the hell—?*
He didn't have time to think. Another car was coming.
He leaped to the side, his body twisting mid-air, his feet touching down on the hood of a parked taxi for just a split second before he pushed off again, vaulting over the next oncoming vehicle.
Behind him, chaos erupted.
Drivers slammed on their brakes, tires screeching against the asphalt. Cars collided in slow, crunching impacts—bumpers crumpling, glass tinkling, horns blaring in angry protest. It wasn't a major accident, but it was enough to bring traffic to a sudden, messy halt.
Owen barely registered it. His focus was singular, his mind locked on the figure ahead.
He reached the opposite sidewalk, his feet hitting the pavement hard. His chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
The hooded figure had already started running again—toward a nearby footbridge that arched over a small canal.
They paused at the base of the bridge, turning back to look at Owen.
And then—they waved.
They held up the photograph, waving it mockingly, their laughter carrying faintly through the night.
Owen's hands clenched into fists.
*Seriously? What the hell is this?*
His mind flashed with images—violent, satisfying images of grabbing the hooded figure by the collar, slamming them against the ground, wiping that smug laugh off their face.
He took off running again, his legs pumping, his focus narrowed.
The footbridge loomed ahead.
But as he sprinted toward it, movement caught his eye.
A restaurant door swung open just ahead, spilling warm light onto the sidewalk.
Two figures stepped out—an elderly woman with a small purse tucked under her arm, and a middle-aged lady in a neat coat, chatting pleasantly.
Owen's eyes widened.
He tried to slow down, tried to veer to the side—
—but it was too late.
He collided with them.
The impact sent all three of them stumbling. The elderly woman let out a sharp gasp, her purse flying from her hands. The middle-aged lady yelped, her arms flailing as she tried to steady herself.
Owen caught himself against the wall, his breath coming hard. "I—I'm sorry—"
*Thwack!*
The elderly woman's purse swung through the air and smacked him square in the shoulder.
"Ow—"
Thwack!
Another hit—this time to his arm.
"You—rude—inconsiderate—hooligan!" the elderly woman sputtered, her face red with indignation. She swung the purse again, this time catching him on the side of the head.
The middle-aged lady stepped forward, her hands on her hips, her face flushed with anger. "Hey! Can't you see where you're going?! You saw us walking out and you just *ran into us*! What is your problem?!"
Owen raised his hands defensively, trying to back away. "I—I apologize, I was chasing—"
"Nonsense!" the elderly woman snapped, swinging the purse again. "I've seen my fair share of rude people in my day, but I've *never* seen anyone so shameless and fake as you!"
Owen winced, his mind spinning.
Seriously? This is giving me déjà vu.
He remembered—vividly—a similar moment years ago. He'd been wearing a bandana, masking his face, running from Caleb. A granny had stepped in, inadvertently helping him escape. He'd sent Caleb a prerecorded call, diverting his attention just long enough to slip away.
But this time, the roles were reversed.
And he had a sinking feeling this wasn't going to end in his favor.
He glanced around—and his stomach dropped.
People were watching.
Not just watching—*filming.*
Phones were raised, cameras pointed directly at him. Some were recording. Others were livestreaming.
He could see the faint glow of screens, the red "LIVE" indicators blinking.
Owen's chest tightened.
*No. No, no, no—*
"Miss—senior lady—I apologize for the inconvenience, but I was chasing someone who—"
"Liar!" the granny shouted, raising her purse for another swing.
And then—someone in the crowd shouted.
"Wait—isn't that the new lieutenant detective from Crestwood PD?!"
The voice was loud, dramatic, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.
Heads turned. Phones shifted. The livestream chats exploded.
Owen's face twisted into something ugly—something halfway between panic and frustration.
He could see the comments scrolling across one of the livestream screens nearby:
"Seriously? What a letdown."**
"This is the youngest lieutenant detective? LOL."
"Tell me about it. What a joke."
"Is he getting beat up by a granny? 💀"
Owen stood there, frozen, his face pale, his jaw clenched.
The granny hit him one more time with the purse.
The crowd watched.
The cameras kept rolling.
And somewhere in the distance, the hooded figure disappeared into the night, taking the photograph with them.