The cafeteria was nearly empty.
The faint hum of a vending machine filled the silence, its flickering light casting pale, uneven shadows across the linoleum floor. A few scattered tables sat abandoned, their surfaces littered with crumpled napkins and forgotten coffee cups. The air smelled faintly of burnt coffee and microwaved leftovers.
At a corner table near the window, Elijah sat hunched over his laptop, his fingers moving across the keyboard with practiced precision. The glow from the screen illuminated his face in sharp relief, highlighting the intensity in his eyes, the slight furrow of his brow.
Before him, lines of code scrolled rapidly across the screen—green text on a black background, commands executing in rapid succession.
He was breaching the Crestwood Police Department's server.
Owen had provided him with everything he needed: the IP range, the server code, the network architecture. All the little details that made the difference between failure and success.
But that alone wouldn't have been enough.
The real advantage came from the malware hardware Owen had planted inside the database center storage facility within the Crestwood PD headquarters. It was a small, unassuming device—no larger than a USB drive—hidden deep within the server racks, tucked behind cables and cooling fans where no one would think to look.
That little piece of hardware had introduced a critical vulnerability into the system.
It created injection flaws—security gaps that left the server defenseless against unauthorized access. The firewall was still active, but it was like a locked door with the hinges removed. All Elijah had to do was push.
And push he did.
The screen flashed.
ACCESS GRANTED.
Elijah's lips curved into a faint smile.
Too easy.
His internal voice hummed with satisfaction. Owen always comes in handy for me. The last time I breached their system, it was thanks to him. And yet, no one has discovered him. Those cop fellows are all idiots.
He leaned back slightly, his fingers still moving across the keyboard, navigating through folders and directories with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before.
Even if they did place surveillance at the database section, I could intercept the CCTV feeds. I have all the information on their system. Their cameras, their protocols, their blind spots. It's child's play.
The screen shifted again, displaying a new interface—a database directory filled with personnel files, case reports, and classified investigations.
Elijah's eyes scanned the list, his expression calm, methodical.
He clicked on one file.
---
PERSONNEL FILE – OFFICER LEAH MONROE
A photograph appeared on the screen—a young woman in her late twenties, her face sharp and focused. She had short brown hair, pulled back into a tight ponytail. Her eyes were dark and serious, her expression professional. She wore the standard Crestwood PD uniform, her badge gleaming faintly in the photo.
Beneath the image, her current assignment was listed:
ASSIGNED INVESTIGATION: EFFAXAINE TRAFFICKING – LOCATE SHIPMENT DESTINATIONS AND STORAGE FACILITIES.
Elijah's eyes lingered on the details. The report outlined her task: tracking down the remaining Effaxaine shipments that had been smuggled into the county, determining where they were being stored, and identifying the distribution network.
Hmm,Elijah thought, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the laptop. Still chasing ghosts. The Effaxaine trails are cold by now. Most of it's been destroyed or moved.
He closed the file and moved to the next.
---
PERSONNEL FILE – DETECTIVE NIA HALLOWAY
Another photograph appeared.
This one showed a woman in her early thirties, her face calm and composed. Her hair was dark, styled neatly, framing a face that carried both intelligence and determination. Her eyes were sharp, calculating, the kind that missed nothing. She wore a dark blazer over a white blouse, her detective badge clipped to her belt.
Beneath her photo, her current assignment was listed:
ASSIGNED INVESTIGATION: LOCATE INTEL AND CLUES REGARDING FORMER LIEUTENANT DETECTIVE CALEB RENNARD – CLASSIFIED AS WANTED CRIMINAL. BOUNTY: 3 MILLION DOLLARS.
Elijah's expression shifted.
His lips curled into a sneer, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Even in your grave," he muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "people will view you as a runaway coward thug."
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on the screen. "And I think that's what a bastard like you deserves. Because no one will ever know that you're actually dead. That Owen took you out—thanks to me, who tasked him with finishing you off."
His fingers drummed lightly on the table, his tone shifting to something almost mocking. "And the fact that your engulfed vehicle, with your corpse still inside it, was towed to some remote corner of Ashgrove County and buried… tsk, tsk. A very sad end for a man who saw himself as untouchable. A man who thought he was the law."
Elijah shook his head slowly, his expression shifting into something theatrical—his brows raised in exaggerated pity, his lips pulling into a faint, mocking frown.
How tragically poetic.
He tilted his head slightly, as though considering the weight of Caleb's fate, then let out a soft, humorless chuckle.
"Rest in pieces, Caleb."
His gaze shifted back to Nia's photo.
His expression grew more serious, more focused.
This woman was partnered with Owen. They were both part of Caleb's unit, investigating the Azaqor murders and tracking down possible suspects.
His brow furrowed slightly, his mind working through the possibilities.
Could she be the one who suggested Lucien Drayke—my true identity—as the perpetrator of Azaqor?
He paused, his fingers tapping lightly on the keyboard.
I don't think so.
His thoughts sharpened, his internal voice taking on a more analytical tone.
Lucian Freeman was always the primary Azaqor suspect. The Crestwood PD believed he had an accomplice—someone who helped him commit the Ever Thorne murders. When I breached the Crestwood County Jail's security system and freed Lucian, they assumed it was that accomplice who broke him out.
He smirked faintly, the memory playing through his mind.
That goon I hired, disguised as a guard, installed the malware in their system. It gave me access to everything. And when Lucian escaped, the narrative shifted. The accomplice became the focus.
His smirk widened slightly.
And then I started framing the Halverns. I deliberately killed victims who had business ties with them. That revealed their illegal dealings—drugs, trafficking, corruption. The Crestwood PD started connecting the dots, believing the Azaqor murders were orchestrated by the Halverns themselves.
He leaned back, his expression satisfied.
When Viola's crimes came to light, the narrative solidified. The new Azaqor murders weren't being committed by Lucian's accomplice anymore—they were being carried out by a rogue assassin hired by the Halverns.
His gaze remained fixed on Nia's photo.
And Nia Halloway? I'm sure that's all she knows. Caleb didn't leave any clues pointing to Owen. Even if he did, I intercepted every call, every voicemail, every message, every text he sent. Owen planted my access tool bug into Caleb's device.
His lips pressed into a thin line, his expression calm, assured.
So, Nia doesn't know anything.*
His face shifted slightly—his brows relaxing, his jaw loosening. It was the expression of someone who had calculated every variable, accounted for every risk, and found themselves in complete control.
He nodded faintly, as though confirming his own conclusion.
She's in the dark.
---
Then, his eyes shifted to another file.
He clicked it open.
A new photograph appeared on the screen.
PERSONNEL FILE – CHIEF GENEVIEVE GRAY
The image showed a woman in her mid-thirties, her face striking and composed. Her features were sharp—high cheekbones, a strong jawline, lips pressed into a thin, professional line. Her eyes were the most arresting feature: pale, almost icy, carrying a cold, calculating intensity that seemed to pierce through the screen.
Her hair was pulled back into a sleek, tight bun, not a single strand out of place. She wore the Chief's uniform—a dark navy jacket with silver insignia, the Crestwood PD crest embroidered on the shoulder. Her posture was rigid, commanding, her expression one of absolute control.
Beneath her photo, her title was listed in bold:
CHIEF OF CRESTWOOD POLICE DEPARTMENT – GENEVIEVE GRAY
Elijah stared at the screen, his expression unreadable.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, slowly, he leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"So," he murmured, his voice quiet, thoughtful. "The obvious suspect who might know a link between Lucien Drayke and Azaqor… is this lady."
His gaze didn't waver.
"The more I look at her," he continued, his tone almost questioning, "something tells me there's more than meets the eye. But what, exactly?"
His fingers hovered over the keyboard, his mind racing through possibilities, scenarios, variables.
She's new. She came from the Office of Special Investigations. She has access to resources, intel, connections that most local cops don't. And she's the one who publicly declared Lucien Drayke as the Azaqor suspect.
His jaw tightened slightly.
Why?
What does she know?
And more importantly—who is she working for?*
He stared at her photo for a long moment, his eyes scanning every detail—the coldness in her gaze, the precision of her posture, the way her expression revealed nothing.
There's something here. Something I'm missing.
His fingers drummed lightly on the table, his mind working through the puzzle.
Then, slowly, he exhaled.
"Genevieve Gray," he said softly, almost to himself. "What are you hiding?"
The cafeteria remained silent around him, the faint hum of the vending machine the only sound.
On the screen, Genevieve's icy gaze stared back, unyielding, unreadable.
And Elijah stared right back, his expression calm, focused, determined.
I'll find out.
One way or another.