The police convoy cut through Crestwood's midnight streets like a blade. No sirens. No radio chatter. Just the low hum of engines and the weight of urgency pressing down on everyone inside the armored transport.
In the back compartment, Agent Rowan sat across from Detective Slate. Wrists cuffed. Lips cracked. Eyes darting, replaying the horror from earlier—the shadow that came from nowhere, shredding street lamps, whispering into his skull.
Blackwell had stood frozen that night, staring at the creature without blinking.
Slate hadn't forgotten.
Couldn't.
"Rowan... Agent Rowan... please," Slate whispered. "That thing—whatever attacked us—did you see how it moved? How it—"
"Do NOT bring that up again," Rowan snapped. "My men are already spooked. What attacked you wasn't part of our case. We focus on what we can control."
Slate laughed. Hollow. Broken.
"You can't control anything... not after what's coming."
Rowan exhaled slowly, fighting the urge to shut him up.
Then the radio crackled.
"—Control, we've got a city-wide disturbance—broadcast hijack—multiple screens—"
Rowan turned toward the front cabin. "What do you mean hijack?"
"It's Azaqor, sir. He's... he's showing something."
Slate's breath hitched.
Blackwell's face, half-lit by moonlight filtering through the armored van, remained eerily calm.
---
THE BROADCAST
Across Crestwood, every electronic billboard, phone, tablet, and screen flickered. People stopped mid-stride. Conversations died. A chill swept through the city—not from the weather, but from the sudden, synchronized takeover.
A new feed appeared.
A masked sigil.
Azaqor.
Then the video began.
Blackwell and Slate in a dim warehouse office. Cigarette smoke curling. Boxes stacked in the background. Their voices—undeniably theirs—captured without their knowledge.
Blackwell's voice cut through every speaker in the city:
"...we always ensured delivery of the Effexaine shipments. Densai? He was nothing but a container. A storage rat. We—Slate and I—we were the watchdogs. Ensuring shipping was smooth... efficient..."
An audible gasp rippled across Crestwood.
Rowan watched Slate shrink into himself.
For the first time, Blackwell's jaw tensed.
---
CRESTWOOD — STREET VIEW
On Alder Street, where neon signs fought against the dark, people gathered under the giant digital billboard. The screen replayed the confession, magnifying every word, every shift in Blackwell's expression.
Phones rose like a forest of glowing lights as VTube LiveStream comments flooded across the broadcast:
**@Davis_MyPlotCamp:**
*My god... I had a cousin who died of Effexaine overdose. And I STILL remember Blackwell vowing on TV to clean the streets. The irony burns.*
@TaliaBurns:
If Azaqor didn't broadcast this, we'd still be blind. This city is rotten.
@Fear64:
Someone tell me this is fake. Please. I need it to be fake.
@BlueWatcher:
The police were delivering the poison? No wonder nobody was stopping it.
@xxQuietSoulxx:
This is... terrifying. Hero or menace—Azaqor is the only one telling the truth.*
The reactions spread like wildfire.
Some cried.
Some screamed.
Some just stood there, staring like the world had cracked open beneath their feet.
---
— THE BLUE LINE
The train rattled along its tracks, but the usual commuter chatter was gone. Everyone stared at their screens.
A mother sat with her daughter pressed against her side. The little girl's fingers clutched her sleeve.
"Mama... why are the police saying those things?"
The mother inhaled sharply, trying to steady her voice. "I... I don't know, honey."
A cranky old man beside them leaned over, not bothering to hide his intrusion.
"What's the world come to, huh?" He pointed at Blackwell's face on the phone. "These men in blue—thugs! THUGS I tell you! Talk about 'serving the people.' They've been serving poison!"
The mother turned the phone away instinctively, but it didn't matter—the whole cabin was watching the same nightmare.
Across the aisle, a businessman closed his laptop slowly, his face blank with disbelief.
---
CRESTWOOD PARK — QUIET PANIC
In Crestwood Park, a group of teenagers huddled around a battered tablet, shock painted across their faces in the screen's glow. A jogger slowed to a stop, pulled in by the gravity of the moment. Even the pigeons seemed quieter, like they could sense the tension flooding the air.
One teen whispered, "My dad trusted Blackwell..."
Another replied softly, "Not anymore."
---
INSIDE THE ARMORED VAN
Rowan stared at the broadcast playing on the dashboard monitor. Every word hit like a punch.
Slate whimpered.
Blackwell finally looked... shaken.
"Turn it off!" Blackwell barked.
Rowan didn't move.
Because the truth was undeniable now.
---
WELB-7 NEWS STATION — JANET VORELLE
Bright lights.
Glossy monitors.
A newsroom buzzing with controlled chaos.
Janet Vorelle sat upright, earpiece crackling with frantic producers shouting updates. Her reflection stared back at her from the teleprompter—composed on the surface, but her eyes carried the weight of the moment.
She began her live report:
"This is Janet Vorelle with WELB-7 News. What we're witnessing tonight is unprecedented. A wave of division, dread, and mass panic has erupted across Crestwood following a shocking broadcast by the anonymous figure known as Azaqor."
Behind her, screens displayed city streets filled with stunned crowds, VTube comment floods, and the confession replaying on loop.
"Citizens are demanding answers. They're calling for justice. And they're questioning the very authorities sworn to protect them."
She paused. The silence heavy.
"And all of this has been revealed through the actions of one man—Azaqor. Is he a psychopath? A vigilante? A menace? Or perhaps... an antihero bringing justice where none existed?"
As she spoke, her face appeared on the Crestwood Town big screen—towering over the plaza, her voice echoing across the trembling city.
"Only time will tell."
The broadcast continued.
Crestwood watched.
And the city—once half-asleep—now woke in full panic.