Detective Stone walked beside Mr. Ginn down the ICU hallway. The man's face was drawn tight with anxiety — he hadn't said a word since the car ride. Stone had explained that Samara was found in a storage unit across town, rented by the Mepple brothers. When they found her, she'd been bound to the floor by a chain, hands tied behind her back, a ball gag wedged in her mouth. She couldn't remember anything from the last three days. Her last memory, she told Stone, was having a beer at the microbrewery on Eagle Ave. She and the three brothers worked in the same department at her father's company.
The hallway was quiet, only the occasional beep or phone ringing breaking the silence. Otherwise, it was a slow night at the hospital. Mr. Ginn's steps began to slow when he saw the two officers standing outside his daughter's room. Stone could tell he was collecting himself, determined not to make a scene.
The officers straightened as soon as they saw Stone approaching. His reputation as a no-nonsense rule enforcer preceded him — a reputation that made people walk a fine line when he was near. A line, in Stone's mind, they should always be walking.
The younger of the two rushed to shove his phone into his pocket. Before Stone could reprimand him for using it while on protective duty, the doctor overseeing Samara's care stepped into the hallway, buying the young officer a moment's reprieve.
Stone glanced at the badge — 323232. Easy enough to remember. He'd make sure to send an email to his sergeant in the morning.
The doctor was an older woman — short, thin, with dark skin and kind eyes behind thin-framed glasses. Her white coat bore a nameplate: Aaliyah. An Islamic name meaning "exalted." She wore a black hijab that framed her face with simple elegance.
"Detective Stone," she greeted warmly. "Hello again."
Stone nodded. He'd worked with Dr. Aaliyah on several cases over the years. She was sharp, capable — a good doctor.
"Aaliyah, how have you been?" he asked, then gestured to the man beside him. "This is Samara's father, Thomas Ginn."
Thomas barely turned, his eyes fixed on the window to his daughter's room. The emotions radiating from him — anger, relief, sorrow — were all tangled together.
"Hello, Thomas." Aaliyah's voice carried a gentleness that instantly softened the tension. Stone almost envied the way she handled people; he could learn something from her.
Thomas turned to face her, shoulders sagging slightly. "How is she, Doctor?" His voice trembled with relief and lingering fear.
"Well," Aaliyah said carefully, "other than some light bruising, dehydration, and mild amnesia, she's physically healthy. No signs of sexual or physical assault. Once her labs come back and the IV finishes, she can go home. But, Mr. Ginn—" she paused, meeting his eyes "—you must understand, when her memory starts to return, she may experience nightmares or sudden fits of terror."
Each word hit Thomas like a blow to the gut.
Stone stepped in. "Mr. Ginn, we'll maintain a protective detail here until she's discharged. I'll see to it you have an escort home and coverage through the night. Her case will be top priority."
Thomas nodded slowly. "Thank you, Doctor. Detective Stone, that means a lot to us. But please—don't treat us differently. We deserve no more than anyone else in our situation."
Both Aaliyah and Stone exchanged a look — impressed by the humility of a man so clearly burdened by fear.
"I assure you, Mr. Ginn," Stone said, his tone steady, "I give this level of commitment to everyone I protect." He turned toward the officers. "When she's ready to be discharged, these fine officers will escort you home and stay until they're relieved. Isn't that right, 323232?"
The number hit the young officer like a slap. He stiffened. "Yes, sir. Absolutely, Detective."
Stone nodded, satisfied.
"Thank you, Detective," Thomas said quietly.
---
9:10 PM — Gwen's Apartment
Gwen came home all smiles. She'd loved spending the evening with William and Bai — the two old men were funny, charming, and full of stories. When she'd asked about Detective Stone and their shared history, though, they both grew uncharacteristically quiet.
William had finally said, "It's nothing to concern yourself with."
Trusting her instincts, Gwen decided to let it go.
Walking from the elevator toward her apartment door, she wondered if Marci might stop by after her date. Her sister lived just one floor up — a comfort Gwen never took for granted.
As she opened the door, she tossed her keys onto the entry table. A sudden chill ran down her spine. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw movement — then came the faint creak of the floorboards.
Her hand darted toward her firearm, but before she could even touch the grip, something struck her hard across the chest. The blow sent her crashing to the floor. Pain seared through her ribs as she rolled onto her side — then came the sharp crack of pottery against the back of her head. Her vision blurred. She felt the warm rush of blood trickle down her temple before the world went black.
---
Gwen awoke to an earthy smell — damp moss and clay. Her head throbbed violently. She blinked until the blur receded. Something coarse and heavy was wrapped around her naked body.
{I'M NAKED!}
Panic surged through her as she clutched the sheepskin blanket tighter.
{Where am I? Where are my clothes? Who attacked me?}
The small burrow-like room was dim and cramped — too low for her to stand. Beyond a narrow archway, she could hear the clatter of clay pots and a strange humming.
Wrapping the blanket tightly around herself like a makeshift dress, she crawled through the opening. Her head pounded with every motion. The dream of that strange land she'd been to — the one with Jacob and the Rogues — was fading like mist.
In the next room, she froze. Her dress hovered midair, suspended by invisible hands, while a needle and thread worked on their own, mending the rips. At a tiny table in the center sat a peculiar-looking man.
He was small, pale, and thin, with a pot belly that contrasted his frail frame. Long white hair, braided to the floor, hung behind him. Thick, bushy eyebrows hid most of his eyes, and his beard matched the hair's length and wildness. He wore nothing but a simple loincloth.
"Ah, you're awake," he said, voice kind but gravelly. "How's the head, child? You took quite a bump."
He felt familiar somehow — though Gwen couldn't place why.
"Where am I? Where's Jacob?" she asked, her voice trembling. Memories of the Rogues, of Jacob's body in the mud, of the horror that followed — all flooded back.
Had this little man done it?
"Calm yourself," he said softly, almost reading her thoughts. "I mean you no harm. I don't know of any Jacob. When I found you outside the castle walls among the bodies, I thought it best to bring you somewhere safe."
A pot simmered on the table, smelling faintly of tomatoes and herbs. Her stomach growled loud enough that even the enchanted needle seemed to pause mid-stitch.
"You must be hungry," the little man said, smiling. "I've bread and mushrooms — they'll hold you over."
"Sir, I mean no disrespect," Gwen said cautiously, "but where am I? And how is this—" she gestured to the floating dress and moving needle "—even happening?"
The man chuckled, sliding a plate toward her. "Magic, of course. Surely you recognize it."
The needle dropped to the floor with a faint clink.
"There now. Your dress is mended. Best you get dressed, eat, and be on your way."
He turned his back politely. Gwen quickly slipped into her dress, still shaken.
"How long have I been here?" she asked, tying the laces.
"Since nightfall," he said. Through a small window, Gwen saw sunlight creeping into the sky.
"I need to go back," she said. "To where you found me. I have to know if Jacob's alive."
The little man turned, his smile fading. "After the mess you made out there, I'd advise against that. The Lord's men will be cleaning up three dead bodies." He chuckled darkly.
{Only three? Did Jacob survive? Did he say I caused it?}
"Sir, why do you think I did that?" Gwen asked, her voice pleading. "I swear, I had no part in it."
The man's grin widened — cruel and knowing.
"Oh, I be certain," he said, reaching for a burlap sack on the floor. He upended it onto the table. Three heads tumbled out with sickening thuds. Gwen gasped, horror freezing her blood — but Jacob's was not among them.
"And you most certainly did cause it," he said, voice growing low and sharp. "There's power in you, girl — cold power. I took their heads to keep them from being identified. To buy you a little time." His fingers danced across the table, twitching with manic energy.
"I don't normally meddle in the affairs of men," he continued, "but I felt your magic when I was out gathering mushrooms. Couldn't let you fall into Lord Berith's hands. You drained yourself dry using that power."
He turned to the pot, ladle in hand. As he lifted it, a sack hat surfaced — bright red. Blood red.
The metallic scent of iron filled the air.
That wasn't soup. It was blood.
Gwen's heart pounded so hard she thought she might faint. The man's grin widened — and in that moment, she realized he wasn't a man at all.
He was a Dwarven Red Cap — a killer of lost travelers.