The patrol car swung around the corner and rolled to a stop in front of a three-story shithole masquerading as an apartment building. The paint was peeling off in sheets, exposing gray concrete underneath. The cracked courtyard out front was packed wall-to-wall with people, mostly locals who had nothing better to do than watch someone else's life fall apart for entertainment.
Marco could hear them before he even opened the door. Jeering, whistling, shouting encouragement like this was a goddamn boxing match.
"Hit her!"
"Scratch his face!"
"Get him!"
A few older voices tried weakly to intervene:
"Stop fighting!"
"Let it go!"
They were drowned out by laughter and more shouting. The crowd had that circus energy, and ugly thrill people got when they could watch violence without being part of it. Their faces were flushed red from the cold wind, noses running, necks craned to get a better view.
He pulled the siren switch without a word.
The shrill wail cut through the noise. The crowd scattered immediately, stumbling over each other to get out of the way, revealing the two figures at the center of the chaos.
A heavyset black woman in a faded puffer jacket was going berserk on a man who was even bigger than she was. She swung at him like a wild animal, fists and nails flying. The man, and calling him a man felt wrong because he moved like a scared kid, was massive. Built like a mountain. But he wasn't fighting back. He was trying to block her attacks with his thick arms, trying to grab her wrists and restrain her without hurting her.
Marco leaned back in his seat. "Wow, look at that. Good cop or bad cop?"
"In this freezing weather, can't these assholes just stay inside?" Darnell sighed and reached for the door handle. "And I'm playing bad cop again? They won't go easy on you, man." He paused, squinting at the two figures still struggling. "Jesus Christ, what the hell did that guy grow up eating? If he hit her, she'd be picking up her own head somewhere in Alaska."
He shoved the door open, one foot landing in a puddle of dirty water, ready to charge in. Marco grabbed his arm.
"Hold up."
Darnell froze. "What?"
"Look closer." Marco nodded toward the fight. "It's the woman doing all the attacking. The big guy's only defending himself. He hasn't thrown a single punch."
Darnell squinted harder, watching for a few more seconds. The irritation on his face slowly faded, replaced by confusion. Then disbelief.
"Huh. Fuck... you're right. That crazy bitch is beating the shit out of him, and he's just taking it." He glanced at Marco. "So... can we watch a little longer?"
"Cut the shit. Separate them. You take the woman." Marco's hand moved to his holster, fingers brushing the grip of his service weapon. "Don't worry. If he makes a move, I'll put him down. We both passed the firearms course, right?"
"Yeah, yeah. I remember." Darnell climbed out, stretching his shoulders. "Let's get this over with."
Marco stepped out of the patrol car, and the atmosphere shifted immediately. He was tall, just over 190 cm, and the dark police uniform made him look even more imposing against the gray, rundown surroundings. As he approached, the crowd that had just scattered began to shift again, like a living organism reacting to a threat. They stepped back two full paces, opening a wider path, their eyes locked on him.
It was always like this in the East End. Fear mixed with resentment. Forced smiles hiding hatred. Envy for the authority he represented. The emotions pressed in from all sides, thick and sticky, like walking through a spider's web. But the moment anyone made eye contact with him, they flinched and looked away, down at the ground, up at the sky, anywhere but at him. Only whispers remained.
Marco stopped a few feet from the struggling pair and raised his voice.
"GCPD. You two, separate. Now."
The man immediately raised his arms and backed away. But that gave the woman an opening. She lunged forward and slapped him across the head. Before she could wind up for another hit, Darnell tackled her from behind, driving her face-first into the pavement and pinning her with a knee between her shoulder blades.
That set her off completely.
"Get your goddamn knee off my back, you worthless piece of shit! I'll rip your balls off and shove 'em down your throat, you motherfucking coward! You think you can touch me, you spineless sack of crap? I'll gut you like a fish, piss on your grave, and dance on your rotting corpse! You hear me, you fat fuck? I'll sue your ass into the ground, have your badge melted down and shoved up your worthless hole! You cum-guzzling faggot, let me up or I'll chew your balls off and spit 'em in your mama's face, she's probably sucking dick for crack right now!"
She started screaming, a nonstop torrent of the vilest obscenities Marco had heard in months. Even Darnell, who'd grown up in these streets and could curse in three languages, looked stunned.
"Shut that goddamn mouth!" he snapped, pressing down harder. His free hand moved to the taser on his belt. "You don't shut up right now, I'll give you fifty thousand volts and you'll piss yourself right here in front of everyone!"
If this had been the Diamond District, that kind of language would've gotten him written up. But here? Nobody cared. They'd just curse back worse.
Marco left Darnell to handle it and motioned to the man. "Come here. We need to take your statement."
The man lowered his arms and followed him toward a quieter corner of the courtyard. After a dozen steps, the woman's hysterical screaming and Darnell's shouting faded to a dull roar.
He stopped and pulled out his notebook and pen from his chest pocket. Only now did he have a chance to really look at the person standing in front of him.
The man was enormous.
Marco was 191 cm tall and weighed over 90 kilos. He was a big guy. But this guy was nearly a full head taller than him. His shoulders were broad. Muscles bulged visibly under his worn jacket, and his joints were abnormally large. His clothes were ill-fitting and worn.
He flipped open his notebook.
"Name."
"Waylon. Waylon Jones."
"Age?"
"Fourteen."
Marco's pen nearly snapped in half.
Fourteen?
He looked up slowly, scanning the kid's massive frame. Then his eyes landed on the fresh scratches running across Waylon's cheek. Next to them were older welts, swollen and bruised, fading to a sick yellow-purple at the edges.
"Who is she to you?" he asked, nodding toward the woman still screaming in the background. "You live with her?"
"Yes. She's my aunt." Waylon rubbed his thick fingers together self-consciously. "I live with her. My parents are... they're gone."
"I'm sorry." Marco's voice softened slightly. He tapped his pen against the notebook. "Does she hit you?"
Waylon was silent for a long time. Finally, he nodded slowly. Then shook his head.
"No... not often..."
"Is that so?" Marco stepped closer. "Then what's this?"
He reached out and turned Waylon halfway around. He'd already noticed it, a dark patch of shadow just below the kid's hairline, along the edge of his collar. The color was wrong. The texture looked wrong. He reached for the collar to pull it down and get a closer look.
Waylon exploded.
He let out a low, terrified roar and yanked himself free, nearly knocking Marco off balance. He stumbled backward, hands flying up to cover the back of his neck.
"Don't! Don't touch me!"
"Hey. Hey." Marco raised both hands, palms out. "I'm not trying to hurt you. I just want to see. Okay? Just let me take a look."
Waylon stared at him, chest heaving. For a few seconds, Marco thought the kid might bolt. But then the fear in his eyes faded. He nodded slowly and let his hands drop, though his body remained rigid as stone.
Marco approached carefully, like he was dealing with a wounded animal. He reached out and gently pulled down the collar of Waylon's jacket.
A large patch of dark brown, scaly tissue covered the back of Waylon's neck. The scales, because that's what they were, actual scales, were densely packed and continued down his back, disappearing beneath his shirt.
"Did she burn you," Marco muttered under his breath. "Hot water? Oil?"
"No. No." Waylon's voice was dry. "It's... my problem. The doctor said it's genetic. Some kind of... keratosis. I don't remember the full name."
Marco hesitated, then reached out and touched the scales lightly with his fingertips. They were cold, and hard. Nothing like human skin, more like the scales of a reptile.
A chill ran up his spine.
Waylon Jones.
The name finally clicked.
He turned his head slightly, looking back toward the woman. She was still screaming.
"Take that freak away! That monster! Lock him up! Cage him!"
He turned back to Waylon. "Do you want to press charges? If you do, we'll detain her. She'll have to post bail or prove she didn't abuse a minor."
"No. No, please." Waylon shook his head quickly. "Don't send her to jail. I don't have anywhere else to go."
Marco stared at him for a long moment. Then he sighed.
"You're not what I expected, kid."
He turned and walked back toward Darnell, who was still struggling to keep the woman pinned. Despite the freezing weather, Darnell was drenched in sweat, steam rising from his head like he'd just run a marathon.
Marco couldn't help but laugh. "I'm guessing you're not cold anymore."
"Oh, shut the fuck up." Darnell panted, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "I didn't expect this bitch to have that kind of strength. So? Are we taking her in?"
Marco shook his head. He crouched down slightly, meeting the woman's furious gaze.
"You're suspected of assaulting a minor. Technically, we should haul your ass to jail. But your nephew refuses to press charges. So be smart. Don't make this worse for yourself. Understand?"
He gestured to Darnell. "Let her go."
The moment the pressure lifted, the woman sprang up, screeching like a banshee, until she saw Marco's finger resting on the safety of his 1911. Her eyes cleared instantly. She looked at him, then at Darnell, and then suddenly collapsed back onto the ground, clutching her throat.
"Oh God! I can't breathe! I can't breathe!"
Marco rolled his eyes and shoved the paperwork into Darnell's hands. "Handle it."
He walked back to Waylon, pulled out his wallet, and removed a hundred-dollar bill along with one of his personal business cards. He pressed both into the kid's palm.
"Buy yourself a proper coat. Stop wearing this trash. And if anything happens, you call me. Got it?"
Waylon froze, staring down at the money and the card. "No... no. Thank you, officer, but I can't take this..."
"It's fine. Consider it a loan. Interest-free." Marco patted the kid's arm, and turned away. He headed for the patrol car, scattering the lingering crowd still whispering and pointing. He opened the passenger door, climbed in, and rolled down the window.
"You're driving."
"Took you long enough." Darnell slid behind the wheel, rubbing his hands together. The engine rumbled to life, and the car rolled away. "So tell me, why'd you care so much about that kid?"
"Why else?" Marco leaned back in his seat, eyes closed. "He's pitiful. Grew up without a father."
Darnell blinked. Then he slapped the steering wheel, and the horn gave a sharp honk.
"FUCK! FUCK YOU, man! You keep talking like that, one day you're gonna lose me! I'm going home to figure out a proper way to discriminate against your ass!" He sighed, half-laughing, half-exasperated.
"I'm worried he might start eating people."
"Eating people?" Darnell raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "He's in a gang? Don't tell me he works for the Roman. He's built like muscle, but... fourteen? Jesus."
"No. I meant it literally."
Marco tilted his head slightly, looking into the rearview mirror. That massive, solitary figure still stood in the middle of the dispersing crowd, unmoving, silently watching the patrol car drive away, like a forgotten colossus standing alone in the ruins.