Chief Tyson adjusted the collar of his coat and stepped out the hospital entrance, hoping for a moment of quiet reflection.
Instead, a flood of flashing cameras and a swarm of reporters were waiting for him.
"Chief Tyson!" a woman with a microphone shoved her way forward. "Is Assistant Sheriff Kühl all right?"
"Do you have any leads on the attacker?" another reporter shouted from behind.
"Is it true that law enforcement officers aren't even safe in their own homes anymore?" a third voice pierced through the noise.
The words struck Chief Tyson like sharp needles.
He gritted his teeth. His fists clenched at his sides. The bruised pride of his department—and of Ridgecliff itself—hung in the air like thick smoke.
Enough.
"That's ENOUGH!" he barked, the sudden boom of his voice silencing the crowd into a stunned hush.
Cameras whirred quietly in the background, but no one dared interrupt.
Tyson took a deep breath and fixed them with a stern glare. "I will NOT tolerate fearmongering," he said sharply. "Assistant Sheriff Sherry is alive, he is recovering, and he will be back with us soon."
He pointed a finger at the cluster of reporters. "The last thing Ridgecliff needs right now is panic. You are reporters—not gossip mongers. Your duty is to inform, not to spread fear."
Several reporters glanced at each other, shuffling awkwardly.
Tyson stepped closer, lowering his voice but making it all the more dangerous. "If any one of you tries to blow this out of proportion, if any one of you spreads unfounded rumors," he said, "you'll answer directly to me."
The crowd parted as he strode through them, his coat flaring behind him, the chief's badge on his chest gleaming in the camera lights.
He didn't look back.
---
Later that afternoon, the hospital's long corridors grew quiet once more as Robert was discharged.
His nose throbbed with every step he took, and a dull ache settled deep behind his eyes. The doctor's final words echoed in his ears: "No need to rush your body Mr. Kühl. Severe nasal fracture has been dealt on your nose. Give your body some rest or you'll regret it."
Robert had merely nodded, too weary to argue.
Outside, his mother, Anna Kühl, met him with a relieved sob and a tight hug—careful not to jostle his still-battered frame.
The drive home was quiet, heavy with unspoken fears. His mother's hands tightened on the steering wheel every time she glanced at his bandaged face.
Once they were inside their cozy Ridgecliff home, she immediately fussed over him, settling him on the couch with a blanket and a cup of warm tea.
"Just rest, Rob," she whispered, brushing his hair gently back from his forehead. "Everything else can wait."
He wanted to protest. He wanted to get back to work, back into the storm that was brewing around them.
But he stayed silent, allowing her to tuck the blanket around him like she used to when he was small.
Meanwhile, across town, Sofie and Judith had returned to the police station. The mood there was tense—coiled like a spring about to snap.
Judith went straight to helping Chief Tyson, combing through the early investigation files, while Sofie manned the tech lab, running background checks and surveillance footage analysis with furious focus.
No one said it out loud, but everyone felt it:
If even Assistant Sheriff Kühl wasn't safe anymore... then something very wrong was happening in Ridgecliff.
---
Evening fell quietly over the Kühl household.
Robert sat on the back porch, a soft fleece jacket wrapped around him to stave off the chill. His mother sat nearby, sipping her own coffee, the silence between them peaceful but tinged with worry.
Robert stared into the darkening sky, the taste of coffee bitter on his tongue.
His mind whirled with fragmented memories—flashes of movement, the heavy presence behind him, the blow to his face.
And then—
A detail surfaced.
He set his coffee down abruptly, sitting up straighter.
There was something about the attacker's hand.
A ring.
He remembered it now—a silver ring, glinting under the faint kitchen light, wrapped around the attacker's right index finger.
The design had been strange. Not just decorative. Almost... ceremonial.
Robert frowned deeply.
It might not be much... but it's something.
When Chief Tyson asked for any details later, he would make sure to mention it.
Every tiny clue mattered now.
---
Far from Ridgecliff, on the restless waters of the sea, another story was unfolding.
Brendon awoke with a groan, his head spinning like a top.
The scent of salt and damp wood filled his nostrils.
He blinked slowly, trying to make sense of the swaying ceiling above him.
"Where... am I?" he rasped, his throat dry and raw.
The creak of a door made him jerk his head toward the sound—only for a sharp jolt of pain to shoot through his neck.
A man stepped into the cabin.
He was weathered and broad-shouldered, wearing a patched leather vest over a loose shirt. His hair was tied back into a messy knot, and his eyes were sharp but not unkind.
"Easy there, lad," the man said, raising his hands in a calming gesture. "You're safe."
Brendon tried to sit up but found his body too weak, too battered.
"Where...?" he croaked again.
The man chuckled. "You're aboard The Wayward Star. Pirate ship, technically speaking," he added with a grin. "But don't go panicking—we ain't like the ones from the scary stories."
Brendon just stared, struggling to process.
Pirate ship?
What nightmare have I fall into now?
Seeing his confusion, the man sat down on a nearby stool.
"Name's Kellan," he said. "We're... outlaws, yeah. But we look after folk in need. Found you unconscious, clinging to driftwood, half-drowned."
Images flashed in Brendon's mind—the rain of arrows, the desperate leap off the island cliffs, the cold bite of the sea.
"You're lucky," Kellan continued, tossing Brendon a canteen. "Another hour and you'd've been fish food."
Brendon sipped greedily, the water soothing his parched throat.
Kellan watched him for a moment, then leaned forward.
"You're not from around here, are you?" he said, squinting slightly. "What kind of trouble gets a lad like you tossed into the sea?"
Brendon hesitated.
Could he trust them?
Probably not fully. Not yet.
But for now... what choice did he have?
"I was... attacked," Brendon said quietly, voice hoarse. "People... they were after me."
Kellan didn't press for details. He just nodded knowingly.
"Well, whoever they are," Kellan said, standing up, "you're safe with us. Least for now."
As he left the cabin, Brendon sank back into the rough mattress, exhaustion pulling at him.
Safe... for now.
But deep down, he knew—whatever forces had come after him back in Lagooncrest wouldn't give up so easily.
And somehow, some way, he had to find his way back.
Because this isn't just about survival anymore.
This is about the truth.
And saving the people he cared about before it is too late.
Outside, the ship rocked gently on the waves, carrying Brendon further into unknown waters—and deeper into a world that would test him in ways he had never imagined.