The city didn't sleep — not really.
It held its breath between sirens, shadows stretching long and stiff under amber streetlamps. Somewhere above the skyline, a blinking drone hovered in place like an unblinking eye. Always watching. Always waiting.
Brendon moved quietly through the early morning hours, his boots soundless against the cracked concrete outside the precinct. A half-empty coffee in one hand, a black folder in the other, he made his way to the garage level where officers took their smoke breaks and secrets came to die.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
But that's becoming a habit now for him.
Inside the garage, Christopher leaned against a police SUV, arms folded, wearing that same unflinching look he always did when Brendon broke protocol. A village boy, honest to a fault. You could punch him and he'd still offer you tea while icing your hand.
"Don't say it," Brendon said, offering the coffee instead.
Christopher took it wordlessly, eyes flicking over the dark circles under Brendon's eyes.
"You look like hell."
"I feel like a guest in it."
Brendon opened the folder, revealing blown-up prints of the boot print he found in Clervaux's hidden room. Christopher raised a brow.
"That's from the first killing, isn't it?"
Brendon nodded. "Matches the tread pattern from Officer Claire's murder scene. Size too. Whoever planted it at Clervaux's estate wanted it found."
"So... you think it is staged?"
"I don't know," Brendon muttered. "But Zuekh was there before anyone else. And he was calm. Too calm."
Christopher exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking toward the elevator.
"What's the plan then?"
"I will go back in. I will talk to Matt again. But this time, I won't interrogate him like a suspect."
Christopher looked skeptical. "He's in lockdown. No one's supposed to have access until the DA's office signs off."
Brendon smiled grimly. "Then we don't need to ask."
---
Scene – Holding Block, Level B
It took a favor from one of the night shift clerks and a few minutes of hacked clearance. Brendon stepped into the dim corridor of Holding Block B, the buzz of the security door echoing like thunder in the dead quiet.
Matt sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, staring at the wall. His hoodie was gone now. His shirt clung to his skin with dried sweat. He looked less like a killer and more like a ghost still tethered to its body.
"You came back," Matt muttered without looking.
"You said something last night," Brendon replied. "About a trap. About them still doing it."
Matt finally looked up. His eyes weren't angry now — just hollow.
"Sit," he said quietly.
Brendon didn't move.
Matt chuckled, dry. "You think I'm going to attack you? I'm handcuffed to the wall."
Brendon slowly took a seat on the bench across from him. He studied Matt in silence for a beat, then reached into his coat and pulled out an old photo.
A young girl, no older than ten, with a freckled smile and braids tied in mismatched bands.
Matt's breath hitched. "Where did you find that?"
"It was in Clervaux's safe. Hidden behind the panel under her desk. Along with a stack of names. All scratched out... except yours."
Matt stared at the photo. Then:
"She was my sister. Isla."
"What happened to her?"
Matt didn't answer for a long time. But eventually, something inside him broke.
"She disappeared. Seven years ago. They said it was an abduction. No leads. No ransom. Just... gone. But I know better now."
He looked up, and the fire in his voice returned.
"They took her. The same people Clervaux worked for. The same ones Zuekh covered for. She wasn't just some kid... they wanted her body. Her organs."
Brendon blinked, his mouth tightening. "Organs?"
Matt nodded, voice low but sharp like a broken bottle. "The Horizon Institute ran a program... off the books. Rich donors. Secret surgeries. You know what they found? That certain kids, more specifically Hybtid kids — born in rural zones, especially mixed-blood — had organs that were more adaptable. Fewer rejection cases. Better bio-synchronization with both human and anthro bodies."
"They were experimenting on hybrid compatibility?"
"No. They weren't experimenting," Matt spat. "They were... harvesting."
He lifted his chained hands. "She had the right blood. The right resilience markers. She was on some list — marked at birth, maybe even earlier. They waited until we were alone. I was fifteen. She was ten."
Brendon swallowed. "And you've known this the whole time?"
"No. I didn't find out until a year ago," Matt said. "It was supposed to stay buried. I met a woman — a nurse. She used to work under Clervaux. She gave me a name: Isla Lancer. Stamped on a donor transport list. Seeing that I was shocked as hell. No explanation. No follow-up. I mean what the... hell!"
He leaned forward. "Then I looked into it. I found out that they didn't bury her. They sold her. Piece by piece."
Brendon's voice was quiet. "And now?"
"Now they're making the same mistakes again."
---
Scene – Brendon & Christopher, Back at Apartment
The storm outside had finally begun — not metaphorical. The real one. Rain raged sideways against the windows of Christopher's apartment as he stood near the stove, boiling water for tea.
Brendon sat hunched over the table, Matt's statements spread out on legal pads, mixed with photos and old medical scans retrieved from Clervaux's estate.
"I traced the donor logs Matt mentioned. Horizon Institute used aliases, but there's a repeat entry: one kid listed for organ transport. Matching age and initials: I.L."
Christopher's face darkened. "And the authorizing doctor?"
Brendon held up the photo of the paperwork. "Clervaux's signature. And Zuekh? He was listed as 'Asset Security Liaison' for all donor exits."
Christopher didn't say anything for a long while.
Brendon's voice hardened. "It wasn't behavioral science. It was butchery. Legalized through layers of ethics boards, false approvals, and sealed court orders."
"Then the murders are…" Christopher trailed off.
Brendon nodded. "Cover-ups. Wiping anyone who knew. Or talked."
"Then why make it theatrical?"
Brendon looked up. "Because Zuekh doesn't want to just erase history. He wants to reshape it. Make us look in the wrong direction."
Christopher handed him the tea. "So who's next?"
Brendon didn't answer. But the answer was already burning in his gut.
---
Meanwhile Somewhere Else
The machines hummed behind glass walls. Sterile. Sanitized. Sanitized like a crime made "legal."
The body on the gurney was unconscious — a woman in her 30s. Thin. Bruises on her wrist from restraints. IVs in both arms.
Zuekh stood watching, half-shadowed.
Beside him, a young assistant squirmed. "She was a journalist. Started digging into Horizon's early donor logs. Spoke to surviving family members."
"Not anymore," Zuekh said, calm.
He pressed a button.
Sedatives hissed. Vital signs flatlined slightly, then stabilized — just enough to keep her alive for the procedure.
The assistant looked away. Her voice barely a whisper. "There's no one left to speak for them."
Zuekh's eyes didn't move from the woman.
"History doesn't erase itself," he said. "You have to overwrite it."
---
Brendon Returns to the Estate
Rain streamed down the back wall as Brendon forced open the rusted basement door.
Inside: mildew, scorched paneling, broken electricals. But something new.
A cabinet, metal, with one drawer hanging half-open.
He yanked it out fully.
Inside: medical files. Cold, clinical summaries. Blood types. Compatibility rates.
Then he saw it — a faded form, damp at the corners.
DONOR RECORD: Isla Lancer.
Age: 10
Subject Type: Cross-blood (Human-Anthro Hybrid)
Viability: High
Cleared for extraction: Approved
Doctor Oversight: Dr. Clervaux
Security Approval: Cmdr. Zuekh
Brendon closed his eyes. Rage twisted through him.
---
Matt's Cell
Matt woke with a sharp breath, sweat slick on his forehead.
Outside the cell: silence.
Then — footsteps. Not boots. Soft. Careful.
A shadow stopped outside his cell window.
Something slid under the door.
A matchbox.
Matt hesitated… then picked it up.
Inside, a folded piece of paper. No words. Just a drawing.
A crane, its wings folded back — broken at the joint.
He stared.
Then crushed the matchbox in his palm.
"They're watching out for me... no for us... again," he whispered.
---
Rooftop
The rain poured harder. The city behind them flickered with lightning. Rooftops turned to puddles and shadow.
Brendon and Christopher stood close, soaked, their breath fogging in the cold.
"Do you believe him now?" Brendon asked.
Christopher nodded. "I believe her name was stolen from the records. And now I believe why."
Brendon pulled a file from his coat.
A copy of Isla's donor sheet. He didn't look at it.
He tossed it into the trash bin.
Struck a match.
The flame danced violently before swallowing the paper whole.
"Then we must stop following their version," Brendon said.
"We will tell our own."