3 Weeks Later
The weather had taken a turn for the gentler kind of miserable — clouds like wet wool dragging across a pale sky, wind that whispered only disappointment. Spring should've brought relief. But Ridgecliff, under its soft drizzle and sighing breezes, felt heavier than ever.
A town dying politely.
Inside a small, cluttered apartment barely holding together above a laundromat, Brendon Wolf lay sideways on his couch, his boots hanging off one armrest, head buried into the other. The couch was frayed in the corners, dotted with old bloodstains, coffee spills, and the scent of burnt cigarette. It looked more like a crime scene than a place to rest.
The apartment building matched it too.
Cracked walls. Piles of paper. Coffee mugs gone cold days ago. Files strewn open like discarded corpses on every flat surface. A laundry basket overflowing with untouched uniforms sat like a guilt statue in the corner.
Brendon hadn't bothered with the lights. The gray daylight through his dusty blinds was enough.
His phone screen glowed dimly in his hand. Another news editorial, another voice dissecting Chief Tyson's press briefing.
"The question isn't whether Ridgecliff Police can handle this investigation… the question is whether they're willing to. This level of secrecy, paired with the grotesque imagery of 'TRIAL_ONE.MP4,' suggests either a deeply flawed command structure or something more insidious…"
Brendon muted it with a tap, jaw clenched.
'Insidious'. They all kept throwing that word around. Like this was some Illuminati ritual. Some gothic play Ridgecliff was staging for attention.
They had no idea.
Three weeks. That's how long it had been since the video went live. Three weeks of door-to-door questioning, forensic backlogs, dead-end witness tips, and trying to dodge a feeding frenzy of reporters. Three weeks, and nothing solid had come of it.
The case was beginning to feel like a trap. One designed not to be solved.
Brendon rubbed his face, letting out a sigh that scraped the back of his throat. His stubble had turned into a full beard he hadn't bothered trimming. The dark circles under his eyes had become permanent features.
---
He turned off the editorial, flipped open a notepad balanced on his thigh. Scribbles. Names. Places. Doodles even — his mind trying to make something stick where the facts refused to line up.
One name at the top of the page:
Ninja Fox.
He tapped his pen against it.
Ninja Fox. An urban legend. The best thief in world. Now accompanied by Camelia, his old crewmate of his crime days. Alleged hybrid rights activist.
And the one who'd leaked TRIAL_ONE.MP4.
He'd spent nights turning over that one question in his head, like a stone with something rotting underneath it:
Why release the video?
Didn't she say she wanted to save Ridgecliff? To expose corruption, give voice to hybrids, shine a light into the places people refused to look?
Then why this?
Why push a video that painted the town as a cultish hellhole? That hurt the same anthro and hybrid population she claimed to protect? Most of the city had gone into panic mode after it. Suspicion. Raids. Anxious locals reporting "suspicious behavior" every time someone with animal ears walked past.
It can't be justice. It's utter chaos. And Ninja Fox, despite her monologues, didn't seem like someone chasing chaos for the fun of it.
There had to be something else.
---
Brendon's thoughts broke when he got a notification ping from Facebook.
He almost ignored it. The app had become a haven for town panic. Conspiracy threads. Locals posting selfies in front of the Eris Noir ruins like they were visiting the set of a horror movie.
But one headline caught his eye.
> "I Know That Mask: Whitney Johnson Might Be TRIAL_ONE Victim"
Posted by: user '@Digital_Raptor' – 4.3k Shares
Brendon shot up. The name Whitney Johnson hit like a cold splash across his chest.
He opened the post.
---
@Digital_Raptor wrote:
> "Hey, I didn't want to jump to conclusions but I can't stay silent anymore. That mask in the viral Ridgecliff video? The white and gold one with the cracked left lens and feathers? That's custom-made. I know it because it belonged to Whitney Johnson, a content creator I've followed for over two years. She used it for her 'Goddess Ritual' cosplay line on OnlyFans and TikTok. I even commissioned a replica.
Whitney hasn't posted ANYTHING in over a month. No tweets. No streams. No Insta reels. Her Discord went dead, too. Last location tagged? Ridgecliff. For a modeling shoot.
Police haven't confirmed anything yet, but if she's dead… that video isn't just a artwork. It's real. Please share. Someone needs to know."
The attached side-by-side photo was damning. Whitney in the mask, doing a staged ritual dance with props in a studio — and the victim in TRIAL_ONE, mask bloodied, body limp, staged like a twisted performance.
It was identical.
Brendon's stomach sank.
---
Whitney Johnson. Online name: "@GoddessWhit"
Fanbase: over 2 million followers across platforms.
Known for blending horror, mysticism, and kink in her content.
A few months ago, she'd posted that she was "taking the real ritual vibes to the woods." Most thought it was just cosplay in a spooky Airbnb.
Ridgecliff was never named — until now.
Brendon got off the couch and opened his laptop, knocking aside an old coffee mug. His fingers flew over the keys.
> Search: "Whitney Johnson Missing"
No police reports.
No official APB.
But multiple forum threads asking, "Where's Whitney?"
He clicked another:
> "Anyone else notice GoddessWhit's been silent for weeks? Last collab was with a photographer in New Hampshire, but her Insta story showed woods — not studio."
"Wait… wasn't she gonna do something with her 'trial series'? Like a cultic fantasy thing?"
"No way it's her in that TRIAL_ONE vid… right?"
Wrong. It was her. Brendon could see it now.
Not just from the mask — from her body posture, the way her shoulder dipped when she walked. The way her right wrist was bent in the still frame. She had a birthmark on her clavicle — barely visible in the pixelated video.
But visible enough.
He stood up, heart pounding.
Brendon (muttering): "J... Jesus Christ."
---
He grabbed his coat and keys, dialing Tyson as he moved.
Tyson didn't pick up on the first ring. Or second.
Brendon kept walking out of his apartment, boots pounding down the stairwell.
Finally, Tyson answered. His voice groggy — he'd been sleeping.
Tyson: "Brendon? It's six-thirty, what—"
Brendon: "We have a name."
Tyson: "What?"
Brendon: "Victim from Trial One. Whitney Johnson, an online creator. She has thousands of followers. The mask matches perfectly. Timeline fits too. Last known location? Ridgecliff. For a photo shoot. She hasn't been seen since."
There was a pause. Tyson's tone shifted fast from drowsy to sharp.
Tyson: "That… changes a lot."
Brendon: "I'm heading to the station now. We need to open a file. Issue a statement. Reach out to her family. She might've been abducted weeks before the video dropped."
Tyson: "I'll meet you there in thirty. Don't say a word to press yet."
Brendon: "Wasn't planning to."
Click.
---
While going to the station on foot, he realized... something was breaking open. A fissure in the mystery. Finally.
But with that opening came a deeper, darker realization:
The killer had known exactly what they were doing. They had chosen a public figure, someone with enough reach that her disappearance would cause ripples — but not alarms. Someone who could be tied to fantasy ritual themes without raising red flags.
Someone who could disappear in plain sight… while still performing.
And Ninja Fox? She'd released the footage not just to expose corruption.
She was trying to send a message — or worse, trying to escalate the game.
It seems "Trial One" is only a beginning.