12:15 PM – Hospital Parking Lot
The acrid smell of burning rubber and gasoline hung thick in the air as Rebecca Barker twisted the old man's arm behind his back, her knee pressing into his spine as she forced him against the asphalt. His face was streaked with soot and tears, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"I didn't—I don't—" the old man stammered, his voice cracking.
"Shut up," Rebecca snapped, clicking the cuffs around his wrists. "You just blew up a police vehicle. Start talking."
From the second-floor window of the hospital, Dr. Benjamin Moore watched the scene unfold, his fingers tightening around the paper cup of coffee in his hand. The explosion had been too precise—too calculated. And the way the old man's face had shifted from rage to confusion in seconds...
Something's off.
Benjamin set the cup down and headed for the elevators.
12:25 PM – Hospital Lobby
By the time Benjamin reached the parking lot, a crowd had gathered—paramedics, cops, and gawking hospital staff. Rebecca was arguing with a uniformed officer while the old man—Henry Caldwell, 68—sat on the curb, his hands cuffed behind his back, his shoulders shaking.
"I swear, I don't know what happened!" Henry pleaded, his voice trembling. "I was just talking to her, and then—then everything went blank!"
Benjamin stepped forward, hands in his pockets. "Classic dissociative episode. Sudden memory gap, unexplained violent actions—"
Rebecca whirled on him, her glare sharp enough to cut glass. "Dr. Moore. You're not needed here."
"Just making an observation, Detective." Benjamin tilted his head. "You ever seen someone go from lucid to fugue state that fast without chemical assistance?"
Henry's head snapped up. "Wait—that's it! That woman—she gave me something!"
Rebecca's grip on her notepad tightened. "What woman?"
"Dark hair, round face. She had—" Henry's voice dropped to a whisper. "Kind eyes. Too kind. She handed me a bottle. Said it was water. I drank it, and then... I don't remember anything until you tackled me."
Benjamin's gaze flicked to the wreckage. "You don't happen to recall building a Molotov cocktail, do you?"
Henry paled. "God, no! I'm a retired schoolteacher, not a—"
"Enough." Rebecca cut him off, radioing dispatch. "I need a sketch artist at the precinct. And someone bag whatever's left of that bottle."
She turned to Benjamin, her voice low. "Why are you really here, Doctor?"
He smirked. "Professional curiosity. And explosions tend to disrupt my surgeries."
Rebecca studied him for a long moment. Then, making a decision, she jerked her chin toward her car. "Get in. You want to see this through? Fine. But you stay in the backseat, and you don't touch anything."
Benjamin's grin widened. "Wouldn't dream of it, Detective."
1:30 PM – Boston PD, Interrogation Room 3
The sketch artist, Lena Torres, worked quickly, her pencil flying across the paper as Henry described the woman.
"Round face. Full lips. A small scar here, on her chin." Henry tapped his own face. "And her eyes... they were too calm. Like she knew exactly what she was doing."
Benjamin leaned against the two-way mirror, arms crossed. Rebecca watched him more than the sketch.
Finally, Lena turned the pad around.
Benjamin's pulse spiked.
Her.
The same woman he'd seen across the street, wreathed in that eerie blue haze.
Rebecca caught his reaction. "You recognize her?"
Benjamin kept his voice neutral. "Saw her outside the hospital. Right before the explosion."
Rebecca's pen stilled. "And you didn't think to mention this?"
"You were a bit preoccupied arresting a senior citizen."
She stood abruptly. "With me. Now."
2:00 PM – Evidence Room
Rebecca slapped the sketch onto the table in front of Sergeant Donahue, the precinct's lead forensic tech. "Run her through the database. Now."
Donahue squinted at the drawing. "That's not much to go on."
"Just do it."
As the computer processed the image, Rebecca turned to Benjamin. "You're hiding something, Moore. And I will find out what."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Tell me, Detective—when you looked at that explosion, what color were the flames?"
Rebecca frowned. "What kind of question is that?"
"Humor me."
"Orange. Like every other fire in existence."
Benjamin's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Interesting."
The computer pinged.
Match: Maria Santiago.
Rebecca clicked the file—and froze.
Incident Report – LAPD Case #1992-4587
Victim: Alejandro Santiago (16), mistaken for gang member during riots. Shot three times by responding officers. Case closed: Justified use of force.
*Next of Kin: Maria Santiago (sister). Last known address: Los Angeles, CA.
Benjamin whistled low. "Well. That explains the cop-hating."
Rebecca's jaw tightened. "Donahue, pull any recent sightings in Boston."
The sergeant typed furiously. "Got a hit—apartment complex in Dorchester. Landlord reported a 'suspicious woman matching that description' two weeks ago. Patrol never followed up."
Rebecca was already grabbing her jacket. "Let's go."
Benjamin raised an eyebrow. "'We'?"
She didn't look back. "You wanted in? Congrats. You're now a material witness."
3:45 PM – Dorchester Apartment Complex
The building was a rundown tenement, the kind of place where people kept their heads down and their doors locked. Rebecca flashed her badge at the super, who led them to a third-floor unit.
"She paid cash. Never made noise," the super muttered, unlocking the door.
The apartment was empty—except for one thing.
On the kitchen counter sat a row of identical glass bottles, each filled with a clear liquid.
Benjamin picked one up, uncapping it. He sniffed—then recoiled. "Chloroform base. With something else... aconite, maybe."
Rebecca's phone buzzed. Donahue.
"Detective? You need to see this. Checked traffic cams near the hospital. Caught your suspect on film handing Caldwell that bottle."
Benjamin's fingers tightened around the vial.
Hypnotic drugs. Blue fire. A woman who shouldn't exist.
And now they were standing in her lair.