Greaves was too easy to follow. That was the first sign he thought himself untouchable. He moved like a man with no predators—swaggering through Delta's market stalls, tipping vendors he owed money to, throwing nods to every officer he passed. He didn't look back once.
Avren and I tracked him from a block away, slipping between crowds, letting his noise drown our silence. He carried himself like the precinct was his alibi.
By the time he ducked into a back alley, the sky had drained to violet. His boots clicked against wet stone, the sound too loud, too proud. He lit a cigarette, leaned against a dumpster, pulled a folder from under his coat.
Avren's eyes narrowed. "Evidence file."
We closed the distance.
"Evening, Detective Greaves," Avren called, voice calm as static.
Greaves turned, grin already half-built. "If it isn't Alpha's strays. Lost again?" He blew smoke sideways. "This is Delta. We don't babysit outsiders."
"Funny," Avren said. "Because your name's all over the logs for cases that don't exist."
That grin twitched, but he covered it with a drag. "You boys fishing? Careful. Hook the wrong man, you'll reel up Concord brass instead."
I moved before he finished. Flicker coiled into my hand, a weight eager for violence. Greaves reached under his coat, but Avren was faster—boot to the knee, palm to the jaw. The cigarette snapped to the ground.
Greaves staggered. I caught him from behind, drove an elbow into his ribs, then slammed him into the alley wall. His skull cracked stone. His folder fell open—photos, blood sample slips, crime scene printouts scattered across the ground.
Avren crouched, leafed through. "Delta tape. Alpha glue batch. And… oh, look. Organ requisition forms." He looked up, smirk cold. "Care to explain why our crime scenes keep landing in your lap?"
Greaves spat blood onto my boot. "You don't get it, do you? You think I'm the disease? I'm the symptom."
I slammed him harder into the wall. "Talk."
He coughed a laugh. "You think these bodies are random? No. They're feeders. Someone higher wants resonance signatures catalogued. Every cut, every scream, every ounce of fear mapped. I just make sure the mess gets bagged."
Avren's voice sharpened. "Who are you delivering to?"
Greaves only smiled, one tooth pink. "Ever heard of the Architect? No. You're not supposed to. You never will. Because by the time you put a face to the name, you're already dead."
I drove a knee into his gut. His breath snapped out in a wheeze. Avren pulled a syringe from his pocket—tranq, not M-88, weaker but effective. He jabbed it into Greaves' neck.
The detective's eyes fluttered, body sagging in my grip. Avren straightened, tucking the scattered papers back into the folder. "He'll sleep an hour. Long enough to decide what story we're telling."
I dropped Greaves to the ground, chest rising shallow. "So? What are our options?"
Avren lit his own cigarette with steady hands. "Truth, and the whole thing vanishes into a locked room. Or we hand Delta a neat package." He watched the coal brighten, then fade. "We frame him as the murderer. Which is accurate enough to hold."
"We're choosing the lie," I said.
"We're choosing the lie that sticks."
We bound his wrists with plastic ties and hauled him through back streets no one watched, cutting across the rift hub service road to avoid cameras that never worked anyway. By the time we shoved through Delta's front doors, the lobby churned with its usual counterfeit urgency. Our arrival silenced it.
"He's bleeding," a clerk blurted.
"He's booked," Avren said. "Call holding."
Henny lurched from behind a desk, color draining. "What the hell is this?"
"Detective Saul Greaves," Avren announced, flat and formal. "In custody for serial murder, evidence tampering, and smuggling." He slapped the folder onto the central counter. Pages fanned—photos, requisitions, chain-of-custody slips stamped with Greaves' ID. The organ forms sat on top like a confession.
The Concord officer drifted closer, smile surgical. "You're out of jurisdiction to—"
"Chain starts now," I cut in. "Sign it or stand aside."
No Mary. No captain. Just a room deciding whether it believed its eyes.
Silence held for a breath too long. Then Sergeant Kade shoved past the Concord lanyard, jaw locked. He flipped the folder open, skimmed fast, and swore under his breath. "Processing. Now." He snapped at the clerk. "Forms. 7-B, 9-F, evidence ledger open."
Procedure creaked to life because procedure is the last refuge of people who don't want to think. Seals pressed with shaking hands. Ledger lines filled. The evidence room door, newly locked because we'd locked it, buzzed and opened. Almeida from forensics took the swabs like they were glass, eyes hard and bright. Coren from medical checked Greaves' pulse, called it steady, didn't ask questions.
The Concord officer tried again. "These documents require Concord custody—"
"Come back with paper," Kade barked, not looking up. "Until then, this is Delta property."
Whispers rose like a draft in old walls. "Greaves?" "No way." "Saw him at the mess yesterday." "He signed my overtime." "Those organs… is that real?"
Henny planted himself in front of me, close enough I could count the burst veins in his eyes. "You think you fixed us?"
"I think we stopped one man," I said. "Your turn to stop the rest."
He looked past me at Greaves, at the badge already unpinned and tossed into a dish. His jaw worked. He didn't answer.
We rolled Greaves into holding. He roused long enough to laugh once, a dry bark, then sagged again as the tranq finished its work. The cell door clanged. The clerk logged the time. The ledger accepted the lie like it accepted every other.
Avren leaned on the wall outside, smoke curling toward a dead camera. "Told you. Neat package."
I watched the precinct try not to look at itself. The evidence sat under a lamp, undeniable. The room breathed shallow. No speeches came. No righteous fury, either. Just pens moving, seals cooling, a building pretending the rot hadn't touched its beams.
On my way past the planning room, I paused at the pin board. The five black squares stared back. Someone had drawn a quick X through D-09. The marker line bled.
I took the folder's copy set and slid it into my pack. Not to hide it. To keep it from being "misplaced." Later, I'd write the entry for Tara's blackfile by hand, every detail fresh, every name spelled clean. If Delta wanted a story, Sovereign could have the truth.
We stepped outside for air we didn't have to share. Avren offered the carton. I shook my head.
"So what now?" I asked.
"Now we wait," he said. "Liars need time to agree on the lie. Watch who looks relieved and who looks afraid. That's your map."
Above us, the precinct's flickering sign buzzed like a bad conscience. Somewhere inside, the fridge we'd plugged in finally kicked over, humming proper. A small, stupid victory in a building that had forgotten how to win.
For tonight, the city would believe the package we'd wrapped it. Tomorrow, we'd see who tried to untie the bow.