Eastbridge, July 2047
11:19 p.m
The night was heavy with silence.
Not the comforting kind that came after a long day — the uneasy quiet of a city that had stopped breathing.
Rain slid down the windshield in slow, deliberate trails, each droplet catching the ghostly shimmer of the streetlamps.
Kieran sat behind the wheel of a black government-issued car, engine idling.
The wipers moved like clockwork — mechanical, emotionless, tired.
No music played. No chatter from the radio.
It had been years since anything worth hearing aired on public channels.
His eyes scanned the ruins around him:
Cracked roads. Burned-out buildings. Signs that used to glow with color now limp and shattered, bleeding rust.
Once in a while, a figure moved through the fog — hunched, hurried, vanishing just as quickly.
Civilians, maybe. Or something worse.
"It wasn't always like this."
The thought surfaced like a whisper.
"Back in 2033, something shifted. A sudden outbreak of murders. Not gang violence. Not desperation. Something bigger. Cleaner. Orchestrated. The streets turned cold overnight."
He eased the car forward, tires hissing on slick pavement.
"Ten years of chaos. We 'controlled' it by 2043, or that's what they called it. Truth is... control's just a nice way of saying we stopped counting."
Up ahead, under the shadow of a collapsed overpass, something caught his eye.
A body.
Laid out in the open. Mangled. Deliberate.
No attempt to hide it.
Kieran pulled over, stepped out into the rain, and walked toward it — collar up, coat tight, gloves already on.
He crouched beside the corpse. Snapped a few photos.
Fingers brushed the edge of the wound — clean, surgical.
Not rage. Not panic.
Method.
A serial, maybe. Or something new.
He didn't linger.
---
National Law Enforcement Bureau – Eastbridge Division
12:04 a.m.
The building stood like a skeleton.
Cracked glass. Buzzing lights. Emblem half-faded on the front wall.
Inside, the air stank of old coffee and damp papers.
The few staff that remained barely looked up when Kieran entered.
The heavy doors creaked open as Kieran stepped inside, rain dripping from his coat. The dull buzz of overhead lights hummed through the near-empty hallway. His boots echoed sharply against the floor.
In his gloved hand — a few rain-smeared photographs. A lifeless body on cracked concrete, its limbs twisted, a faint smear of blood trailing into darkness.
Before he could even speak—
"Three new bodies," came a loud voice from the main lobby.
Two officers barged in behind him, grinning as they tossed down a bloodied badge onto the central report table.
"Immediately executed the target. That makes our score 343."
Their voices carried through the room, drawing applause and nods from some of the others at nearby desks. A large digital board flickered on the wall above:
Agent Scores – Current Quarter
Alpha A :Morris & Delgado – 343
Beta A :Raina & Kross – 289
Gamma A : Kieran – 1
All eyes turned. Some smiled politely. Others scoffed.
Kieran didn't flinch. He walked forward silently, dropping the photos onto the cluttered tabletop like dead weight.
They landed face up — another victim, eyes wide, neck snapped, a pattern of cuts on the wrist.
No one commented.
He turned away and strode to his office in silence.
Behind him, a voice whispered,
"Man, he's still stuck on that 'find-the-pattern' nonsense?"
"Let him be," someone else muttered. "At least he brings back the bodies. Better than nothing."
No one cared.
The rules were simple now: find a lead, tag it, eliminate the source.
The system wanted volume. Kieran wanted answers.
He sat down, removed his gloves, and stared at the board for a moment. His eyes traced a red thread connecting two photos — one of a charred corpse found in Westport, the other of a woman whose eyes had been sewn shut.
He didn't believe in "unrelated" anymore.
The rain outside tapped steadily on the cracked windows.
Behind him, the door creaked open.
Senior Officer Malkin
leaned against the frame.
Coffee stain on his sleeve. Plastic bag in hand.
"You know you're still on this team because you find the most bodies, right?"
Kieran didn't turn around.
"Don't tell me…" Malkin chuckled.
"You're a secret murderer?"
Silence.
Kieran slowly turned to face him.
Expression unreadable. Eyes locked.
"...I know, I know. Bad joke."
Malkin stepped inside, placed the coffee and donut on the desk.
"Sorry," he added, softer this time.
Kieran glanced at the bag. Then back to his board.
"I don't do sugar," he said.
Quiet. Flat. Icy.
And just like that, Malkin left — leaving Kieran alone with his red strings, his half-theories, and the scent of something rotting in the foundation of the city.
The door clicked shut as Malkin left.
Kieran waited. Five seconds. Ten.
Then he leaned forward, slid open the hollow panel beneath his desk, and pulled out the external drive — his private recording system, completely off-grid.
He plugged it in. Terminal unlocked. Files decrypted.
He scrubbed through the timestamp from the day before — 03:14 p.m. — when Malkin had visited his room under the pretense of checking in. Kieran hadn't thought much of it then. Now, he wasn't so sure.
He slowed the feed.
There they were — sitting across from each other. Kieran had been talking, probably about the updated intel from Sector 9. But halfway through the conversation, Malkin's phone buzzed. He looked at it. Just for a moment.
But that moment was enough.
The screen lit up, a flash of blue symbols. Encrypted. Definitely not standard protocol.
Kieran froze the frame. Zoomed in.
The message had no sender ID. The encryption was unfamiliar — nothing from Central's databases. And the way Malkin's expression shifted — just slightly — told Kieran everything.
It wasn't just a message. It was something else.
The team had long whispered about it — the AnonyCop. A ghost officer pulling strings in the background, feeding intel to select agents, manipulating cases like a puppet master. Kieran never bought into the paranoia.
Until now.
What bothered him wasn't just the secrecy. It was this: Why is he such a big mystery?
Things are already so secret about him, no face, no voice and not even a real text? Everything is secret, even the messages. WHY?
He leaned back in his chair, the gears in his mind turning. Everyone dismissed him — the One-Point Officer. Slow. Unreliable.
Kieran blinked, exhaled sharply through his nose.
"Never mind," he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. "Focus on the cases."
He shut the feed and yanked the drive out, stuffing it back into the hidden panel. The monitor blinked back to the agency dashboard — case files stacked like digital corpses: red for unresolved, gray for closed, blue for pending.
All murder. All routine.
Except… nothing about this week felt routine.
To his right, the old side screen flickered — looping headlines, frozen in time.
"Central Declares Martial Override in Outer Sector Districts"
"Third Journalist Found Dead; Officials Deny Involvement"
"Broadcast Grid Interruption: Technical Fault or Cyber Breach?"
The same headlines. Always the same.
No updates. No press briefings. No new truth.
That had been two years ago — the last time the world was allowed to know anything at all.
He kept them running, like a reminder. Or maybe a warning.
Still, he forced his focus back to the rhythm — reports, tags, cross-checks. Let the others chase shadows. He had real bodies to find.
But in the back of his mind, that flash of blue stayed burned into his thoughts.
Encrypted. No sender. No trace.
Not forgotten.
---------
Kieran's Office
Time: 3:27 AM
The news monitor on the far wall flickered for the third time that hour. Same static. Same headlines.
"Mass Evacuation Continues—Civilian Curfew Extended—"
Then it loops again.
Kieran sat still, the backlight from his terminal casting a blue sheen across his face. Empty coffee mug. Dust settling in the corners. The silence was familiar now—almost comforting in its consistency.
He shut the terminal. Leaned back. Another day of "routine protocol" wrapped up in chaos control.
Just as he reached for his coat—
Shouts echoed down the hall.
The sound was urgent. Tight. Alarming.
Kieran's boots echoed sharply as he strode out. Down the corridor, a small crowd had formed uniforms packed together, muttering.
"Someone get the medics—"
"He just collapsed—what the hell—"
"Move! Move!"
Kieran pushed through, but the wall of bodies wouldn't budge.
One glance was all he managed: an officer, pale as ash, twitching before going still. The others were already pulling him onto a stretcher.
"Fatigue," someone said. "Just overworked."
"Doesn't seem like fatigue", Kieran thinks to himself.
Without a word, he turned back toward his office to grab his things.
And when he stepped into the hallway again—
Erina was already there.
They walked side by side through the dim corridor, the lights above flickering like they couldn't decide whether to stay alive or give up.
Erina broke the silence first.
"No bullshit. That wasn't fatigue."
Her voice was low, steady. "I saw him trembling. Just froze up right there in the middle of the hallway like something hit his nervous system all at once."
Kieran didn't look at her.
"I know."
He pulled a cigarette from the inside of his coat and held it between his lips.
Flicked his lighter once. Twice. Nothing. He exhaled sharply, more annoyed than surprised.
Without a word, Erina reached into her coat and passed him hers.
He lit the cigarette, took a slow drag, and handed it back.
"Thanks."
They stepped out into the empty lot. Cold air. No wind. The kind of silence that made the whole world feel evacuated.
Kieran unlocked his car with a faint beep.
"You got somewhere to be?" he asked.
Erina raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Thought we could talk more. Back at my place."
A long pause. Not hesitation—just thought.
Then she nodded.
They got into the car. Doors shut. Engine growled to life. Headlights cut through the misted glass as Kieran pulled out, merging onto the dark road—no traffic, no signs of life.
Just the hum of the engine and the weight of unspoken thoughts between them.
Inside Kieran's Car
Time: 3:57 AM
The city passed them by in ruins and silhouettes. Abandoned intersections.
Streetlights blinking like ghosts. The hum of tires on asphalt was the only thing that felt alive.
Erina leaned back in the seat, eyes shifting to Kieran.
"You guiding me somewhere, or just stalling?"
Kieran kept his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other flicking ash out the cracked window.
"I want you to call someone."
She blinked. "Who?"
"A Guy. Goes by Owen. Used to work logistics during the shutdowns. Still has access to things... places."
Erina studied him. "And why am I calling him?"
"Because," Kieran said, tapping the steering wheel with his knuckles, "if I call, he'll ask questions. If you call, he'll show up."
She frowned. "Why do you want him there?"
"Because I don't think that officer collapsed from fatigue. And Owen knows how to tell when something's been tampered with—especially if it involves bio-mods."
That name—bio-mods—hung in the air like a sharp edge.
Erina stared at him a second longer, then reached into her jacket for her comm link.
"Give me the number," she said.
Kieran recited it from memory.
As she dialed, he turned left off the main road.
The highway lights faded behind them, swallowed by fog and silence.
Inside Kieran's Car
Time: 4:01 AM
The car's interior glowed faintly from the dashboard. Erina had the comm pressed to her ear, fingers drumming lightly on her thigh.
It rang once.
Twice.
Click.
A voice answered—hoarse, groggy, but alert.
"Yeah?"
Erina didn't waste time. "Owen. It's Erina. Kieran wants you to meet us."
Owen exhaled sharply. "Where?"
Kieran took the next turn, then gave a name—"The usual, Lot B7"
"I'll be there," Owen said, then hung up.
Erina lowered the comm, eyes narrowing slightly.
"You could've told me all this back at your office."
Kieran didn't glance at her.
"I could've. But I needed to see if you'd actually make the call."
She scoffed. "Still testing me after all this time?"
"No," he said. "Just checking who still picks up the phone when things go wrong."
The rest of the ride was silent—tight, contemplative. The kind where both passengers are thinking two different things but heading to the same conclusion.
-----
Unknown Location –
Outskirts of Sector 12
Time: 4:39 AM
The car rolled to a stop on a cracked stretch of old highway.
Nothing but scorched trees and silence in every direction. No lights. No landmarks.
Erina leaned forward, confused. "Uh… you missed the mark, genius. This isn't Lot B7."
Kieran killed the engine, stepped out without a word, and motioned for her to follow.
Erina stayed in her seat for a beat longer, brow furrowed.
Then, with a muttered curse, she got out and jogged up beside him. "Kieran, seriously, what are you doing?"
He didn't answer. Just crouched near the overgrown roadside and brushed away a patch of dead leaves and dirt with his boot.
Beneath it: a rusted hatch. Circular. Heavy. Unmarked.
He twisted a hidden latch with a click and pulled it open with a grunt.
A hollow gust of air rose from below.
"KIERAN"
He turned to her, eyes calm, voice low.
"Come on. And stay quiet."
Erina hesitated, then followed him down.
-----
Inside the Tunnel
The metal ladder creaked under their weight. Cold, damp air clung to the walls.
The floor was lined with old bricks and moss, lit only by Kieran's flashlight and the faint green emergency stripes still glowing on the walls.
"What the hell is this place?" Erina whispered.
Kieran pressed a finger to his lips.
"Shh."
A sound cut through the silence—thud… thud… thud…
Heavy footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. From just beyond the wall to their right.
Erina's breath caught. She instinctively reached toward her sidearm, but Kieran grabbed her wrist.
He shook his head.
No sudden moves.
They crept forward, hugging the curve of the wall. The footsteps grew louder—then suddenly faded, as if swallowed by a different tunnel. Silence returned.
Once they were safely past the bend, Kieran finally spoke.
"This place," he whispered, "used to be part of the old sewer grid. Pre-collapse. Abandoned when the new systems came online."
He paused, brushing dust off a faded symbol on the wall—a crescent with three dots inside.
"No one uses it anymore. And as far as the city's concerned, this section doesn't exist. There's no entry from above ground except the hatch we came through."
Erina raised an eyebrow, breathing a little heavier.
"So why the hell are we here?"
Kieran glanced back down the path, eyes shadowed.
"Because, 'Lot B7' is a code for this place".
Kieran pressed his palm against a narrow section of the wall. A low click echoed, and a hidden panel slid open—revealing a rusted steel door just barely tall enough to crouch through.
He ducked inside. Erina followed.
But when she stepped through… her eyes widened.
The cramped tunnel opened into a wide underground chamber. Dim, flickering bulbs hung from exposed cables in the ceiling.
Walls were covered with cracked whiteboards, pinned maps, and faded photographs.
A few desks sat in the center covered in clutter: ink-stained folders, scattered papers, circuit boards, old coffee mugs. A whirring fan in the corner tried and failed to circulate the stale air.
Erina took it all in, stunned.
"This looks like…" she trailed off, unable to decide if it resembled a bunker, a war room, or a conspiracy theorist's basement.
Kieran dropped his bag on one of the tables with a tired sigh and stretched.
"Feel safe," he spoke. "I've spent most of the last hour and a half right here."
She turned toward him slowly. "Okay… what is this place? Who else even works here?"
Kieran was already flipping through a folder, distracted. "No one. I mean, I mostly work alone."
He paused, glancing around at the chaos like it was a familiar, comforting mess.
"Sometimes a few people show up. Only when I need help."
Erina raised a brow. "That sounds incredibly not reassuring."
He smirked faintly without looking up. "You'll get used to it."
Erina wandered closer to one of the dusty boards, her eyes scanning the chaotic layers of notes, strings, and photographs. Her gaze landed on a bold header scribbled across the top in red ink:
"Case #000"
"…What the hell is this…" she murmured under her breath.
KLANG.
A sharp metallic clatter rang out across the room — sudden, jarring.
She spun around. "The hell was that?"
Kieran was already looking up, jaw tight.
The old ventilation shaft in the far corner was trembling slightly. The rusty grate had shifted. Just enough to be noticed.
"I thought you said there was only one way in here," Erina said, voice rising with unease.
"There is," Kieran said flatly, already reaching behind his coat.
He stepped forward, pulling a worn handgun from his holster. No hesitation in his grip.
The vent creaked again. A slow, groaning sound like it hadn't been touched in years until now.
Kieran moved toward it, careful, silent, like a man who'd done this before.
He raised the gun.
Erina stood behind him, eyes wide.
No words were spoken.
Just the cold air.
And the vent.