The street was desolate that night. The world seemed lifeless, cloaked in silence. Street lamps flickered in an eerie rhythm, their dim glow struggling against the darkness. A cold wind scattered discarded papers across the pavement, hissing through the emptiness like a restless ghost.
A lone woman walked hurriedly, her business suit rumpled, her face drawn and lined with exhaustion. When she reached an old, dilapidated apartment building, the steps creaked beneath her weight. She grimaced, her breath fogging in the chilly air as she fumbled inside her purse for her keys. Above her, the full moon loomed—an ominous light, like an unblinking eye watching her every move.
Her hand trembled as she forced the rusty key into the stubborn keyhole.
"Come on, stupid door… Work for once!" Harley muttered in frustration.
The key jammed. Groaning, she flipped her purse upside down, spilling its contents across the steps. The key clattered to the ground. Scooping it up, she tried again, and this time the lock finally gave way with a metallic click.
"Can't that lazy landlord fix his damn property for once?" she grumbled, gathering her belongings with a resigned sigh before shuffling inside. The door slammed shut behind her.
Across the road, a figure watched from the opposite apartment. Silent. Smirking.
Inside her apartment, Harley tossed her purse onto a worn-out couch and dropped the rest of her belongings carelessly to the cluttered floor. She shrugged off her coat and tie, throwing them onto a smaller chair already buried under clothes and papers.
The dim light revealed a scattering of unpaid bills across the coffee table—mocking reminders of her constant struggles. She picked one up and gave a humorless laugh.
"Bills, bills, bills… That's all it ever is!"
One by one, she tossed the papers into the air like confetti, watching them flutter to the ground before flopping down on the couch. The room was a disaster: bottles, clothes, and the remains of takeout containers littered every surface.
Her phone lit up suddenly, ringing and piercing the quiet.
Groaning, Harley scrambled through the mess until she unearthed the device under a pile of clothes. The screen flashed: BOSS.
Her face twisted with dread. She hesitated, then answered.
"You don't like your job, do you?!" her boss yelled over the line.
Harley winced and pulled the phone away from her ear.
"I told you to finish those reports before leaving! Do you think this company is your personal playground?!"
"Sir, I—" she stammered, but he cut her off sharply.
"No excuses! Be here tomorrow to fix your mess, or you're fired!"
"But… tomorrow's Saturday—"
The line went dead.
Staring at the phone in disbelief, Harley tossed it onto the couch and buried her face in her hands. "Damn it… Damn everything," she murmured.
A sudden knock broke the silence.
Knock. Knock.
Harley froze. Her eyes darted to the door.
"Who's here at this time?" she whispered, hesitant.
Cautiously, she unlocked the door and peeked out. The hallway was empty. She looked left, then right.
"If this is about money," she called nervously, "I don't have any! Try someone else!"
As she started to close the door, a hand shot forward, gripping it tightly. Startled, she stumbled back as a figure forced his way inside.
The intruder stepped into the dim apartment, his unnervingly wide smile gleaming in the shadows.
"Good evening, Madam Harley," he said cheerfully. "Mind if I come in?"
Harley stood frozen in fear. The door slammed shut behind him.
And then—the night split apart with a blood-curdling scream.
The sun blazed brightly over Roswell, momentarily eclipsed by a passing airplane. Below, the city thrived with movement. Citizens hurried across a crowded intersection, their chatter blending with the hum of traffic. The world felt alive, a sharp contrast to the desolate night Harley had faced.
The focus shifted to the Hilian Police Station—a blue-and-white building that resembled both an office and a school. Police cars lined the parking lot on either side of the walkway. The station's name, HILIAN, gleamed in bold yellow letters across the facade.
Inside, the elevator shaft lit up from floor one to three. The doors dinged open, revealing two officers burdened with files. They walked out and went their separate ways.
On the third floor, in the small office kitchen adjacent to the elevator, Charlie stood by the cupboard. She pulled out a black cup, rinsed it under the running water, and placed it under the coffee machine.
"Huh... We haven't had a new case in weeks," she muttered, bored. "I'm starting to think Roswell was always this safe."
When the machine finished, she retrieved her coffee, tilting her head at the surface before flipping the cup in her hand and heading out.
"Good morning, Sis Charlie!" a cheerful voice called beside her.
Charlie frowned, her grip tightening around her cup. Ben balanced a stack of files in his arms, walking at her pace as though determined to follow.
"Stop calling me that," Charlie snapped. "I'm not your sis, and I never will be. Get that through your thick skull."
She marched ahead, sipping her coffee indifferently while her eyes scanned the bustling office.
The interrogation room caught her attention. A drug seller sat smugly at the table, grinning as he frustrated the officers questioning him. Around them, the rest of the department idled—some on phones, some chatting idly, others simply wasting time. The precinct felt like a desert.
It's too peaceful, she thought sarcastically. I think I'm going to puke.
Rolling her eyes, she let out a deep sigh. "Oh Lord, please let a case show up. I think I'm going to lose my mind."
Ben followed closely, his shadowy presence almost glued to her side. Charlie glared as she pressed the elevator button.
"Go away," she said flatly.
"Isn't it better this way?" Ben asked, puzzled. "No crime means no deaths. It's not like—"
Charlie raised a hand sharply, cutting him off. She had no patience for his optimism.
The elevator dinged. The doors slid open, revealing a man stepping out.
Dan.
Dressed in a brown coat over a striped white top and black jeans, his badge gleamed on his right hip. A holstered gun rested against his left side. Instinctively, both Charlie and Ben straightened.
"Sir!" they said in unison.
Dan smirked at the formality and offered a casual salute. "At ease, soldiers."
"Yes, sir!" they echoed, still stiff.
Before anything else could be said, Secretary Jane stepped out of the Boss's Office, her sharp gaze sweeping the floor. Spotting Dan, she beckoned him over with authority.
"Agent Dan, the boss wants to see you," she requested.
Dan sighed. "On my way."
As he passed, Jane leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Be careful. He's had it rough today."
Dan gave a small nod. "Noted."
He entered the Boss's Office. The door closed behind him.
The room smelled faintly of smoke. Boss John stood by the wide stainless window, looking out over the precinct floor. He flicked his cigarette into the trash and let out a quiet laugh.
"Isn't it peaceful?" he sighed. "I come to work and find my officers acting like they're on vacation."
Turning slightly, he gestured vaguely toward the floor below.
"What do you think the Commander will say when he gets here? Will he be impressed with our performance—or furious at our lack of discipline?"
Dan didn't flinch at the rhetorical weight of the question.
"He'll focus on results, not the mess," Dan said pragmatically. "The Commander isn't one to linger. He'd rather be in his office than here, so his visit is a long shot in itself."
Boss John finally turned, his sharp eyes softening as laughter broke across his face.
"You dimwitted fool," he grinned. "I've missed you."
He stepped forward and pulled Dan into a firm, brief hug.
"Sorry for the wait, sir," Dan replied with a grin. Then, teasing, he added, "You know how much I love the sun."
Boss John chuckled, punching Dan lightly on the shoulder before retreating to his desk.
"You're looking good. New haircut?"
"Not my idea," Dan admitted nervously. "Mary insisted. Said it was time for a fresh look to go with my first day back."
"Mary, huh?" Boss John chuckled again. "That wife of yours is something else. I picked the right one for you. Aren't I the greatest uncle?"
Dan smirked, shaking his head as John rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a file.
"Here," John said, sliding it across the desk. "Your new team."
Dan stared at the file, his hand hovering but never reaching. Instead, he stood abruptly.
"I'm sorry, sir. I can't do this."
He turned toward the door.
"If you walk out that door," Boss John warned, his tone sharpening, "don't think about coming back."
Dan froze, his hand resting on the handle.
"Do you think this is what your late team would've wanted?" John asked softly.
"Maybe," Dan said bitterly.
"No," John answered firmly. "They wouldn't. Their deaths weren't your fault, Dan. You can't keep blaming yourself."
Dan's voice broke with anger. "How can you be so sure? It was my plan. My responsibility. They followed my orders—and they died for it."
"They were my team. I failed them. I can't lead another team. Not after that."
He opened the door slightly, but John's words struck like a blade.
"Do you think they followed you out of obligation?"
Dan turned just enough to see John dusting a framed photograph. It showed Dan with his late team, laughter frozen in time, all of them alive and full of trust.
Dan flinched. The door closed again.
"They followed you because they trusted you," John said quietly. "Not because they had to. Trust is the hardest thing to earn as a leader."
He slid the file closer.
"Your new team. They've been trained for this, and you're the only one who can lead them. Show them the same leader your old team saw in you."
Dan exhaled sharply, finally gripping the file. He opened it. Charlie and Ben's faces stared back from the first page.
"New Rigal..." he whispered. "My old team's name."
"In their honor," John nodded. "Lead them well, Dan. I know you can."
Dan closed the file with steady resolve, bowed slightly, and walked out. Determination had returned to his step.