At the site of the old gas station, chaos reigned. Police officers moved in wary clusters among the charred ruins, murmuring to each other, scribbling hurried notes, the stink of smoke clinging to skin and fabric alike. The air was still thick, damp with soot, acrid enough to sting the throat — so dense it felt like it could be cut with a knife.
Sam and Carl pulled up, and the mood hit them immediately: this was not going to be a good morning. The case with the so‑called "maniacs" was already slipping out of control; superiors breathing down their necks, reporters circling like vultures. And now — a fire. Another collapsed building. Another mess when they were already out of strength and patience.
"One damn thing after another," Sam muttered, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, grimacing at the wasteland of twisted metal and ash.
