Chapter 4 – Ashes in the Veins of the City
Crestwood Police Headquarters sat like a block of concrete certainty in the heart of town. Not elegant, not proud, not something carved into the skyline to inspire faith—just a bunker dressed in glass and steel, squatting across from the central transit hub where buses coughed out diesel smoke and commuters spilled into the veins of the city. The sidewalks around it carried a permanent crowd: street vendors, lawyers in slick suits, mothers tugging children. On the opposite corner, the new courthouse's marble gleamed pale in the fading autumn sun, but the HQ itself was utilitarian—a stack of gray with narrow slits of windows, cameras angled like restless eyes.
Every car that passed slowed almost unconsciously when it neared the front steps, as if wary of catching attention. Patrol cruisers angled in and out of the motor pool, their light bars dark but their presence loud. An iron badge welded to the front doors announced CRESTWOOD POLICE DEPARTMENT in serif capitals, no motto beneath it. No promise of service or protection. Just a fact.
Inside, the air held the sour tang of burned coffee and printer toner. The briefing room had been designed for efficiency, not comfort—rows of steel-backed chairs, a projection wall, the faint hum of overused air-conditioning. Along the side, the squad guides leaned against plaster walls while detectives hunched at tables, notebooks out, ties loosened. Forensics techs had their station near the front, laptops open, cables knotted across the floor like a web.
Chief Slate presided from the head of the room. Sixty-something, with silver hair cropped military short, his face carved in granite planes, and eyes that never softened. To most, he looked the part: Crestwood's immovable stone, the wolf-king who had clawed his way upward to rule the pack. But Caleb knew better.
Chief Slate sat across the room, his jaw tight, his face as impassive as a slab of stone. To anyone else, he looked like the picture of authority—Crestwood's iron chief, the old wolf who had clawed his way to the top. But Caleb knew the truth.
Slate's climb hadn't been clawed; it had been greased. Every rung of the ladder soaked in Halvern money. Every badge, every promotion, every city council nod bought and delivered. Slate wasn't the master of this department; he was its overseer, a man who moved their poisons through the veins of Crestwood like sewage under sidewalks. Arms shipments, pharmaceutical runs scrubbed clean for export, trucks never stopped at the border because Slate had looked the other way. Mayor Jonas played his puppet part too. Together they turned the department into a machine that kept the Halverns' kingdom humming.
Caleb's eyes slid sideways toward Captain Lily Cassandra as she perched near the forensics table. Blonde hair wrapped in a tight bun, lips pressed together, posture straight as if sculpted for compliance. Pretty, still, in her middle years—too pretty for her rank, some whispered. Her smile carried secrets, and her salute carried obedience. Slate's lapdog. Jonas's mistress. The Halverns' echo.
And Caleb—he was no cleaner. His hands had carried messages, made arrangements, silenced questions. He wasn't a puppet, not like Slate or Lily. He liked to think of himself as something else—an operator, a man who worked with giants because standing against them was suicide.
Until Azaqor.
That shadow had taken something from him—something no man was meant to lose. And it was breaking him to pieces. He felt it in the grind of his molars, in the way his knuckles whitened against the chair arms. He didn't name it. Couldn't. But every breath he took felt like splinters because of it.
The lights dimmed. Projections hit the wall. The first image flickered: Victoria Lockridge. Or what remained of her. Blurred visuals of limbs, disembodied, rearranged in grotesque order. Flesh was canvased with symbols.
The Negasign.
A concentric inverted spiral inside a three-eyed, closed triangle. Each eye wept black, ink-dark tears. Around it, a six-fingered handprint, fingers warped and claw-like. And at the center, the void: blank, empty, untouched skin where the carving refused to be.
The forensics officer spoke clinically, though his voice betrayed a slight tremor:
"Based on the abrasions, the symbol wasn't cut with a blade. Too precise. Nor was it tattooed—no ink residue, no heat distortion. Our hypothesis is that a fine-point cauterizing instrument was used. Something experimental. Surgical. The tissue burned in microscopic layers, leaving the flesh smooth, not ragged. Whoever did this had training. Or tools beyond medical standards."
Caleb's stomach coiled. His mind barely heard the rest. The Negasign was more than a carving. It was a wound in order itself.
Captain Cassandra stepped forward, voice rising sharp, dramatic, a performance for the room.
"We can't let this psychopath drag us through the mud. The public is already sharpening their pitchforks. If we don't find Azaqor—this monster—fast, we're finished. The press will crown us Crestwood's biggest joke. Imagine the headlines: A serial butcher runs wild while the city's finest sit on their hands!"
A patrol lieutenant, fresh-faced and frowning, raised a hand. "Pardon me, Captain, but—wasn't Azaqor caught already? Isn't Lucian Freeman behind bars? His trial's pending."
Another detective echoed, muttering, "Yeah, thought we bagged the bastard two years ago."
Caleb leaned forward, his chair groaning under the shift. His voice cut across the room.
"At first, my department thought the same. We were baffled. But this—" he gestured to the projection, "—this isn't Freeman's hand. The Negasign's return means only one thing. He had an accomplice. And that accomplice has stepped out of the dark."
The room stirred, whispers spreading like infection.
Caleb pressed on. "Victoria Lockridge wasn't the first. Days ago, Marlene Wynter was killed in her home. Same pattern. Same brutality. The killer didn't stop there. He made contact with her daughter."
A few heads snapped up. "Contact?" someone repeated.
"Untraceable connection," Caleb said, jaw tight. "Masked voice. No origin point. It wasn't a call—it was… something else. A sound woven with static and distortion, the kind of echo you'd swear came from inside your own head. He toyed with her. Played with Aubrey Wynter. Forced her to listen as he cut her mother's throat. The footage shows it."
His composure cracked on the last words, voice hitching sharp. Slate's eyes caught the tremor instantly. "Calm yourself, Lieutenant," the chief said, firm, unyielding.
Caleb swallowed hard, straightened. "Yes, sir."
The next projection snapped onto the wall. A hooded figure, blurred at the edges as though the camera itself recoiled. On his chest glowed the Negasign again, but this time not carved. This time dyed in red across his shirt—bright, wet, almost pulsing.
Gasps hissed through the room. Officers muttered, hands shifting uncomfortably.
Slate's palm slammed the table like a hammer. "Enough." The room froze.
"I want a manhunt. Crestwood HQ, North Precinct, South Precinct. Every squad, every patrol. We scour this city clean."
He rose, slow but imposing, his gaze like cold marble. The squads snapped to salute. He returned none, only adjusted his jacket and strode out, his steps measured, unbending, echoing down the hall like a gavel strike.
Caleb exhaled, his pulse thudding as he gathered his files. His chair scraped, and he rose, another soldier preparing for a war that was already lost.
---
Evening draped itself across the highway in bruised shades of orange and purple. Caleb's Dodge cut along the asphalt, black against the dying light. His grip on the wheel was rigid, his eyes hollowed by exhaustion. Every signpost blurred past without meaning.
He pulled off near the cemetery. Gravel crunched under tires as he rolled to a stop.
The funeral was already closing. The coffin descended with the groan of ropes, the hollow thump of earth ready to swallow. A handful of mourners stood in silence, black-clad shapes beneath skeletal trees. Aubrey Wynter knelt, shoulders quaking, an elderly woman clutching her arm as if to keep her from collapsing entirely. Soil rained down in muted handfuls. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.
Caleb approached, bouquet in hand, but stopped at a distance. The flowers were white lilies, clutched too tightly, their stems bending under his grip. He stood apart. He always stood apart.
Days passed.
The tombstone was set, gray marble etched clean:
Marlene Wynter
Beloved mother, devoted servant, steadfast soul.
Fresh flowers already crowded the grave—petals bright against the damp soil. Caleb knelt, tears unashamed as they streaked down his cheeks. He placed his bouquet gently beside the others, hand lingering, head bowed.
For once, the mask cracked entirely. His body shook with quiet sobs.
A sound shifted nearby—steps on gravel. He turned his head just enough.
Aubrey Wynter stood a few yards away, her face pale, red-rimmed, confusion flickering across her features. She knew him—Lieutenant Detective Caleb. And here he was, broken at her mother's grave, tears streaming, as if the weight of the world had finally crushed him.
Her brows furrowed. Her lips parted
, wordless.
The cemetery wind whispered through dry branches.