The police station smelled of coffee gone cold and paper that had sat too long in dusty cabinets. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, pale and unforgiving, spilling across rows of mismatched desks piled with files, case notes, and cheap monitors flickering with lagging feeds. Phones rang in the distance, muffled by the chatter of sergeants trading gossip, suspects shouting behind interview-room glass, and the mechanical clack of keyboards echoing through the open floor.
Lieutenant Caleb Saye sat at his desk, a half-empty cup of bitter black coffee in front of him. He hadn't touched it for over an hour. His fingers drummed restlessly on the wooden surface. The weight in his chest pressed down harder than the stale air in the room.
He hadn't been able to face her. Aubrey. His daughter. The word still felt foreign when he said it in his head, though the truth had been staring him down for months. The argument they'd had—the sharp words, the crack in her voice when she accused him of never being there, never stepping up—burned like hot iron inside him. He could have gone to see her. He could have found the courage. But instead he had retreated into the safety of his work, burying himself in reports, interrogations, and evidence. A coward's excuse for love.
The noise of the station dimmed around him as regret gnawed at the edges of his concentration. He wondered if he had already lost her completely.
"Caleb."
The voice snapped him back. He looked up to see Detective Nia Torres striding toward him, a thin file in her hand, her expression grim. Her braids were pulled back tight, uniform sleeves rolled to her elbows. She moved like someone who hadn't slept but refused to let fatigue win.
"Things just got a whole lot more complicated," she said flatly.
Caleb straightened in his chair, jaw tightening. "What do you mean, complicated?"
Instead of answering directly, Nia gestured to one of the uniformed officers across the room. "Hey, Morales. Turn that screen around."
The officer swiveled the monitor on his desk so that it faced them. A still image filled the display: a man's ID photo, sharp features, short cropped hair, neatly pressed shirt.
Caleb frowned. "What am I looking at?"
"Karan Mehra," Nia said quietly. "One of Azaqor's victims." She let that sink in for a beat before continuing. "But here's where it gets tangled: his younger brother, Arjun Desai, is currently missing. Vanished without a trace."
Caleb blinked, the name striking him with unexpected weight.
"And here's the kicker," Nia added, her voice dropping lower. "Arjun wasn't just anyone. He was the manager of Maison Salon. You know—the luxury salon owned by Marlene Wynter. Another Azaqor victim."
Before Caleb could fully process it, a familiar voice cut across the station like a mocking trumpet.
"Well, well. Isn't that fascinating?"
Owen Kessler entered the space with his usual self-satisfied air, trench coat collar popped, his smirk glued to his face as if it were part of his anatomy. He carried the kind of energy that filled the air with static, feeding on others' discomfort.
Caleb's jaw tightened again, this time with irritation. His entire demeanor shifted—the set of his shoulders stiff, the narrowing of his eyes. His dislike for Owen was palpable.
Nia noticed it immediately. Her gaze flicked between the two men, taking in the storm brewing beneath Caleb's silence.
Caleb forced his voice steady. "Is that intel true? Arjun Desai was managing Marlene Wynter's salon? Where'd you get that from?"
A new voice entered then, smooth and commanding.
"I'm afraid it came from me, Lieutenant Saye."
The room seemed to pause as a tall African American man stepped forward from the far side of the bullpen. He cut a striking figure: a dark navy suit, perfectly tailored, glinting cufflinks at his wrists. His tie was understated, charcoal silk, knotted with precision. He had the bearing of someone who walked into every room already in control. His physique was lean, muscles trained but not bulky, the kind of build that suggested years of conditioning. His hair was clipped short, the clean professional cut that spies in films always wore—practical, sharp, unobtrusive.
He pulled a badge from his breast pocket and flipped it open with practiced ease.
"Anthony Stroud, Office of Special Investigations." His voice was steady, deliberate, carrying authority without needing to raise its volume. "I was sent here by federal higher-ups to ensure the Azaqor case receives the attention it requires. Along with several… other discrepancies that your department seems unable—or unwilling—to address."
The station quieted a little. Even the sergeants at nearby desks leaned closer to listen.
"Discrepancies?" Caleb asked, suspicion in his voice.
Anthony's expression remained unreadable. "The victims. Several of them, as it turns out, weren't innocent civilians at all. They were criminals themselves. Victoria Lockridge. Karan Mehra."
Caleb's stomach tightened. "What do you mean by Karan Mehra?"
Anthony's eyes flicked to him, catching the unease in Caleb's tone. "Our office received an anonymous tip. Footage—taken about nine months ago—showing suspicious cargo being shipped into Karan Mehra's luxury watch shop. The Malhotra Horology."
The words hit Caleb harder than he wanted to admit. His hands curled slowly into fists on the desk.
Nia glanced at him, her brow furrowed, clearly registering the strain in his face. Owen, however, was staring at Caleb with a predator's amusement. For a split second, a smirk tugged his lips, subtle but unmistakable—a small Easter egg of satisfaction.
Anthony nodded at Morales, who tapped the keyboard. The screen shifted to grainy surveillance footage. A transport truck backed into the rear entrance of a shop. Shadows of men moved as they unloaded crates, setting them down with mechanical efficiency.
Anthony pointed at one. "Here." He tapped the glass. "Zoom."
The feed magnified until the print on one of the boxes was visible: Effexaine.
"What you're looking at," Anthony said, voice steady, "is an illegal drug. Effexaine. A designer hallucinogen. Gives users stress relief, false euphoria, an escape from reality. But prolonged use? It rots the flesh. It kills. Dozens of youths across the country dead from overdoses. Hundreds more lost to psychosis or suicide after their money ran dry."
As he spoke, the screen displayed slides: chemical breakdowns, digital recreations of how Effexaine attacked brain tissue, photographs of addicts—sunken eyes, decaying skin, corpses marked by its toll.
Caleb shifted in his chair, his face hardening.
"Fascinating," Owen drawled, leaning against a nearby desk, arms crossed. He angled his taunting grin directly at Caleb. "You know who makes Effexaine? The Halvern Consortium. Owned by the Halverns themselves. Oh, and you'll love this part—same Halverns who also poured money into Graham Lockridge's 'online goods' company. Remember that one? All above-board on paper. Until, of course, it wasn't. Until it was exposed as a sex trafficking operation."
The room fell silent at Owen's words.
Caleb shot him a warning look, but Owen plowed on. "And Graham? Vanished. Just like that. Daughter murdered by Azaqor. Funny how the dots keep connecting." His tone turned sharper, eyes still drilling into Caleb. "The more I see, the more I think this Azaqor killer is doing your jobs for you—cleaning the filth out of society."
The other officers shifted uncomfortably. Nia's lips tightened, uncertain. Caleb's brow furrowed, caught between irritation and thought.
Owen raised a hand as if in surrender. "Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying murder is justice. But let's not pretend. Most of the ones dead weren't saints."
"Maybe," Nia admitted reluctantly. "But then how do you explain Lucian Freeman? His family were criminals, sure, but his spree…? And then suddenly, after he's arrested, someone tips off the feds about Otis Freeman's empire, gets the whole network exposed."
"Maybe his accomplice turned on him," Owen said smoothly. "Maybe someone close decided to betray him."
"That doesn't make sense," Caleb interjected sharply.
Owen's grin widened. "Oh? Or maybe the Freemans were in bed with the Halverns all along. Don't tell me that's impossible, Lieutenant."
"That hasn't been proven," Caleb snapped.
"Would have been," Owen shot back, "if that whistleblower hadn't killed herself. Convenient, wasn't it?"
Anthony arched his brows. "You mean Hafts Veldman? She claimed the Halverns had ties to the Lockridge family before her sudden suicide."
"Suicide?" Owen scoffed. "Please. More like silenced."
He pushed further, tone dripping with implication. "And what about the Desai family? Karan's brother Arjun, his sister Rhea? Both vanished after Karan's death. Maybe whoever pushed Karan into trafficking Effexaine decided to cut loose ends."
Anthony nodded, lips pressed. "We believe Crestwood's police leadership may have been infiltrated. Too many gaps. Too much interference." His gaze lingered on Caleb.
Nia frowned, uneasy. Owen looked positively entertained.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Caleb demanded.
"Because," Owen said slyly, "you've always been a little too loyal to the Halverns. Weren't you the one who declared Hafts Veldman's death a suicide? Without showing any forensic proof?" His smirk widened. "Funny, considering you're also Aubrey Wynter's father."
Caleb froze. His eyes narrowed dangerously. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Nia stepped in hesitantly. "Owen overheard, Caleb. That night. You and Aubrey. The argument. She confronted you about being her father, about never being there."
Caleb's chest tightened.
Owen pressed harder, circling like a shark. "Marlene Wynter—luxury salon owner. Maison Salon. Her manager, Arjun Desai, brother of Karan Mehra. It's all connected. And you, Caleb—what exactly was your relationship with Marlene? Don't tell me you didn't know about Maison."
Caleb's voice dropped to a growl. "Where'd you even get intel on the salon?"
"From Marlene's residence," Owen shot back triumphantly. "Evidence recovered there."
"Bullshit," Caleb barked. He rose from his chair, fists tight. "There was never any document in her house proving she owned that salon."
Anthony tilted his head, eyebrows lifting. A realization flickered in his eyes.
Owen's grin widened into something almost feral. "Interesting, Caleb. How would you know what was—or wasn't—in Marlene's house at the time of her death? You weren't even in Crestwood then. So tell me—where were you?"
Caleb shoved him hard in the chest. Owen stumbled back, still laughing, the sound like sandpaper against Caleb's nerves.
"Mind your own business," Caleb snapped, turning on his heel and storming away.
Behind him, Owen called out casually, "At Karan Mehra's scene, remember? A cryptic riddle left by the killer. Still unsolved."
Anthony's gaze followed Caleb's retreating figure, his expression thoughtful, calculating.
---
That night, far from the sterile glow of the station, in a quiet apartment bathed in dim lamplight, Aubrey Wynter lay curled beneath a blanket. The sheets tangled around her bare legs. Her head rested on Tiana's shoulder, her breath slow, heavy. Tiana stroked her hair, playing with the strands gently, her touch soft and deliberate.
The room was silent except for their breathing, but the weight between them carried unspoken tension.
"Are you sure you need to do this?" Tiana whispered, voice edged with worry. "If you go through with it… it could cost you your life. That psychopath isn't just a killer, Aubrey. He's—" She stopped herself, squeezing Aubrey's hand.
Aubrey lifted her gaze, eyes wet with unfallen tears. Her voice was hoarse, fragile, but unwavering. "I have to. No matter what."
Tiana's grip tightened, fingers intertwining with hers. "Then whatever happens… I'll always be here for you. Always."
Aubrey's composure cracked. A single tear slid down her cheek, followed by another, until she pressed her forehead against Tiana's shoulder and let the grief escape. Gratitude mixed with fe
ar.
They kissed, desperate and tender, lips meeting with the weight of promises that words could never hold.
The night swallowed their silence.
---