Chapter 3: The Fire Beneath
Aaron sat alone on the rooftop of the precinct, a cup of coffee growing cold in his hands. Below him, the city sprawled like a wounded animal—restless, twitching, broken. Sirens echoed in the distance. Somewhere, someone screamed. Somewhere else, no one even flinched.
He stared at the skyline for a long time, jaw clenched.
"This can't go on," he muttered to himself.
But that wasn't the real question. The real question was—
Who was going to stop it?
His mind turned instinctively to Tina and Ethan.
They were the only people he trusted.
But just as quickly, he pictured Ethan—bleeding in that alley, curled on the ground. Tina—cornered by something she couldn't code her way out of.
His grip tightened on the paper cup.
"No."
He wouldn't drag them into this. Not now. Not like this.
If he was going to do something about this city, it had to start with those who chose danger. People who had already accepted the cost.
People like him.
---
Later that day, Aaron walked through the echoing hallways of police station—not as an officer heading to his next case, but as a man on a quiet mission.
He moved department to department, watching. Listening. Observing.
He noticed how some officers laughed too loudly at their desks, too detached from the case files in front of them. He saw who dropped reports without reading them. Who scrolled through their phones during active calls.
But he also noticed others.
In the records room, he spotted Officer Darrel, an aging man with silver streaks in his hair, hunched over a pile of paperwork even after the shift was done.
"Working late, Darrel?" Aaron asked casually.
Darrel didn't even look up.
"Someone's got to do it right."
Aaron smiled faintly and walked on.
In the forensics lab, he found Priya, a forensic analyst, currently suspended. Her name wasn't on the official roster anymore, but Aaron had heard the story.
"She filed a misconduct report against her supervisor," someone had whispered.
"Stupid move," another added. "Now she's out."
Aaron made a mental note.
In the traffic division, he overheard James—a traffic officer—talking in low tones to a colleague about gang vehicles he'd spotted off-duty. He'd been logging license plates in his own time. No one asked him to.
Aaron didn't approach. Not yet. He was just watching—for now.
He moved through the hallways like a shadow, collecting faces, collecting intentions. Trying to separate the indifferent from the burdened.
---
Meanwhile, in the cybercrime division, Tina sat behind three monitors, the glow of cascading green code reflecting in her eyes.
Another alert. Another flagged threat. Another report sent upward, to vanish into some locked drawer.
She rubbed her temples, exhaling sharply. Behind her, two colleagues chuckled over a meme someone had sent in a group chat.
She turned her chair slightly, staring at the ceiling light flickering above her.
Her inbox was full. Her reports were detailed. Her findings were valid.
And nothing happened.
She hadn't spoken to Aaron since the night at his place. But she could sense it—that something inside him had shifted.
He was on fire.
She wasn't.
"What am I even doing?" she whispered to herself.
She wasn't a cop. She didn't hold a gun or walk the streets. She was just… behind the screen. Watching. Hoping things didn't get worse.
Maybe that was enough.
Or maybe she was lying to herself.
---
The sun dipped low behind the city.
At Jass Restaurant, Ethan mopped the floor, humming faintly to a tune playing from an old speaker overhead. The yellowed bruise on his cheek had almost faded.
"Ethan, you missed a spot."
Jessica's voice cut through the rhythm as she walked by, tray in hand.
"I'm leaving it there for artistic effect," Ethan said, grinning.
She rolled her eyes and kept walking.
Outside, two men shouted near a fruit cart. One shoved the other. No one stepped in. A police car passed right by—didn't even slow down.
Ethan saw it all through the glass.
He paused for a moment.
Then went back to mopping.
He didn't like the way the city felt lately. The tension. The simmering chaos. The casual violence.
But he wasn't a cop. He wasn't an official. He didn't have a badge or a mission.
He was just trying to make it through the day.
Survive.
Get paid.
Go home.
---
That night, Aaron returned to his apartment long after the city had gone to sleep. His notebook was stuffed with names. Scribbled notes. Faces. Observations.
He dropped it on the table, kicked off his boots, and sat on the edge of his bed.
Staring at the ceiling fan, he thought again of Tina. Of Ethan.
He could call them right now.
He could ask for help.
They might even say yes.
But what would it cost them?
He couldn't do that. Not yet.
He leaned forward, opened the notebook again, and scribbled another name beneath the growing list.
He didn't know what exactly he was building yet.
But it was something.
Quiet. Patient. Dangerous.
And it had already begun.
---
End of Chapter