Chapter: The Alley
I never thought I'd get used to it—walking into a scene that smelled of blood and fear, where death had left its mark in the shadows. But after ten years on the force, you learn to put your emotions in a box, even when the box rattles like it's about to explode. That night, the call came in: "Possible homicide. Alley behind the old grocery on 14th. Reports of screaming."
I grabbed my coat, checked my flashlight, and stepped into the chill of the evening. Rain had left the streets slick and shining, and the air smelled faintly of metal and wet concrete. I had learned to read the city at night—the flicker of a neon sign, the echo of footsteps, the way the wind carried noises that didn't belong. But nothing prepared me for the alley.
The first thing I noticed was the smell. Iron, thick and sharp, lingering like smoke after a fire. I had smelled blood before—old wounds, accidents, fights—but this was different. Pure, fresh, and brutal. I tightened my grip on my flashlight, switching it on. The beam caught something that made my stomach turn: a child, sprawled across the wet concrete, body twisted at an unnatural angle. Eyes wide, staring into nothing, mouth frozen mid-scream.
I swallowed, forcing myself to breathe through it. My partner, Ramirez, crouched next to me, shaking his head. "Jesus…" he muttered, voice low. "This isn't right. Not a simple mugging."
I nodded, already noting the details: deep gashes across the torso, ribs shattered, hands coated in blood—both the child's and something else. Too much blood. The kind that tells you the scene wasn't just a fight; it was deliberate, violent, personal. Whoever did this didn't just want to hurt—he wanted to erase.
We called it in, securing the alley. Yellow tape snapped into place under the rain. The neighbors, drawn by the flashing lights and police cars, murmured and whispered. Someone had already taken photos with their phones. I could hear the distant siren of an ambulance, though it wasn't needed anymore. The boy was gone in ways we couldn't fix.
I crouched closer, flashlight steady in my hand. The wounds were… precise. Clean in some areas, ragged in others. Whoever did this had strength beyond a normal adult. There was intelligence behind the violence—the way the body had been torn, yet still left identifiable. My stomach churned, and I had to look away for a second. I had seen murder before, dozens of times, but this was different. Something in the chaos didn't make sense.
Ramirez whispered again. "You seeing this? His arms…" He pointed. I followed his finger. The boy's arms had claw marks, almost as if he had tried to fight back with more than fists. Too much effort for a child that age. Too much… resistance. My gut twisted.
We waited for CSI, the coroner, and the news crews that would inevitably descend on the scene. I lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply, trying to calm my nerves. Even in my years on the force, there are moments that unsettle you, that make you question what you think you know about the world. This was one of them.
The news would pick it up in the morning, a small headline at first: "Child Murdered in Alley; Police Investigating." But in the precinct, whispers began immediately. Officers speculated, theorized, and some joked darkly. That's how cops deal with horror—humor and denial. But I couldn't joke. Something about this didn't fit. It was too clean, too calculated. Whoever did this… wasn't human.
I had spent hours documenting, taking notes, preserving evidence. Every splash of blood, every mark on the walls, every shard of broken glass mattered. CSI arrived, and their cameras clicked and whirred. I noticed something odd—a faint pattern in the blood splatter, like the creature had been moving faster than we could see, striking, tearing, and disappearing. My fingers itched to trace it, but I knew it was already too late. The child was gone.
By midnight, the alley was cleared, tape removed, and the news vans had left, broadcasting short clips on live feeds. People were horrified, but they didn't understand. They never do. I stayed back, watching the rain drip down the walls, remembering the boy's eyes, the frozen scream. Something primal, inhuman, had committed this. And yet… whoever did it left no trail, no fingerprints, nothing we could follow.
The precinct was quiet when I returned. My report was typed, filed, and the evidence logged. But I couldn't shake the image of the boy. His face haunted me. I lit another cigarette, inhaling slowly, feeling the weight settle in my chest. Years of police work hadn't prepared me for this kind of cold efficiency, this level of violence wrapped in silence.
Later, I watched the news coverage from my desk. They called it a "tragic, unexplained murder." They showed a blurred photo of the alley. Parents would wake up in the morning, terrified, clutching their children. Society would demand justice, and we would hunt, question, and speculate. But we would never understand what had happened. Not really.
And that was what terrified me the most. Whatever—or whoever—had done this, it wasn't just a murderer. It was a predator unlike anything we had seen. Fast, intelligent, precise. Stronger than any child, any adult, any human should be. And yet it moved among us, unseen.
I rubbed my face and sighed, staring at the rain outside the precinct window. Another call came in—a burglary down the street—but I ignored it for a moment, lost in thought. The dark world we imagine in nightmares? It had come here. And it had left its mark.
I knew, deep down, that this was only the beginning. The boy in the alley was a warning, not an anomaly. Something else was out there, watching, learning, surviving. And we would see more.
The city slept uneasily that night. I did not.