Chapter 1: DEAD MAN'S BADGE
Pain.
That's the first thing. Not confusion. Not fear. Just pain—white-hot, all-consuming, screaming through every nerve.
I can't breathe. Something's crushing my chest. My arm bends the wrong way. Blood in my mouth. Copper taste. The world tilts sideways.
Where am I?
The thought surfaces through the agony. I force my eyes open. Darkness. Trees. Shattered glass glittering like stars across twisted metal. A truck. There's a truck embedded in the front of—
The car. I'm in a car. The wreckage of one.
Movement catches my attention. There's a man in the driver's seat. He's not moving. Not breathing. His head rests against the steering wheel at an angle that makes my stomach turn. A badge glints on his chest. Sheriff. He was a sheriff.
Is. He is a sheriff. Was I—
The pain spikes again. My ribs. Something grinds inside my chest and I gasp, tasting more blood. My arm—I can see it now in the moonlight filtering through the broken windshield—is shattered. Bone pressing against skin from the inside.
I should be dead. This level of trauma, this much damage—I should be dead.
But I'm not.
Something shifts in my chest. Not pain this time. Something else. A sensation like bones moving, like tissue rearranging. I feel it happening beneath my skin. The broken rib sliding back into place. The arm straightening.
What the—
A face appears outside my window. Male. Maybe thirty. Dark eyes assessing me with the cold calculation of someone who's seen violence before. His gaze travels from my face to the dead sheriff, then back to me.
"You're supposed to be dead," he says. Not concerned. Just stating a fact.
I try to respond. Blood bubbles on my lips instead of words.
He reaches through the broken window, checking my pulse. His fingers press against my neck. I feel my own heartbeat—too fast, too weak, but there. Definitely there.
"Impossible," he mutters. He pulls back, studying me again. Then he moves to the driver's side.
Through the haze of pain and that strange sensation of my body repairing itself, I watch him go through the dead sheriff's pockets. Wallet. Badge. Gun. He's looting a corpse.
The thought should horrify me. Instead, something cold and practical notes: He's a professional. Knows what he's looking for.
He returns to my window. "Deputy," he says, reading something. My badge, I realize. I'm wearing a deputy's badge. "Marcus Webb."
Is that my name?
I don't know. That realization hits harder than the physical pain. I don't know who I am. I don't know where I came from. I remember—
Nothing. Blank space where memories should be. Just this moment. This pain. This strange, impossible healing.
"You're healing." He says it flatly. "Saw your arm. Saw it straighten."
The grinding sensation in my chest slows. The rib settles into place. I can breathe. Not well, but better. The pain starts to fade from white-hot to merely agonizing.
"Help." The word finally makes it past my lips.
"You're not asking the right question." He crouches by the window, meeting my eyes. "You should be asking why I'm here. Why I showed up at this crash. What I was planning to do."
I manage to turn my head slightly. The truck that hit us—no driver. Engine still running. Skid marks. Not an accident. Deliberate.
"You." My voice is rough, wrong. "You did this."
"No." His expression doesn't change. "But I know who did. I know why. And I know what I was going to do about it."
He pulls the sheriff's badge from his pocket. Turns it in the moonlight.
"Lucas Hood," he says. "That's who I'm going to be tomorrow. New sheriff of Banshee, Pennsylvania. Fresh from training, ready to start. And you—" He pauses, studying me again. "You're Deputy Marcus Webb. You survived the crash that killed your sheriff. Injuries will explain a few weeks of recovery time."
My brain struggles to process. "You're stealing his identity."
"Was planning to." He pockets the badge. "But you're a complication. You're alive. You witnessed me at the scene. And whatever the hell you are—" His gaze drops to my arm, now straight, still bloody but functionally whole. "—you're not normal."
I test my arm. It moves. Hurts, but moves. My chest expands with a full breath. The pain is fading, replaced by something else. A tingling. An awareness of my body putting itself back together.
"I don't know what I am," I tell him honestly. Because what else can I say?
"But you're a witness to me being here. And I'm a witness to whatever the fuck you just did." He tilts his head. "Mutual assured destruction. Classic standoff."
The logic settles over me with strange clarity. Expose him as an impostor, he exposes me as something impossible. We're tied together.
"You're going to be the sheriff," I say slowly. "I'm going to be your deputy."
"That's one option." He watches me carefully. "Other option is I kill you now, take both identities, report you died in the crash."
"Except you already saw me heal. Might be harder to kill than you think."
A ghost of a smile. "Might be. You willing to test it?"
I meet his eyes. There's no fear in them. No hesitation. He's killed before. Will kill again if necessary. But there's also calculation. He's weighing options, just like I am.
"Partnership," I say. "You get your sheriff position. I get... a life."
"A life as Deputy Marcus Webb."
"Better than being dead in a car crash."
He considers this. A minute passes. The night is quiet except for the ticking of cooling metal and the distant sound of traffic on the highway.
"Okay," he finally says. "But we do this right. Bodies get burned beyond recognition. Sheriff and deputy headed to Banshee, crashed on the way, Webb survived with injuries. Clean story."
"And the truck?"
"Won't be here by morning. People I know will handle it." He extends his hand through the window. "Welcome to the dead man's club, Deputy."
I grip his hand. His fingers are warm. Mine are probably cold from blood loss. But the handshake is firm. A contract sealed in the wreckage of other men's lives.
He helps me from the car. My legs almost buckle. The healing hasn't reached there yet—bruised, battered, but functional. I stand in the Pennsylvania night, breathing air that smells like pine and gasoline, and realize I'm alive.
More than that. I'm becoming alive. Whatever put me in this body, whatever gave me these abilities, gave me a second chance.
We work in silence. He's efficient. Knows how to stage a scene. The sheriff's body gets positioned. The fire starts with practiced ease. We stand back and watch it burn.
"I'm going to need your help," he says quietly. "Being a sheriff. I've never been a cop."
"What were you?"
"Thief. Just got out of prison. Came here looking for someone." He glances at me. "You?"
"I don't know." The admission costs me. "I don't remember anything before waking up in that car."
He absorbs this. Nods slowly. "Convenient amnesia. Explains why you're taking this so well."
Is that what this is? Am I taking it well? I feel... calm. Focused. Like some part of me understands survival requires adaptation. No time for panic or existential crisis. Just forward movement.
The fire reaches its peak. Orange flames lick the night sky. Somewhere distant, a siren wails—someone finally noticed the smoke.
"Time to go," he says. "I have a truck a mile back. We walk, get there before emergency services arrive, drive to Banshee. Sheriff and deputy, starting fresh."
"One question," I say. "The person you came looking for. In Banshee."
"What about them?"
"Going to complicate things?"
His jaw tightens. "Probably."
"Then we'll deal with it. Partners deal with complications."
He studies me for a long moment. "You know, Deputy Webb, I was expecting someone else entirely. But maybe this works better."
We start walking. My body continues its impossible healing. Each step hurts less than the last. By the time we reach his truck—parked off the road, hidden by trees—I'm almost functioning normally.
He drives. I sit in the passenger seat, staring at my hands. They're bloody but whole. Marcus Webb's hands. Or mine now. Same thing.
"You have a name?" he asks after a few miles. "Real one, before Webb?"
I think about it. Nothing surfaces. Just blank space. So I make a choice.
"Ben," I tell him. "Ben Franklin."
He snorts. "Benjamin Franklin. The founding father."
"Seemed appropriate. New identity in Pennsylvania. Historical irony."
"You've got a sense of humor. That'll help." He glances at me. "I'm keeping Lucas. It's what people will call me anyway. Might as well make it easy."
"Lucas and Ben. Sheriff and deputy."
"Two liars walking into a town full of secrets." He sounds almost amused. "What could possibly go wrong?"
Everything, I think. Everything could go wrong.
But I smile anyway. Because I'm alive. Because I have abilities that shouldn't exist. Because tomorrow I get to start a life that isn't mine but could be.
The road stretches ahead. Dark trees on both sides. Pennsylvania countryside beautiful in its isolation.
"Tell me about Banshee," I say.
Lucas talks. I listen. And somewhere behind us, a car burns with two dead men inside—men whose names we're stealing, whose lives we're assuming, whose deaths give us permission to exist.
I should feel guilty.
I don't.
I feel hungry. Alive. Ready.
The healing is complete. My body is whole. And tomorrow, I'll walk into a police station wearing a dead man's badge, partnered with a thief playing sheriff.
The wolf, I think distantly. That's what I am. Not the deputy. Not Marcus Webb. Something else wearing human skin.
But the town doesn't need to know that yet.
Dawn creeps over the horizon as Banshee's lights appear in the distance.
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them . No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1