6:13 a.m.
East Sector – Abandoned Factory District
Rain still fell, lighter now. Almost apologetic. But the damage was done.
Blue tape fluttered in the breeze. Flashing lights strobed against cracked walls and rusted steel beams. The scent of blood hadn't left—it just learned how to blend in.
Detective RowanIves lit his third cigarette before the sun even broke the skyline. His coat was soaked. His shoes—ruined. But it wasn't the rain that bothered him.
It was the silence.
No screams. No struggling. No signs of resistance.
Just bodies.
Seven of them.
All armed. All trained. All dead or unconscious with surgical-level damage. Every bone broken looked… deliberate. As if whoever did it didn't just want to kill them—he wanted to send a message.
"Looks like a goddamn exorcism," Rowan muttered, squinting at one of the corpses. Jaw shattered. Arm twisted backward. A clean knife wound through the thigh. "Who the hell does this?"
His partner, DetectiveLynnArlo, knelt by another victim.
"Not just who..." she whispered. "Why."
There was no sign of the girl.
Blood on the chair. Ropes cut clean. Her school jacket left behind, soaked and crumpled on the ground.
Rowan flipped open his notepad.
> SEVEN MEN — MOB TATTOOS
RUSTMARK SYMBOL = GANG TIES
ALL TAKEN OUT WITH PRECISION
VICTIM (FEMALE, 14-16?) — MISSING
NO FINGERPRINTS, NO CCTV, NO WITNESSES
POSSIBLE VIGILANTE? POSSIBLE HIT?
He sighed and ran a hand through his graying hair. "This city's been swallowing itself for years, but this—this feels different."
Lynn stood and pulled something from the shadows.
A knife.
Stainless steel. Balanced grip. Serrated on one edge. Cleaned recently—but missed a small blood flake near the hilt. She bagged it.
Rowan raised an eyebrow. "You think our ghost forgot his weapon?"
"No," she replied. "I think he left it."
Elsewhere…
An alley. An old vending machine. A hoodie.
Stray sat alone. Rain dripping off his hood. His knuckles raw. The girl—gone. He left her with an underground doctor two hours ago. No names. No questions.
He didn't wait.
He couldn't.
Something about the way those men moved last night…
They weren't freelancers.
They were trained.
And they were waiting.
But for who?
Stray closed his eyes, remembering the faint whisper the girl had managed before passing out.
"...they knew you'd come…"
He hadn't told anyone. Hadn't even told himself.
But something was wrong. This wasn't random.
They weren't after the girl.
They were waiting for him.
Back at the crime scene…
Rowan picked up a phone ringing from one of the downed men. Still barely alive—hooked up to oxygen. Couldn't speak.
But the phone kept ringing.
Unlisted number.
He answered it.
Silence.
Then static.
Then a voice. Calm. Measured.
"He wasn't supposed to be there."
Click.
Line dead.
Rowan stared at the phone.
"... we've got a problem."
End of Chapter 2.