Location: Mordveil Quarter — Undisclosed Holding Facility
Time: Night — The Interrogation
---
The room smelled of rust, stale smoke, and something older—something that had been left to rot in the walls for years. A single bulb swung from a cord in the ceiling, its light flickering like a dying heartbeat. Water dripped somewhere in the dark. The walls were concrete, stained with things no one had bothered to clean.
Caleb Saye hung from chains bolted to the ceiling. His wrists were raw, his shirt was gone, and his back was a map of welts—some fresh, some old, some still weeping. His head hung forward, chin to chest, breath shallow. The once-shining jewel of Crestwood's detective division had been reduced to this. A husk. A shadow. A man who had run out of favors to call in.
Three men stood around him. One held a whip, coiled loose in his hand. Another smoked a cigar, the cherry glowing orange in the dim light. The third leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, watching with the lazy interest of a man enjoying a show.
The one with the whip spoke first.
"You know, Cally, I almost feel bad for you."
He didn't sound like he felt bad. He sounded like he was savoring something.
"Almost. But then I remember—you did this to yourself. All that authority, all that prestige—and what did you do with it? Chased ghosts. Chased Azaqor. Chased Elijah Marcus." He let the name hang in the air, tasting it. "And look at you now."
The one with the cigar laughed, smoke curling from his nostrils.
"Shining jewel of the force. That's what they used to call him. Now look. Reduced to a shadow. A husk." He took a long drag and blew the smoke into Caleb's face. "You should thank your lucky stars, Cally. The only reason you're still breathing is that sister of yours. Viola. Madam Viola. She pulled some strings. Kept you from the knife."
He made a slow, deliberate gesture across his own throat.
"But you can't escape the Mysterium clan forever. Not after all your failures. Not after letting Azaqor slip through your fingers. Not after letting Elijah Marcus—" he said the name with a kind of awe, "—make a fool of the entire department."
The whip came down again. Caleb's body jerked. He didn't scream. He had stopped screaming hours ago.
---
The man with the whip stepped back, breathing hard, and tossed the weapon aside. He rolled his shoulders like a man who had just finished a workout.
"Okay, okay. That's enough of the physical stuff. Let's get creative."
He walked around Caleb slowly, circling like a shark.
"You know, I feel kind of bad for you. Here you are, getting put in your place for your idiocracy—your word, not mine—instead of looking after your poor, bedridden wife."
He clasped his hands together and pitched his voice high, mocking.
"Cally? Cally, where are you? I'm getting oh-so-lonely... oh... oh..."
The other men laughed—sharp, ugly sounds. The one leaning against the wall cupped his hands around his mouth.
"My doctor is feeling me..."
"He's feeling me so well..."
The men howled.
Caleb's head lifted, just slightly. His eyes—dull, bloodshot—found the man with the whip. His hand clenched. He pulled.
The chain at his ankle snapped taut. He didn't reach the man. He didn't even come close. He fell forward instead, the chain jerking him back, and his knees hit the concrete with a wet crack.
The man with the whip crouched down and grabbed a fistful of Caleb's hair, yanking his head up.
"What are you gonna do, huh? You wanna give me some?" He shook Caleb's head like a doll's. "Can't handle the truth? Your darling wife is currently being taken very good care of by her doctor."
Caleb's eyes changed. Something behind them—buried, half-dead—woke up and burned.
"That's right," the man said, grinning. "Too well, some might say. And there's nothing you can do about it. You're going to stay here for a very long time, Cally. Me and my buddies are going to enjoy every moment. The higher-ups are paying us to do it. Apparently, with all the new cadets graduating from those operative bases, us cops are becoming the old news." He leaned in. "They'll be the new. And there's going to be a bloodbath of layoffs when they start taking our jobs. So we've been feeling kind of down lately. And we need a stress reliever."
He patted Caleb's cheek.
"And what's more thrilling than inflicting pain on someone with a very former prestigious caliber of post?"
The men laughed again. One of them pulled out his phone and started recording.
"Man, I can't wait to show this to those reporter fanatics."
"Yeah, I can imagine the headline already."
The one with the cigar took a long drag. Then he stepped forward and pressed the cherry against Caleb's forehead.
Caleb's body jerked. His breath hissed through his teeth. The smell of burning skin filled the room.
The man held it there, watching Caleb's face, and his own expression shifted—not into cruelty, but into something worse. Something personal.
"You know," he said, "I had a nephew. Good kid. Used to do petty robberies—stealing parts from vehicles. Nothing serious. Just trying to survive. Put food on the table." He pulled the cigar away and looked at the burn mark. "Then you came along. You and your justice. You shot him. Just like that. He was seventeen." His voice cracked. "What was wrong with trying to survive? What was the issue with it?"
He stepped back, breathing hard, eyes wet.
"When I heard you were being held here, I was thrilled. It was like the heavens handed me a gift. A big one."
The men laughed. The one recording zoomed in.
And then—
The recording man's phone fell. His hand went to his throat. His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
A thin line—faint, silver, almost invisible—had appeared across his neck. It widened. Opened. And then crimson poured down his chest like a curtain being drawn.
He dropped.
The room went silent.
The other two men turned. Their eyes went wide. Their cigars and whips hit the floor. They scrambled for the door.
The door didn't open.
Something was holding it shut. Not a lock. Not a body. Something else—a pressure in the air, a weight in the room, like the whole world had leaned in to watch.
And then, from the shadows at the far end of the room, a figure stepped forward.
He was young. Tall. His coat was dark. His face was calm. His right hand was still extended, fingers half-curled, as if he had just finished writing something in the air.
The two men stared at him. One of them managed a whisper.
"Who—"
Elijah Marcus looked at them the way a man looks at furniture.
"I'm the one you've been talking about," he said. "The fool who made your department look stupid."
Neither of them answered.
"You should have kept the recording off," Elijah said.
---
Caleb Saye hung from his chains, staring at the young man in the dark coat. The burn on his forehead was still smoking. His back was still bleeding. His wife was still somewhere in a bed he couldn't reach, with a doctor he couldn't trust.
And the man who had ruined his life—the man he had spent months hunting—was standing in front of him, having just killed a cop with a gesture Caleb couldn't name.
"You," Caleb whispered.
Elijah crouched down until they were eye level.
"Me."