Crimson Ties

The morning sky was a muted gray, heavy with clouds that threatened to spill at any moment. The city was waking slowly, the air damp and carrying the metallic tang of imminent rain. Vince's car rolled through streets that looked like they'd been left behind by time—buildings with peeling paint and cracked facades stared blankly at the road, their windows reflecting nothing but the dreary sky.

Graffiti layered over graffiti on walls and bus stops, some of it artful, most of it crude. Broken streetlights leaned like tired sentinels, and the sidewalks were speckled with trash that no one had bothered to clear. A few stragglers shuffled along, heads bowed under umbrellas or hoods, their movements mechanical, as if resigned to the monotony of another day in Bog Bay.

Somewhere

The room was shrouded in darkness, save for the dim, flickering light of a single lamp sitting atop a table. The shadows cast long and unsettling shapes across the walls. On the table, a handgun, a bloodied knife, and several scattered pictures lay, their presence ominous in the gloom.

An older man, grizzled and bearded, sat motionless before the table, his eyes cold as they scanned the objects before him. His hands rested on the edge of the table, the faint light glinting off his weathered skin.

From behind him, a nervous voice broke the stillness.

"Y-you okay? H-how's the wound?" The stuttering man stood there, his figure trembling slightly as his voice wavered with fear.

The older man—his expression unchanging—didn't immediately respond. After a long pause, he replied in a low, gravelly voice, "Just a scratch. It'll heal soon."

The stuttering man shifted uneasily, his eyes darting around the room, but his voice was insistent. "B-but... y-you... you messed up. You—y-you were chased by a bunch of thugs, weren't you? You—your prime time's over... You... you can't keep up anymore..." His voice trailed off, his nervousness growing.

The older man's gaze remained fixed, unwavering. "I'll fix it," he said, his tone final and resolute. He then reached for a pair of rubber gloves, the soft sound of latex stretching as he adjusted them with meticulous care.

The stuttering man stepped back, eyes wide and unsure. "Y-yes... yes, of course..."

The older man didn't answer. He stood up, his movements slow and deliberate. With a sudden, sharp motion, he took the bloodied knife and plunged it into a picture, the image of Vince staring up at him. Next to it were other photographs, faces of people he had encountered recently, all now marked in the same unsettling way.

The room was heavy with the silence that followed, the faint hum of the lamp the only sound in the otherwise still air.

Saturday, October 12, 2024

Solara, Solstice, Bog Bay City

Bog Bay Police Department

Morning

The rain drummed steadily on the roof of the car as Vince pulled into the BBPD parking lot. The glow of the building's neon sign reflected off the wet pavement, casting shifting streaks of red and blue across his windshield. He turned off the engine, letting the silence settle, save for the rhythmic tapping of rain.

Then again.

That feeling.

He stiffened in his seat, his gaze darting to the rearview mirror. Nothing. Just the faint outlines of parked cars, shrouded in shadow and mist. But the sensation gnawed at him—prickling at the nape of his neck, a weightless pressure that refused to let go.

Someone's watching.

He turned his head sharply, scanning the lot. The rain blurred the world into a murky canvas of gray and black, but nothing moved. Nothing obvious, anyway. His hand lingered near the door handle as his eyes narrowed.

It wasn't the first time. He'd ignored it before—a brush of paranoia, he'd thought, chalking it up to exhaustion. But not anymore. The subtle shifts in the air, the way his gut twisted—these weren't random. He'd survived too much to doubt his instincts.

For a moment, he stayed still, the tension in his shoulders taut as a bowstring. Whoever it was, they were good—keeping their distance, staying invisible. For now.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking off the unease. He had more immediate concerns to deal with, and the BBPD wasn't a place to show weakness.

Sliding out of the car, Vince adjusted his coat, his movements faster. Casting one last glance over his shoulder before striding toward the building, the rain soaking into his hair as the parking lot faded behind him.

Inside the BBPD, the ambient buzz surged around him, an intangible yet overwhelming presence. The fluorescent lights above illuminated the scuffed linoleum floors and the crowded bulletin boards along the walls. He barely took in the surroundings when his attention was drawn to a commotion ahead.

A burly police officer roughly escorted a wiry man in a tattered hoodie down the hall toward the interrogation rooms. The man's wrists were cuffed, and his face was a mask of defiance despite the fresh bruise blooming on his cheek.

"I told you, man, I don't know nothin'!" the man spat, twisting against the officer's grip.

"Yeah? Funny how you 'don't know nothin'' with fifty grams of white powder stuffed in your sock," the officer shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Another officer leaned against a nearby desk, sipping a cup of coffee. He glanced over and smirked. "How many times is this guy gonna get busted before he learns to tie his shoes?"

The cuffed man shot him a glare. "Laugh it up, pig. You'll see. I got people on the outside!"

"Yeah, yeah," the escorting officer muttered, yanking the man forward. "Save it for your lawyer."

Vince watched them disappear down the hallway, shaking his head slightly. Just another day in Bog Bay.

Then he pushed open the door to the dispatch area, the sound of it echoing slightly in the quiet, bustling space. The low murmur of police radios, combined with the occasional clatter of keyboards, filled the room. His eyes immediately found James O'Connor, standing near a desk, his headset perched slightly askew. Sandy blond hair fell messily over his forehead, and his green eyes flicked between the screens in front of him with practiced ease. His uniform was neat enough, though the tie was loosened, the top button undone, giving him his usual air of casual competence. James, ever at ease even amidst chaos, was typing rapidly with one hand while adjusting his mic with the other, his voice a calm constant in the din.

James spotted Vince and gave him a slight nod, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "You're late again," James remarked, his voice laced with a friendly but professional tone. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head before dropping his hands back onto the desk. "Got a fresh lead on something?"

Vince raised an eyebrow. "You could say that."

James chuckled. "That's a hell of an understatement, detective." He gestured toward the hallway leading to the captain's office. "By the way, Captain called for you. Said he wanted to talk to you about something... urgent. Also come back here after that, i have something else to tell you too"

Vince nodded, acknowledging the brief exchange. "Thanks. I'll head over now."

James gave him a knowing look, one that didn't need words to convey his curiosity, but he said nothing.

Vince stepped into Captain Simon's office, greeted by the low hum of a desk lamp and the faint scratch of pen on paper. The room smelled faintly of ink and stale coffee, cluttered with case files stacked precariously high on every flat surface. Behind the desk sat Simon, a man built like a retired boxer—broad shoulders that now stooped slightly from years hunched over reports. His face was a study in hard angles: a square jaw, deep-set gray eyes that could cut through excuses, and a permanent frown etched into his features. A dusting of silver peppered his neatly trimmed hair and close-cropped beard, giving him an air of authority that felt earned rather than demanded.

Without looking up, Simon muttered, "Still not knocking, huh?"

Vince ignored the jab, closing the door behind him. "Figured you'd appreciate the initiative."

Simon finally looked up, his expression unreadable. "Right. Initiative. Like taking on kidnappers solo? What, you moonlighting as some vigilante now?"

Vince smirked faintly. "Just being thorough."

Simon snorted, setting his pen down and gesturing to a chair. "Well, congratulations on bringing the Kensington girl back in one piece. The media's buzzing about it already. You're making us look good."

"I'm not doing it for the headlines," Vince replied, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall instead of sitting.

Simon leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled together as he regarded Vince. "No, but you're good at stirring pots that don't need stirring. Let me guess—you've got theories?"

"More than theories," Vince said, stepping forward. "The pattern's there if you look hard enough. The kidnappings over the past five years—"

Simon held up a hand, cutting him off with a heavy sigh. "Don't. We've had this conversation. You've got a habit of chasing ghosts."

"They're not ghosts," Vince shot back, his voice calm but insistent. "I've seen enough to know there's a connection."

"Yeah, and I've seen enough to know we're stretched thin. No time to play detective on your personal mysteries," Simon retorted.

Simon leaned back in his chair, his eyes flicking to Vince with a steady, unreadable look. "We've got a fresh one at Maple Leaf Park. A vagrant, found dead early this morning." He paused, picking up a report on his desk. "Body's cold. Witness claims to have seen something, but nothing concrete. You're on it."

Vince nodded slowly, processing. "A vagrant? Cause of death?"

Simon waved a hand dismissively. "You're the one with the nose for these things, figure it out. But don't waste time chasing shadows—do what needs to be done and move on."

The tension in the room lingered, Vince catching the subtle edge to Simon's words. "Anything else I need to know?"

Simon glanced back at his paperwork. "Yeah, only this: don't overthink it. It's probably just another unfortunate case. Not every dead body hides a conspiracy."

Without waiting for a response, Simon picked up his pen again, already returning to the next stack of papers. Dismissed without ceremony, Vince left the office, the folder tucked under his arm.