We first had to cross the border between sectors if we wanted to make it to Sector 45, though I knew it wouldn’t take long. Unfortunately, the increased security and protocols has likely lead to paranoia in the general populace. Not to ntion the traffic it was causing, investigations were lasting upwards of 5 minutes per car.
Thankfully, we had badges, that ant sothing.
The officer at the Sector 45 checkpoint barely glanced at our IDs before waving us through, calling over two other patroln in gray uniforms. They looked young, helts clipped to their belts, eyes darting to us as they approached.
"You’re the ones looking for the suspect?" one of them asked, voice cautious.
I didn’t answer. Grant nodded for . "Yeah. We could use backup if he’s here."
They exchanged glances, then fell in behind us as we crossed into Sector 45.
The sector itself was dying in slow motion.
Towering tenents leaned against each other like drunks about to collapse, their windows dark, streets cracked and littered with rusting cans and discarded syringes. Wires hung like black veins overhead, the lights flickering on and off, never bright enough to chase away the shadows between the buildings. You could sll it too—the stale rot of old water, burnt plastic, and sothing tallic that lingered in the air.
Grant kept glancing at the map on his pad, but I didn’t need it. I’d never been to this place, but I’d lived in places like it for most of my life. You could feel the rhythm of F-Rank neighborhoods if you listened: the way people moved, eyes down, avoiding trouble they could never afford; the way doors shut softly when outsiders walked by.
The others followed as I led them down a cracked sidewalk, past a market stall that had been abandoned so long ago the tarpaulin roof was shredded, past rusting fences and shattered windows.
We found it at the end of a block where the streetlights didn’t reach.
The building was exactly as the Owl described it. A faded sign still clung above the shattered front window, letters missing, leaving only fragnts: "...RDARE S ORE." The glass was gone, replaced with jagged teeth of broken panes, and the tal door hung crooked on one hinge.
I paused, letting my hand brush against the band on my wrist, letting it snap softly, reminding to stay sharp.
"Here," I said.
Grant glanced around, frowning. "No caras anywhere."
"Wouldn’t matter if there were," I muttered, pushing the door open.
The sll hit us first.
Rot. Mold. Stale sweat. Burnt plastic. It was a cocktail of decay that clung to your lungs.
Inside, the place was in shambles. Shelves had collapsed, tools rusted beyond use scattered across the floor, nails and screws crunching under boots. But it wasn’t empty.
There were signs of life—blankets bunched in corners, cans stacked neatly near a rusted sink, a cracked mirror propped against a wall with a comb and a toothbrush beside it. Soone had been living here, maybe more than one person.
One of the patroln, a kid with freckles and tired eyes, shifted uneasily. "Creepy place."
"Stay sharp," I said, moving deeper.
We found the boxes in what used to be the back office. They were stacked neatly, dust brushed away from the lids, as if whoever lived here wanted quick access.
Grant opened one and froze, his breath catching.
Polaroids.
Dozens, maybe hundreds, each one with a face staring back. Boys. Girls. So no older than five. So teenagers. A few adults. Hos, street corners, school gates, market stalls. Each one captured with clinical precision, their faces frozen in a mont of unaware vulnerability.
Grant’s jaw tightened, his hand shaking slightly as he flipped through them. "This... This is him. It has to be."
I crouched beside him, flipping through the photos with gloved fingers. The kids’ eyes. Parents holding hands. Families smiling outside apartnts they couldn’t afford to leave. The Hyena wasn’t just hiding; he was hunting.
"We got him," I said quietly, though it felt more like a promise than a declaration.
We kept searching.
The building had two floors, the upper apartnts barely standing, floorboards sagging under our weight. Each room we checked was the sa: blankets in corners, boxes of scavenged food, old tools and tech parts, but the photos were the worst of it.
In one room, the second patrolman let out a sharp breath. "Over here!"
We moved in, flashlights cutting through the gloom.
A corkboard covered one wall, papers and photographs pinned in chaotic lines, string connecting them in a spiderweb of red and black. Grant stepped closer, scanning the images.
"Holy shit..." he whispered.
I stepped forward. The photos were of people—parents, siblings, children. All of them had been reported missing in the last few years, cases that were still open, the faces familiar from the digital boards at the precinct.
Grant’s hands curled into fists. "He’s been tracking them. Stalking them."
"He’s not killing them," I said.
Grant shot a look. "How can you be so sure?"
Simple. I was letting my Instinct skill settle in, sharpening the edges of the world around . The room felt heavy, oppressive, but it wasn’t the weight of death.
"They’re alive," I said firmly. "They’re being kept sowhere. We just need to find them."
Grant ran a hand through his hair, breathing out shakily. "If he’s keeping them, it ans he’s got sowhere secure."
"Or he’s moving them," I added. "And this..." I gestured at the board. "This is his pattern."
But beneath that certainty was sothing else, a tug in my gut that made feel like using the restroom. Sothing bad was going to happen.
The floor creaked above us, a soft groan of rotting wood shifting.
We froze, hands moving to weapons, breath held.
But it was just the building settling, dust drifting from the ceiling like ash.
"Clear upstairs?" I asked the patrolman who had gone to check.
He nodded, face pale. "Yeah. Nothing but trash and rats."
Grant exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "God, I hate this."
"We’re close," I said.
"Yeah?" Grant snapped, frustration leaking through. "Close to what, exactly? This lunatic has pictures of dozens of missing kids pinned to a wall like trophies, and you’re telling they’re alive? We don’t even know where the bastard is!"
"I know," I said, my voice calm, firm, grounding him. "But trust . We’re close."
He looked at , saw the certainty in my eyes, and nodded, though the tension didn’t leave his shoulders.
Then we heard it.
A sound cutting through the quiet like a blade.
A high-pitched ringing, electronic and insistent, echoing in the dead air.
We all turned, heads tilting, trying to pinpoint it. It was coming from beneath a collapsed section of ceiling, wood planks and shattered drywall piled together.
The patroln started shifting debris, boots crunching on glass as they worked. The ringing grew louder, sharper, until it was nearly painful.
Finally, one of them pulled back a sheet of rotting plywood, revealing a phone, its cracked screen lighting up with each ring.
I stared at it, the world narrowing to that blinking screen and the shrill tone that filled the room.
Grant looked at . "You gonna get that?"
I flexed my fingers, the band on my wrist snapping softly as I reached down, lifting the phone carefully, feeling the vibrations against my palm.
I swallowed once, then answered, bringing the phone to my ear.
Static crackled, followed by the soft hiss of breathing.
Then a voice, quiet, almost gentle, but carrying sothing beneath it—a razor hidden under silk.
"Hello, Detective."
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