The air at the docks didn’t smell like salt anymore.

  They smelled like ozone and burnt rubber.

  Captain Vance stood just outside the taped perimeter, floodlights throwing his shadow across the asphalt in long, broken angles. He didn’t look at the survivors.

  His eyes stayed on the line of black bags laid out near the water.

  Cannon stopped a few feet behind him. He was too tired to hide the guilt on his face.

  “What’s the casualty?” the Captain asked.

  “Ten SWAT. Three Anti-Crime. And two of ours,” Cannon said.

  Vance let out a slow breath. “And Dean?”

  “He’s stable. Paramedics have him now.”

  “Good.” The Captain nodded once. “Have him rest. Then I want a statement. I want to know what the hell did this.”

  Hayes stepped into the light. Her voice was steady, but her eyes weren’t. “We don’t need his statement, Captain. We already know what did this.”

  Vance turned to her, slow and deliberate. “Do we? Because unless you’re about to tell me this was a gas explosion or a weapons deal gone bad, I’m not interested in fairytales about ancient groups and winged monsters.”

  “I saw it,” Cannon said. “If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t believe it either.”

  “This wasn’t just some cult,” Hayes snapped. “They had energy weapons. Since when do cults carry tech like that?”

  Vance’s jaw tightened. “Doesn’t matter. You two clean this up. No press. No statements. If a single word about wings or labs hits the morning news, you’ll both be looking for new work. This city has enough grief. It doesn’t need your theories added to it.”

  He walked away without another word.

  Hayes and Cannon stood there for a moment, staring at each other like they’d just spoken to a stranger.

  They headed toward the paramedic bus. Cannon lowered his voice. “What do you think those guards meant by ‘protect the merchandise’?”

  Hayes didn’t answer right away.

  “Was that Dean?” he pressed.

  “It would seem so,” she said. “But something doesn’t add up.”

  “Like what?”

  “The vial in the chamber,” Hayes said, glancing back toward the warehouse. “It was broken. It looked like a struggle, before someone took whatever was inside. If that was the merchandise… then why keep Dean alive?”

  Cannon frowned. “Every time we get an answer, the question gets worse.”

  They approached Dean who sat on the edge of the ambulance floor, a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders. His hands trembled.

  Cannon knelt in front of him. “Dean. What do you remember about the people who took you?”

  The hum of the lab still echoed in Dean’s skull. He could still see the lights, feel the restraints and the needles meeting his skin.

  “The Order of Valkyrie,” he said. His voice barely worked. “They... They said they wanted to... make humanity better.”

  “Better how?” Hayes asked.

  Dean shook his head. The motion made his skin crawl. “I don’t know.”

  “Did they say why they wanted you?” Cannon asked.

  Dean didn't reply.

  “Okay,” Cannon said gently. “What about the one who got you out? Did you see him? Did he…” He leaned closer, his voice was lower now, “Did he have black wings?”

  Dean looked up.

  “No,” he said. His eyes were suddenly clear. “They were white. Just like snow. It was like… like an angel.”

  Before either of them could respond, headlights cut through the fog.

  A Bentley rolled to a smooth stop nearby. The engine purred as Kyle Blackwood stepped out.

  He approached them with a look of profound solemnity.

  “Detectives,” he said quietly. “I’m deeply sorry for your loss. This isn’t what either of us anticipated.”

  Hayes let out a tired breath. “Yeah. It’s been a night. Thank you, though. Without your help, we probably wouldn’t have found Dean in time.”

  She shook his hand. Cannon followed.

  “Dean,” Hayes said, turning back. “Let me introduce you to the man who helped make your rescue possible.”

  Kyle stepped forward “Detective Dean. I wish we met on better terms.”

  He extended his hand “My name is Kyle… Kyle Blackwood.”

  The name hit Dean like a spike. The throb in Dean’s head turned into a roar.

  The words of Four-Five screamed in his memory: What do you know about the Blackwoods?

  Dean stared at the hand.

  He didn’t see a savior. He saw the center of everything.

  Kyle didn’t react.

  He simply lowered his hand, his gaze resting on Dean a second longer than necessary. “You’re still in shock. We can speak another time.”

  He turned, returned to his car, and drove into the fog.

  Hayes stared at Dean. “What was that about?”

  Dean didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on the empty stretch of road where the Bentley had disappeared.

  “What do you know....” he whispered, “about the Blackwoods?”

  Hayes and Cannon exchanged a look. The same thought settled between them.

  —The photo at the library.—

  Around them, officers continued sealing the body bags, unaware that something much larger had already begun.

  Meanwhile,

  Jackson walked into the Grand Heights. A hotel that rose above GrayHaven like it didn’t belong to the city anymore.

  His wings were folded tight against his back, hidden beneath his coat, but there was no hiding the blood.

  It ran down his arm from the gunshot wound and soaked into the sleeve, staining his shirt a deep, visceral crimson.

  In his arms, he carried the red-haired woman, her head lolling against his shoulder. Her weight steady, and unmoving.

  The receptionist looked up. Then froze.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “Sir,” he said, eyes locked on the blood. “You’re… you're bleeding. I’m going to have to call the police.”

  Jackson didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t rush. He simply met the man’s stare.

  “Why would you call the cops?” he asked calmly. “Are you that eager for a new job?”

  The receptionist stiffened. “Are you threatening me, sir? I’m sorry, sir, but our policy says—”

  “I don’t care what your policy says,” Jackson cut in. “Get me a room. Now!”

  Shock gave way to irritation. The receptionist’s jaw tightened as he slowly reached beneath the counter and pressed a button.

  The tension snapped as the manager rushed from the back office.

  She took one look at Jackson’s face and nearly tripped over her own feet.

  “Mr. Jackson,” she said quickly, her tone shifting. “Please forgive the inhospitality. I had no idea you were in town. Come with me.”

  She didn’t wait for an answer. They took a private elevator to the top floor. She led him to the highest point in the city: the Royal Penthouse.

  “I hope my receptionist didn't say anything to offend you,” she said, almost frightened. “He's still new here, he doesn't know better.”

  “I understand, he did his job,” Jackson said as he waved it off.

  She nodded, relieved. “If you need anything at all, please call.”

  When she left, the silence returned.

  Jackson laid the woman gently on the bed. With the mattress swallowing her weight, his eyes drifted to the clothes she wore.

  A thin, institutional fabric. Like a prisoner’s uniform. Where a name should have been, there was only a number.

  86752.

  He crossed the room and sat before the mirror, cleaning and binding his wound where Four-Five’s bullet had grazed him.

  His phone rang. Elena’s face filled the screen.

  “My lord,” she said, eyebrow lifting. “You look terrible. What happened down there? Did you run into our mutual… sloppy friend?”

  “Not really,” Jackson replied. “He chose not to show.”

  “So it was just the Order,” she said. Her gaze shifted. “Then who’s that?”

  “That… is Subject Eight-Six-Seven-Five-Two,” Jackson said. “I don’t know her importance yet. But the Order lost a lot of men protecting her.”

  Elena’s expression hardened. “Do these monsters have no limits? Where are you now?”

  “In a penthouse hotel.”

  Her eyes widened slightly. “The Grand Heights?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the middle of the city,” she said. “You’re hiding in plain sight. What if the detective follows your trail?”

  Jackson finished tying the bandage. "Hayes is good, but she isn't that good," He said, glancing at the city lights. "Besides, she’s... occupied with the aftermath."

  A pause.

  “Do you need me in GrayHaven?” Elena asked. “I can ready the jet.”

  “No. Stay in Russia. I can’t afford to be blind right now. Their leader managed to escape. This is nowhere from over.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  The call ended.

  He stood, moving toward the glass wall.

  Outside, GrayHaven stretched beneath him, the city lights shimmering like scattered diamonds across broken ground.

  He picked up his phone again and dialed.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of Jackson Blackwood calling?” a voice asked.

  “I want to buy it,” Jackson said.

  “Could you be more specific Jackson, there's a lot for sale.”

  “The Grand Heights.”

  A chuckle. “The one in GrayHaven?”

  “Yes. Precisely.”

  Maxwell laughed, a dry, grating sound.

  “Why waste millions on a dying city?” He said. “There’s no value left there. It’s a lost cause.”

  “All the more reason for me to take it off your hands.” Jackson replied. “Consider me relieving you of dead weight.”

  There was silence between them. Then Maxwell finally spoke.

  “What do you really want it for?” he asked.

  Jackson smiled faintly. “Are you truly in a position to refuse a deal because you’re curious?”

  The silence stretched.

  “Twenty million,” Maxwell said.

  “I’ll send twelve,” Jackson replied. “That’s the market value of a ‘lost cause’ right?”

  “The deal is twenty.”

  “You need the money, Maxwell,” Jackson said. “I don’t. Either you take it or don't.”

  He ended the call.

  Jackson stepped closer to the glass. In its reflection, he saw the woman lying motionless on the bed behind him. His phone chimed.

  A text from Maxwell: I’ll take the deal.

  Jackson smiled.

  Through the glass, he could see the black smoke rise from the docks, curling into the night.

  Down at the GrayHaven precinct, the air smelled like cheap whiskey and funeral lilies.

  Someone had set both out in equal measure.

  The bullpen was packed. Officers leaned against desks, walls, and each other. Faces hollowed out by exhaustion no amount of sleep could fix.

  Hayes stepped inside just as Captain Vance finished his speech. He stood on a desk, glass raised, voice steady in the way only practiced grief could be.

  “They may have fallen,” he said, scanning the room, “but they will never be forgotten. To our brothers.”

  “To our brothers,” the room echoed as glasses rose in unison.

  The moment passed. People drifted back into quiet conversations and heavy silences. Vance stepped down and headed toward his office.

  Hayes tried to catch his eye, but he walked right past her.

  Cannon appeared beside her, leaning against a filing cabinet. “You’re late.”

  “I had to take Dean home,” she said. “Three weeks and I haven't seen his family. I had to make sure he actually made it through the front door.”

  “How’d that go?”

  She let out a short laugh. “Well…His wife hates me slightly less now.”

  Cannon chuckled, then nodded toward the folder in her hand. “What’s that?”

  “Names of the fallen. Vance wanted them personally.” She looked around. “Now I can’t find him.”

  “He’s in his office,” Cannon said, pointing down the hall. “And Hayes… try not to mention your 'hypothesis.' We already know he’s not a fan of the supernatural."

  "I'll play nice." she said.

  She walked toward the office, but as she reached for the handle, the sound of Vance’s voice stopped her.

  It wasn't the voice of a grieving captain. This one was tight. Low. Angry.

  “You promised you’d leave my men out of this,” he hissed into the phone. “What the hell happened out there?”

  Hayes froze, hand hovering inches from the handle.

  A voice replied. Distorted. Calm.

  “I assure you, Vance, this outcome was never my intention.”

  “And the energy weapons?” Vance snapped. “You said they wouldn’t be active. I lost fifteen people today.”

  “If memory serves,” the voice said, “our agreement extended protection to you. Extending that to your units was an act of generosity. Your Anti-Crime and SWAT teams were never my concern.”

  “You gave me your word this wouldn’t escalate.”

  “Trust me. This was a sidestep. Everything is under control.”

  Hayes’s fingers went numb. The folder slipped from her grasp and hit the floor with a heavy thud.

  “Who’s there?” Vance barked.

  Her heart slammed. She forced a breath. Then another. Counted to five and opened the door.

  “Did you call for someone, Captain?” she asked, sounding tired enough to sell it.

  Vance stood behind his desk. The phone was already gone. His face gave nothing away.

  “No,” he said. “But since you’re here, I assume you have the files.”

  She crossed the room and placed them on his desk.

  “Good,” he said, studying her. “Thank you. You’re dismissed.”

  She turned and left.

  As the door swung shut, she heard him pick the phone back up.

  “I’ll handle things here,” he said quietly. “You clean up your end.”

  Hayes didn’t slow down.

  She grabbed Cannon by the arm as she passed him, with her grip tight enough to leave a bruise.

  “Hey... what’s wrong?”

  “Coat. Now,” she whispered.

  She pulled him toward the exit, ignoring the stares.

  Outside, the cold air hit her lungs, sharp and real. She kept walking, dragging him toward the car.

  She couldn’t explain yet. But she had just learned their Captain was part of it.

  Deep beneath the docks, the warehouse ruins still smoked.

  Concrete tunnels swallowed Four-Five as he staggered forward, clutching the stump where his arm had been.

  Police flashlights flickered somewhere behind him. He turned a corner and nearly collapsed against a steel door etched with the Valkyrie crest.

  “Over here,” he wheezed. “Medic. I need a medic!”

  A figure stepped from the shadows. No armor. No helmet. Just a long coat that seemed to drink in the light.

  “My, My” the man said pleasantly. “What a disaster you’ve made, Four-Five.”

  Four-Five staggered back. “Who—”

  Hands seized him before he could finish his sentence. Valkyrie soldiers dragged him down, forcing him to his knees.

  The man stepped forward into the dim tunnel light. His eyes were calm, and he wore a smile that never reached them.

  His designation was Zero-Two.

  “During my time in Appalachia” Zero-Two said lightly, “I was told that fear is an illusion. A trick of the mind.”

  He leaned closer.

  “I've come to learn that true fear, however, is very real.”

  “Zero-Two,” Four-Five gasped. “I didn’t know you were coming. You didn’t send word.”

  “Where is the merchandise?”

  “We were outmatched,” Four-Five said. “He took it.”

  Zero-Two let out a mocking hollow laugh.

  “Who?”

  “The Banished One.”

  The air shifted.

  “You expect me to believe a fairy tale cost us fifteen years of work?” Zero-Two asked.

  “I saw him!” Four-Five screamed. “He decimated my entire team! He did this!” He raised his ruined arm. “Give me another chance. More men. I’ll retrieve it.”

  “You’ve already failed. I have no use for failures,” Zero-Two said. “But... indulge me. How do you plan to succeed now?”

  “Well… I now know he exists,” Four-Five said desperately. “With the weapon I—”

  Zero-Two laughed. Loudly this time.

  “The weapon?” he said. “Do you even know what it is?”

  “No, sir. I haven't seen it in action.”

  “Well then… allow me to demonstrate.”

  In a blur of motion, Zero-Two pulled a dagger from his sleeve and drove it deep into Four-Five’s chest.

  Four-Five’s eyes bulged. He tried to speak, but only a wet gurgle came out. The blade began to glow a sickly, pulsing crimson.

  From the point of impact, Four-Five’s veins began to turn black, his skin ashing over as the weapon burned him from the inside out. The pain was agonizing, and it was slow.

  Zero-Two leaned close. “Now you’ve seen the weapon in action.”

  When the screaming stopped, nothing remained but ash and bone.

  Zero-Two straightened. "If you want something done right, you do it yourself," he said to the guards.

  “Clean this up,” he told the guards. “Rally the groups. Retrieve my merchandise. And make it clear.”

  He turned away.

  “Failure will not be tolerated again.”

  Above them, GrayHaven mourned.

  It had no idea the past had finally come to collect its debt.