The Town crouched beneath a sky swollen with gray, clouds sagging low like a bruise ready to burst, pressing the jagged skyline of concrete and rust into submission. Rain streaked the streets, pooling in potholes that shimmered like dark mirrors, catching the flicker of neon signs buzzing faintly over alleys choked with shadow. Five hundred thousand souls pulsed through its veins, their footsteps a restless hum swallowed by the damp night. The air carried a briny sting from the coast miles away, mingling with the scent of wet asphalt, a damp rot that clung to everything—especially the cracked dashboard of Caspen Darkwater's beat-up Toyota.
He gripped the wheel with a steady hand, easing the truck through the potholed mess of 7th Street toward the police station, its scarred stone bulk looming through the gloom. The dash clock blinked 7:38 p.m., March 30, 2025, green digits flickering in the murk. Rain hammered the windshield, smearing the world into streaks of gray and black, the engine's low growl vibrating through his palms. His hazel eyes, flecked with gold, darted to the mirrors in a quick rhythm—left, right, rear—a tic carved from years in tighter spots, desert roads where a wrong glance meant blood, not just a late shift. At twenty-five, part Korean, part white, he carried a lean frame under sharp cheekbones, jet-black hair tied back in a tight knot, a brooding weight settling over him like the city's grit.
The Toyota hissed over slick pavement, tires biting into 4th Street's curve, a streetlight humming overhead like a warning. Shadows slid across the asphalt, thrown by skeletal buildings with broken windows and rusted fire escapes. A trash can tipped in the wind, bottles clattering into the gutter, and his shoulders tensed, a faint twitch before easing back, clocking the movement like it was a sniper's glint. The Town felt off tonight—its pulse too fast, too jagged, a city teetering on the edge of something snapping. He pressed the pedal, engine sputtering, and swung onto 6th, passing a burned-out car husk, its frame charred into a twisted skeleton. His jaw tightened, a memory flaring—smoke and metal under a blistering sun—shoved down fast.
A siren wailed in the distance, fading into the hum. He slowed near an alley, headlights catching a blur darting behind a dumpster—low, fast, gone. His hand twitched toward the glovebox, old instincts tugging, but he exhaled slow, eyes narrowing as the shadows stilled. The air reeked of rot, sharp enough to taste, and he rolled onto 7th, the station rising ahead like a tombstone against the sky. The lot sat half-empty, patrol cars crooked under dripping lamps, his lights sweeping a dumpster shoved against the curb, trash spilling out, a dark smear he didn't linger on.
The Toyota jolted over a dip, suspension creaking, and he pulled into a spot near the entrance, cutting the engine at 7:45 p.m. Rain tapped the roof, the only sound in the sudden quiet. Caspen sat still, hands flexing on the wheel, eyes tracing the station's yellow glow, then the lot's edges—exits, cover points—a soldier's habit he couldn't shake. The day had been a grind: gym reps until his arms burned, a cold shower that left his skin raw, every move a tether to keep the past buried. His phone buzzed in the cupholder, slicing the silence.
**Text from Mom:** *Eat something, Caspen. Don't skip again.*
Her words hit like an anchor, a tether to the woman who'd raised him alone after his dad vanished into a desert grave—Staff Sergeant Darkwater, lost to an IED in Helmand, a shadow Caspen still chased. He rubbed his eyes, her voice sharp in his head: *"Stop carrying their ghosts, Cas."* Grabbing his duffel, the damp canvas rough against his fingers, he stepped out, cold air biting his neck.
He crossed the lot, boots crunching gravel, head swiveling as a shadow darted between cars—swift, hunched, gone. His breath clouded, hand flexing near his hip where a Beretta once sat, a ghost from missions he'd buried. The streets thrummed with unease, a sour whisper in the air, and he shook it off, reaching the entrance. Glass doors hissed open, spilling stale warmth, the lobby thick with burnt coffee and disinfectant. Phones shrilled, printers wheezed, officers shuffled reports under fluorescent glare, and he nodded at Officer Reyes behind the desk.
Reyes, wiry and all edges, smirked, buzz-cut head gleaming. "Evening, Darkwater. Thought you'd ditched this pit."
Caspen's lips twitched, a faint grin. "Downstairs calls, Reyes. You crying over it?"
Reyes chuckled, gravelly and low. "Streets feel wrong tonight, man. Like something's itching to break."
"Always do," Caspen said, scanning the room—exits, faces, a rookie fumbling a mug—his voice steady, edged. He'd known Reyes a year, a rock in this rot who laughed at The Town's decay, a rare trust.
"Got a call," Reyes said, leaning in, voice dropping. "Junkie torn up off 12th. Messy."
Caspen's brow creased, mind clicking—wounds, patterns, cause. "Coyote?"
"Nah," Reyes said, eyes narrowing. "No tracks, no teeth we'd know. Just meat."
"Charming," Caspen muttered, filing it away, his gut whispering it wasn't chance.
Detective Kim looked up from her desk, stocky and buried in files, ponytail flicking. "Caspen, need you," she said, brisk, a grim smile tugging her lips. "Report."
He sighed, bag thudding against his leg. "Can it wait? Jane Doe's downstairs."
"She's not running," Kim said, smile tightening. "You owe me after last month."
"Fine," he muttered, neck cracking as he rolled it. "Coffee's on you."
Kim tossed him a nod, already back in her papers, and Caspen moved toward the stairs, the station's hum fading behind him. The basement door creaked as he pushed through, steps echoing down the concrete shaft, the air growing colder, thicker, with every descent.
---
Fluorescents buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glare across the autopsy room's tiles. Antiseptic stung Caspen's nose, undercut by a faint whiff of decay that lingered like a shadow. He swapped his jacket for scrubs, folding the damp canvas with a snap—a habit from bunk checks in Kandahar—setting it aside. The clock glowed 8:05 p.m., its tick a faint pulse beneath the hum.
Jane Doe lay under a white sheet, dragged in from an alley by Reyes and Kim—no name, no past, just cold flesh on a steel table. Caspen pushed through the double doors, footsteps echoing off the tile, shoulders squared like he was stepping into a firefight. Her dark hair spilled wild from the sheet's edge, a stark contrast to the room's clinical chill. Clothes heaped nearby—torn jacket, grimy jeans, a shirt shredded at the seams—marked her as another casualty of The Town's hunger. He stood still, breath shallow, unease coiling in his gut like a snake stirring awake.
"Okay," he murmured, voice rough against the silence. "Let's see what you've got."
He pulled the sheet back, the rustle sharp in the stillness, revealing her face—pale as bone, lips tinged blue, skin slick with a faint sheen that caught the light wrong. Death had claimed her hours ago, yet she looked too fresh, too pliant. Gloves snapped on, latex cracking, and he squared up to the table, weight balanced on his toes, a soldier bracing for contact. He lifted her right arm, cold and limp, fingers steady as he traced smooth flesh—no cuts, no bruises, nothing to whisper her story. He turned it over, veins stark under the glare, and set it down, brow creasing at the silence she kept.
Her left arm offered the same—unmarked, no tracks, no scars. The room's walls seemed to lean in, the buzz growing louder in his skull, a drone that gnawed at his calm. He peeled back her sleeves, the jacket's zipper grinding as it stuck, fabric damp and heavy with alley rot. He worked it free, folding it crisp on a tray, the stench rising sharp—mud, sweat, something sour beneath. Her shirt tore as he tugged, cotton splitting with a faint pop, and he folded it beside the jacket, her torso bare under the unforgiving light.
He leaned in, breath fogging briefly, hazel eyes hunting—stab wounds, bullet holes, anything to crack her mute defiance. Nothing. Her chest was clean, pale, untouched by violence or bite marks. He pressed her ribs, fingers splaying over bone, testing with firm pressure—they held, no cracks, no give. His mind flickered—a medic tent in Helmand, sand gritty under his boots, a soldier's ribs splintering under his hands, blood pooling as he fought to hold a pulse that faded. He shoved the memory down, frustration simmering, a slow burn in his gut.
Poison, maybe, he thought, adjusting the light, its beam carving shadows across her skin. His gloved fingers lingered, brushing her abdomen—too warm, he realized, a chill prickling his spine. No rigor, no stiffness—wrong for a corpse this fresh, wrong in a way that tugged at instincts honed in chaos. He grabbed a scalpel, steel cool in his palm, and hovered over her stomach, the air thickening, pressing against his chest. His free hand flexed, a tic from nights spent waiting for the crack of a sniper's round.
He cut, a shallow line across her abdomen, blade parting flesh smooth and clean—no blood flowed, only a dark ooze seeped out, slow and viscous, pooling like tar in the incision. His stomach twisted, bile rising sharp, but he held his ground, stance shifting slightly, the room shrinking around him. He set the scalpel down, the clink loud against the tray, and reached for a retractor, spreading the cut wider—inside, dark fluid gleamed, thick and opaque, no organs visible, just a void that swallowed the light. His jaw clenched, breath catching, the buzz drilling deeper into his head.
Her fingernails snagged his gaze—chipped, packed with dirt, a red smear under one, wet and vivid, blood, not polish. He lifted her hand, turning it under the beam, swabbing the stain with steady fingers, sealing it in a vial—blood this fresh meant life, meant something recent, something wrong. Her palms were rough, calloused, hands that had fought, not folded, and unease crept higher, senses prickling at the room's edges, the walls a cage tightening slow.
He turned back to her torso, tilting the light—her skin was flawless, no bites, no scars, just that unnatural warmth pulsing beneath. His gut knotted, cold and tight, and he pressed her chest, testing—his fingers sank into warm flesh, softer than it should be, a fever radiating out. A chill ran through him, sharp and sudden, his free hand twitching toward his side, instinct clawing at old habits.
"What happened to you?" he whispered, voice tight, eyes darting to the door, then back, her silence a weight sinking into his bones. He stepped back, peeling off his gloves with a slow snap, stance widening, the air too still, too heavy. A faint creak sounded—not the table, not the tray—something deeper, structural, like the room itself groaned. He froze, head tilting, listening past the buzz, past his own pulse thudding in his ears. Nothing. Just the storm outside, muted through concrete, a distant growl of thunder—or something else.
He grabbed a flashlight from the tray, flicking it on, beam slicing the room's corners—shadows stretched, quivered, settled. His breath steadied, but his grip on the light tightened, a soldier's reflex. Back at the table, he leaned closer, flashlight trained on her face—her lips parted slightly, a thin gap he hadn't noticed before, air hissing out, faint but rhythmic. He blinked, pulse kicking up, and angled the beam into her mouth—teeth glinted, stained dark at the edges, a smear of something black coating her tongue.
"Shit," he muttered, stepping back fast, flashlight trembling in his hand, the beam jittering across her form. Her chest hadn't moved—had it? He squinted, forcing his breath to slow, watching. Seconds stretched, the hum of the lights a relentless drone, and then—a ripple, subtle, under her skin, a twitch along her ribs, like something shifting beneath. His scalpel was back in his hand before he registered moving, blade poised, stance low, every muscle coiled.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, a sharp jolt cutting the quiet. He yanked it out, screen glaring in the dimness.
**Text from Mom:** *Stay safe, Caspen. Air feels wrong tonight.*
Her words sank deep, cold and heavy, her knack for sensing ruin a lifeline he couldn't ignore—a mother's voice that'd warned him off a patrol once, hours before an IED took half his squad. He typed back, fingers steady despite the tremor in his gut.
**Text to Mom:** *I'm good, Mom. Just work.*
He pocketed it, eyes locked on Jane Doe, the room's walls a vise now, the buzz a pulse in his skull. Her fingers curled, slow and deliberate, nails scraping the steel table with a faint screech—metal on metal, a sound that clawed at his spine. He stepped back, scalpel raised, voice low, steady despite the crack splitting it. "Hey, you hear me?"
Her head twitched, a jerk to the side, hair spilling over her face like a shroud, and her chest heaved—ragged, sharp, a single breath that shouldn't have been. She sat up, sheet sliding down, milky eyes snapping open, pupils endless black, a growl rumbling wet from her throat. The room spun, a trap snapping shut, and she lunged, teeth sinking into his chest, pain searing white-hot through his flesh.
He roared, shoving her back with both hands. She staggered, snarling, and he pressed a hand to his chest, blood soaking his scrubs. "What the hell?" he gasped, grabbing a metal tray from the counter and swinging it into her shoulder. It hit with a dull clang, knocking her aside. She charged again, slow but relentless, and he dodged, the tray slipping as she crashed into the autopsy table, glass vials shattering.
He snatched the scalpel, hands trembling. "Stay back!" he barked, but she didn't listen, lumbering toward him with bared teeth. He slashed her arm—dark, thick blood oozed out—and kicked her stomach, breaking free. She grabbed for him again, and he swung a stool, cracking it against her skull. She dropped, twitching, then started to rise.
Caspen bolted, slamming the autopsy room door behind him and shoving a crash cart against it. Her shrieks echoed, feral and piercing, as he leaned against the wall, chest heaving. He ripped a strip from his scrubs, tying it tight around his chest, wincing as it soaked red. "Just a bite," he muttered, but the heat spreading under his skin said otherwise. He straightened, breath ragged, and moved down the hall, the precinct above buzzing with life—unaware of the chaos clawing its way up.