Helios—on the surface—looks like the ideal metropolis. High GDP. Booming job market. Supposedly honest government. Heh. Maybe that last one's a stretch, but I needed three things to sound impressive. The truth is, it's not all sunshine and rainbows here. Actually, there's barely any sunshine at all. The sky's a permanent smear of gray, clouds hanging like a stained ceiling above a city that never really wakes up. And the rain—always the rain.
Still, like any city, it's got problems. Crime's the biggest one. Not insane levels, not like some war zone, but enough to keep every detective busy and every citizen cautious. That, and... something else. Something off. I've got a theory about that—about why the sun barely shows and why this place never feels quite right. But that's something only I'd believe, because I'm—
"Marcus, what the hell are you muttering to yourself?"
The voice cut clean through his train of thought.
Marcus turned from the rain-flecked window, his expression flat. "Come on, Vince. I was setting a mood."
Vince Marrow leaned in the doorway—short, broad-shouldered, visibly worn down by years of caffeine, nicotine, and municipal frustration. His graying hair clung to the edges of a balding crown, and the sleeves of his rumpled dress shirt were already rolled to his elbows despite the hour.
"You're talkin' to yourself again, in your office," he said, waving one hand vaguely around the room.
It wasn't the kind of office most people pictured when they thought 'detective'. No paper stacks, no open blinds with stripes of sunlight across a cluttered desk. Just a clean, streamlined space—minimalist shelves, matte black fixtures, organized to the point of clinical. Efficient. Unwelcoming.
"What vibe are you even settin'? Ain't like you're expectin' guests," Vince muttered as he walked over to stand beside him. He tilted his head back to meet Marcus's gaze and frowned. "Fuck, standin' next to you makes me feel like a damn toddler."
Marcus gave a short, dry laugh. "Don't blame yourself, Vince. Anyone looks small next to me." He jabbed a thumb at his chest. At six-foot-ten, he towered over most human beings.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Vince muttered, brushing the comment off with a grunt. "Anyway, we got a scene. Southeast end. Woman was found dead in her apartment. Uniforms are already there."
Marcus gave a curt nod and stepped toward the coat rack. He slid on his jacket—sharp cut, charcoal black, tailored to match the rest of his aesthetic. Clean. Functional. Every button closed with purpose. The shoulder holster came next, clipped into place in one practiced motion, the pistol resting snug against his ribs.
"Alright," he said as he straightened the collar. "Let's move."
Vince turned without a word. Marcus followed close behind, ducking beneath the doorway on their way out.
As the two made their way through the police station, the atmosphere shifted into something more familiar—more grounded. It wasn't frantic, but there was a constant undercurrent of urgency, the kind that clung to places like this. Phones rang. Voices buzzed across desks. Officers moved with purpose, not sprinting, but always halfway to their next task.
Here and there came a few greetings—"Evening, Detective Veil." "Keep up the good work, sir." "Looking sharp as always." Mostly polite acknowledgments, sometimes even tinged with admiration. Almost all of them were aimed squarely at Marcus.
Vince noticed. And hated it.
By the time they stepped through the front doors and out into the heavy city air, he finally snapped. "Twelve years on the force. Twelve. And what do I get?" He motioned to the building behind them. "Not a damn word. All 'cause you're prettier than me."
Marcus let out a breath, amused. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. "Come on. We're not that far apart in the looks department."
"Bullshit," Vince snapped, glaring as he yanked open the car door and dropped into the driver's seat.
Marcus hopped into the passenger side with practiced ease. Standard cruisers were too cramped for someone his size, so the department had issued him a modified convertible unit—still regulation, but with the top almost always down. Less elegant, more practical.
"You look like you walked outta half the city's wet dreams," Vince said as he started the engine. "Don't act like you don't know."
Marcus glanced into the side mirror. Couldn't deny there was something about his reflection. Handsome, sure—but not in the polished, put-together way. His features were sharper. Rougher. There was something feral in his face, something untamed that clashed against his otherwise tailored image.
"Yeah," he muttered with a chuckle, "I don't really see it."
Vince rolled his eyes and jabbed the radio, flooding the car with scratchy old jazz. Marcus shrugged and pulled out a cigarette, flicking his electric lighter. He took a slow drag, then rested his elbow on the door—just above the armrest, against the top edge of the door frame—watching Helios drift past in blurs of neon and shadow.
---
By the time they pulled up to the scene, rain had begun to fall—light at first, just tapping against the hood.
"Perfect timin', I guess," Vince muttered, waiting until Marcus stepped out before hitting the switch to raise the roof. The soft-top whirred closed as the rain picked up, the hiss of water on asphalt growing louder.
A patrol officer was waiting near the front of the apartment building, standing stiff under the awning. He gave a quick salute as they approached. "Good evening, sirs!"
The street was cordoned off. Police tape fluttered in the breeze, forming a barrier against the swelling crowd. Curious eyes pressed in behind it—neighbors, passersby, rubberneckers—faces cast in blue and red from the pulsing cruiser lights.
"Evenin'. Walk us through it," Vince said.
The officer turned and led them up the building steps, keeping pace as he spoke. "Victim's a woman, mid-thirties. Lived alone, according to neighbors. We ran her—name's Cassandra Dent. Worked as a dancer at Club Platinum. Clean record. No priors, no known enemies. She seemed… normal. Quiet type."
He hesitated, voice lowering.
"But the scene doesn't make sense."
Marcus narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"You'll see when we get there, sir."
Vince and Marcus exchanged a glance but said nothing. They followed the officer up four flights, the stairwell echoing with the creak of worn steps and distant chatter from outside. The hallway on the fourth floor was quiet—too quiet. One door stood out immediately, flanked by two uniformed officers and sealed off with a fresh line of tape.
The officers straightened when they saw them, nodding in recognition.
Marcus and Vince stepped inside—and were hit with it instantly.
The smell.
Blood.
Heavy, coppery, impossible to ignore. It clung to the air and seeped into the walls. And it wasn't hard to see why. There was so much of it.
"Phew. Shit, that's awful," Vince muttered, recoiling slightly as the smell hit him full force. He raised a hand to cover his nose, the other lazily swatting through the air like he could wave the stench away.
Marcus, unfazed, stepped further inside, eyes already sweeping the room. It was a modest apartment—tight space, clean enough. Basic furniture, small kitchenette, windows overlooking the street. Nothing unusual, if not for the corpse slumped on the couch, soaked in blood from the neck down.
The forensics team was already on-site. A few officers dusted surfaces. A man in gloves was photographing footprints on the tile. But front and center was a slender woman crouched beside the body—gloved hands moving with surgical precision, her platinum blonde hair tied back, sharp brown eyes focused.
"Evening, Vicky," Marcus said as he approached, stepping carefully around a pooled smear on the floor. He extended his right hand.
She didn't look up immediately. When she did, her sharp eyes swept down to the hand he offered.
"Rude," she said flatly. "At least use your real hand."
Marcus followed her gaze, looking down at the sleek, black metallic prosthetic he'd extended without thinking. He gave a faint grin, withdrawing it and offering his left instead.
She shook it. "Detective Veil."
Vince joined them, boots squelching faintly on the sticky floor.
"Uncle Vince," Vicky greeted without looking.
Vince winced. One eye twitched. "Call me detective when we're on the job," he groaned, already regretting being here. He muttered something under his breath—something about 'damn young people'—as he shot a sideways glance at both of them.
Marcus was twenty-seven. Vicky was thirty. They were both, in his opinion, too smug, too sharp, and too damn young.
Vince cleared his throat. "Anyway. What do we know about the body?"
Vicky stood and peeled off one glove with a snap, tucking it into her belt. "It's strange. Really strange. No visible wounds. A few bruises—left wrist, right hip—but nothing that could account for this much blood."
Vince frowned, rubbing his chin. "That doesn't make any damn sense. Any clues at all?"
She shook her head. "No sign of forced entry. No weapon. Despite the bruising, not a single usable fingerprint. It's like… it just happened."
Both Marrows turned to Marcus. He stepped closer, crouching beside the couch. "Alright. I'll take a look."
His pupils narrowed slightly as his yellow eyes began to glow—just faintly, like backlit gold under glass. He scanned the body, expression tightening.
"She's missing blood," he said quietly. "More than what's here. Even accounting for what soaked the couch—there should be more."
Vicky's brow furrowed. Vince just stared at him.
"And those bruises? Superficial on the outside, but she's got cracked bones underneath. Her hip. Her wrist. Something hit her hard, or held her too tight. And…"
He paused. Blinked once. "Looks like she was mid-orgasm when she died."
Both Marrows recoiled in sync.
"Jesus," Vince muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "Could've skipped that part."
"At least it narrows down a time of death," Vicky muttered, rubbing her temple. "But this just gets weirder."
Marcus stood, eyes scanning the room. "When was it reported?"
"About an hour ago," Vince answered. "So, recent."
"Who called it in?"
Vicky gestured with her thumb toward the hallway. "Neighbor across the hall. Eighty-something. Said she heard something violent—called it in right after."
Marcus's eyes dimmed, glow fading. He didn't look at either of them.
"That's suspicious."
Vince cocked a brow. "How so?"
"Think about it," Marcus said, still watching the walls like they might speak. "Why'd only she hear it? Not the neighbors on either side?"
Vicky's expression shifted—lips tightening. "You're right."
Marcus turned to face them both, posture straightening.
"Vince, I need you to talk to the old lady. See what she really heard. Vicky—check the windows. All of them. Look for anything—smudges, cracks, fibers. Doesn't matter how small."
He was already heading for the door when Vince barked, "Where the hell are you going?"
Marcus glanced back, expression unreadable. "Beyond the Veil."
Then he was gone.
Vince stood there, jaw tight, before he finally sighed through his nose. "Well, you heard the man. Go check the windows. I'll go chat with the old broad."
They split off without another word.
Meanwhile, Marcus was making his way up the stairs, the soles of his boots tapping against the worn concrete with a steady, purposeful rhythm. Something about the crime scene didn't sit right with him—and deep down, he had a sinking suspicion he already knew what, or who, was responsible.
He lit another cigarette as he ascended, the flare of the flame briefly lighting up the shadows curling along the narrow stairwell. He took a slow drag, exhaling smoke through his nose as he reached the top floor. But he didn't stop there. He continued upward, heading for the roof access.
At the final landing, he came to a heavy metal door. Marcus paused in front of it. The wind was whispering softly on the other side, carrying with it the city's distant noise. He exhaled another long stream of smoke, then pressed the palm of his prosthetic arm against the door.
A faint blue glow pulsed between the seams of the fingers and wrist. Arcane symbols shimmered to life across the rusted surface of the door, flickering briefly before burning away into embers and vanishing.
Only then did he push it open.
The door creaked on its hinges as Marcus stepped out into the open night air, cigarette still smoldering between his lips. Without hesitation, he walked straight toward the edge of the roof, where someone was already standing.
A man.
His skin pale to the point of ghostly. His mouth, chin, and hands were smeared in dried blood that stood out in stark contrast. He stood near the ledge, staring down at the streets far below, shoulders hunched and trembling.
Marcus flicked his cigarette over the edge.
"I didn't mean to," the man whispered, voice thin and cracking. "I just… lost control. I really didn't mean to."
Marcus sighed quietly beside him.
"Well, you still killed someone. So I have to take you in. Those are the rules." His voice was calm. Steady. Firm.
He glanced at the man. "How old are you?"
The man gave a weak sob, rubbing his eyes with the back of his bloody hand. "One month," he croaked. "Just one month."
Marcus gave a short nod. "So you were turned recently. No wonder you couldn't hold it together." His tone was neither cruel nor pitying—just matter-of-fact. "I'm sorry for your loss—yours and Cassandra's—but I don't have a choice."
The man staggered back a few steps from the ledge, eyes wide with fear. "I—I want to exist," he stammered. "I don't want to be destroyed."
His hands lifted in front of him, not in a challenge, but in desperation. He was ready to fight—not for dominance, but for survival.
Marcus turned fully to face him, rolling his neck with a faint pop. "You won't be destroyed," he said. "But you will be punished. That's just how this works."
He cracked the knuckles on his left hand, rolling his shoulders as he shifted his weight slightly. Marcus didn't have the bulk of a brawler—no inflated muscles or towering presence—but under his jacket and shirt was a body honed for violence. Compact. Efficient. Every inch of him built with deliberate, surgical precision.
The man gritted his teeth, fangs bared in a flash of guilt and panic. "I really am so sorry," he cried out.
Then he lunged.
He came at Marcus fast—unnaturally fast by human standards—but clumsy, frantic. His fist swung wide and wild, strength behind it, but no technique.
Marcus caught it.
His prosthetic hand locked around the man's wrist, absorbing the force like steel meeting wind. In the same instant, Marcus stepped into the swing, used the vampire's momentum against him, and let his prosthetic wrist rotate—a smooth spin that twisted the man's arm unnaturally.
With a practiced pivot of his hips, Marcus flipped him clean off his feet.
The man hit the roof hard, air leaving his lungs in a choked grunt.
Marcus moved quickly, pressing a knee into his back and pinning him in place with one arm before drawing a pair of silver-reinforced cuffs from inside his coat. The man struggled—briefly—but the fight left him almost as soon as it started.
He just didn't have much left in him.
"Calm down. It's over," Marcus said, voice low as he locked the cuffs tight around the vampire's wrists and sat him up.
The man was breathing hard, trembling, arms pinned behind him.
Marcus crouched in front of him, letting out another long sigh.
"Alright," he said gently. "Now you're going to explain what happened. I know it's painful. But I need to do this."
The man let out a shuddering breath, shoulders curling inward as if trying to collapse into himself.
"M-my name is Eric. Eric Smith," he said, voice trembling. "Cassandra is—was—my girlfriend. Even after I got turned… she stuck by m-me. Despite what I became. Despite me needing to drink blood to survive. Despite me not being human anymore… she still told me she loved me."
His throat caught, the next words barely scraping their way out. "I-I wasn't supposed to tell her. They warned me not to."
Marcus' eyes narrowed. "Who warned you?"
Eric swallowed. His chest rose and fell out of habit—he didn't need to breathe anymore, but the motion still came to him in moments of panic.
"Other vampires. M-my master—the one who turned me. H-he said if I told her, it would b-break—"
"The veil," Marcus finished flatly. "Yeah. I figured. You were punished for this I imagine?"
Eric gave a pitiful nod, fingers twitching behind his back in the cuffs. "Y-yeah. He punished me… today. H-he bled me. Made me starve. Said I needed to be reminded what I was. T-told the others he wanted to make an example. So he gave me just enough blood to almost stay in control… and then let me go."
His voice cracked again.
"I came back to Cassandra. I wanted to tell her to leave, to run. But she wouldn't go unless I went with her. Said we could leave together, start fresh somewhere else."
He laughed bitterly, broken. "She… she saw how hungry I was. Told me I could drink from her. Just enough to dull the hunger. I said no. God, I tried to say no." His voice cracked again. "But she kept saying it was okay. That she trusted me."
He paused, squeezing his eyes shut. His body trembled.
"I gave in."
He closed his eyes, trembling.
"She liked it. She smiled. I-I thought I could stop. But the moment—the second—her blood hit my tongue, I… I lost it. Everything went red. I don't remember what happened after that. Just flashes. Her neck… gone. Blood everywhere."
Marcus stared at him silently.
"I snapped out of it and she was just… just lying there. Cold. Empty. I panicked. I tried to fix it. I licked the wounds—her neck, her wrist, her hip. Got the worst of the damage to close. But she was already gone."
He sniffled, wiping at his eyes with the edge of his shoulder.
"I—I tried to make it look like something else. Anything else. I used what little compulsion I knew—made her neighbor call the police. Told her what to say. It wasn't strong, I barely know what I'm doing, but it was enough. I didn't know what else to do. I just—"
He choked, voice breaking completely. "—just climbed out her window. Up here. I didn't know where else to go."
He sat there, broken. Defeated.
Marcus rested a hand on his back, firm and heavy.
"Eric… I believe you. But that doesn't change what's going to happen. You killed someone. You broke the veil. There's a process for this, and you're going to have to face it."
Eric didn't respond. He just nodded, weakly.
"I'll speak on your behalf. Ask for leniency. You've got your humanity still—that counts for something."
He gave him a moment, then asked, "Where's your master?"
Eric's eyes lost what little life they had left.
"Club Platinum," he muttered. "That's where he is. That's where they all are."
Marcus gave a short nod and stood up.
"Alright. Get yourself together. Retract the fangs, fix the skin tone. We're going to have to sell a clean lie to keep the veil intact."
Eric nodded shakily. His features shifted—fangs withdrawing, his pallor flushing with the illusion of life. The undead gleam in his eyes dimmed. He rubbed his hands across his face, then spat into his palms, using the warm rain to smear away the blood from his chin and jaw. Bit by bit, he began to look less like a predator and more like a disheveled, strung-out young man.
Good enough.
Marcus gave him a once-over, then began leading him down the stairs, already thinking about the lies he'd have to craft, the paperwork he'd have to forge, and the stories he'd have to tell—
All to keep What Lies Beyond the Veil… hidden.