Detective Eleanor Cross – 6:00 PM

  The Ford Crown Victoria, a reliable workhorse if ever there was one,

  ate up the asphalt. The engine hummed beneath her hands, the vibration

  barely registering as she gripped the steering wheel like it was the

  only thing keeping her tethered to reality. Each mile marker blurring

  past was a mile further from the horror she'd left behind, but the

  distance felt meaningless. The tunnels were still with her.

  Her knuckles were white, bone pressing against skin under the brutal

  pressure. Her breathing was shallow, quick, a hummingbird trapped in a

  cage of ribs. She forced herself to take a deeper breath, then another.

  Control. That's what Mercer would want.

  The explosion still echoed in her head, a monstrous chord resonating

  with every beat of her heart. It was more than just sound; it was a

  physical force, a wave of pure destruction that had ripped through the

  earth and her soul.

  That deafening blast from the tunnels. The shockwave that nearly

  knocked her off her feet, stealing her breath and blurring her vision.

  The way the ground shook, dust and pulverized concrete raining down like

  a morbid snow, fire licking at the edges of the cavern, painting the

  scene in hellish hues—

  And Mercer…

  She could still see him. Frozen in time within her memory. Standing

  there, backlit by the flickering emergency lights, a grim set to his

  jaw, telling her to go. Urgency etched in every line of his face.

  Telling her he’d hold the bomb steady. A promise, a sacrifice, an act

  of pure, selfless heroism. The image burned in her mind, a brand seared

  into her soul.

  Cross blinked rapidly, her eyes stinging with unshed tears and the

  lingering sting of smoke, but she kept them locked on the road. Each

  passing vehicle, each roadside sign, was a point of focus, a grounding

  element.

  She didn’t have time to break. Not yet. Grief was a luxury she

  couldn't afford. Not while there were still answers to find, justice to

  serve. Later, she would allow herself to mourn. Later, she would

  unravel. But not now.

  In the passenger seat, Dr. Lennox sat in stunned silence, staring

  straight ahead, as stiff and still as a wax figure. His fingers,

  normally steady and precise, still trembled from shock, a subtle tremor

  that betrayed the turmoil raging within him. His face was pale, almost

  translucent, his lips slightly parted like he was trying to draw breath,

  or perhaps trying to process the incomprehensible horror they had

  witnessed.

  Neither of them spoke. The silence in the car was thick and heavy, a

  suffocating blanket woven from grief, shock, and unspoken fears. Each

  was trapped in their own private hell.

  There was nothing to say. Words felt inadequate, hollow. No

  combination of syllables could possibly capture the magnitude of what

  had happened, the loss they had suffered.

  Arrival at the Precinct

  As soon as Cross turned the corner onto Adams Street, the flashing

  lights of camera crews and media vans stabbed through the twilight, an

  unwelcome beacon of impending chaos. A gauntlet of flashing cameras and

  intrusive questions awaited them.

  The press was already waiting. Like vultures circling carrion, they

  had descended upon the precinct, drawn by the scent of tragedy and

  scandal.

  Before she could even park the Crown Vic in its usual spot, reporters

  swarmed the vehicle, their voices clashing in a chaotic blur, each

  vying for a sound bite, a quote, a glimpse of the story that was about

  to explode across the evening news.

  "Detective Cross! Can you confirm the reports of an explosion?"

  "—What happened in the tunnels? Was there a structural collapse?"

  "—Is it true the Harbinger Killer was involved? Sources are saying he was planning something big."

  "—Doctor Lennox, are you injured? Can you tell us what you saw?"

  Cross barely heard them. Their questions were a buzzing swarm, irrelevant noise in the face of her internal turmoil.

  Her hands were numb as she threw the car into park, the gearshift

  clunking harshly in the sudden silence within the vehicle, but she made

  no move to get out. Her body felt heavy, leaden, as if a physical

  barrier prevented her from moving.

  She couldn’t. The thought of facing the cameras, of delivering the

  news, was unbearable. It was a confirmation, a seal on Mercer's fate.

  Because if she stepped out of this car—if she faced them and answered

  their questions—that meant Mercer was really gone. The denial she clung

  to, however fragile, would shatter.

  The passenger door opened first. A soft click that cut through the cacophony of the press.

  Dr. Lennox moved like a ghost, his movements slow and deliberate. He

  stepped out of the car with unsteady legs, his posture hunched,

  defeated. His eyes darted at the flashing cameras, the shouting

  reporters, the overwhelming noise—and he froze. Paralyzed by the

  onslaught.

  Cross still hadn't moved. She sat there, staring straight ahead, a statue carved from grief and guilt.

  The door suddenly swung open beside her with a jarring thud.

  "Cross!"

  She looked up, startled. The harsh fluorescent lighting of the

  precinct parking lot seemed to intensify the lines of exhaustion etched

  on her face.

  It was Detective Alvarez, one of the officers from their department.

  He was a young, eager detective, usually full of energy and enthusiasm,

  but now his face was creased with concern. She barely registered his

  features, her mind still reeling from the events in the tunnels.

  "You okay?" Alvarez asked, his voice quieter, searching, laced with

  genuine worry. A stark contrast to the aggressive shouts of the media.

  Cross didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The words were there, forming in her mind, but they wouldn't translate into sound.

  He frowned, his brow furrowing with concern, but didn’t press. He

  seemed to understand, instinctively, that words were useless. Instead,

  he stepped between her and the cameras, a human shield against the

  relentless barrage of lenses and microphones, as uniformed officers

  pushed back the media, creating a narrow path towards the precinct.

  A hand gripped her arm, firm but gentle.

  "Come on," Alvarez muttered, his voice low and urgent. "Let’s get inside. You don't want to be out here."

  She let him pull her out of the car. Her legs felt numb, disconnected from her brain.

  The second she stood, the press went wild, their cries intensifying, cameras flashing like a strobe light.

  Flashes. Shouts. Questions. A relentless assault on her senses.

  "Detective Cross, what happened to Mercer? Is he alive?"

  The name hit her like a gunshot to the chest. The sound of it ripped

  through the numbness, a searing pain that threatened to overwhelm her.

  She didn’t answer.

  She couldn’t. If she spoke, she would break. If she spoke, she would scream.

  She just walked, her legs moving on their own, fueled by adrenaline

  and a desperate need to escape, her vision narrowing as she pushed

  forward through the sea of voices, the flashing lights, the suffocating

  heat—

  Until the heavy, reinforced doors of the precinct slammed shut behind

  her, cutting off the noise and the light, trapping her within the

  sterile, familiar walls, where the reality of her loss could no longer

  be denied. But the echoes of the explosion, and Mercer's last words,

  still rang in her ears.

  The

  fluorescent lights of the precinct hummed, a sterile counterpoint to the

  raw energy that had just pulsed through the room. For a moment, an

  almost tangible silence descended, the kind that follows a particularly

  tense chase, a near miss. It was the lull before the storm, the inhale

  before the exultant roar.

  Then—

  Applause.

  A wave of sound crashed against the walls. The entire squad room

  erupted in cheers, a cacophony of relief and admiration. The clatter of

  keyboards and ringing phones were momentarily forgotten. Seasoned cops

  clapped with gusto, their weathered hands stinging with each impact.

  Some even whistled, the sharp, piercing sound cutting through the

  general din, voices rising in breathless celebration.

  "Hell of a job, Cross!" boomed Officer Davies, a man built like a brick house.

  "You and Mercer saved him! Pulled him right out of the fire!" another voice yelled, laced with awe.

  Cross, usually so focused, so in control, felt like she was drowning

  in the noise, the praise. It was a suffocating sea of good intentions.

  She could feel the eyes on her, burning with congratulatory fervor. The

  pats on her back, firm and well-meaning, felt like blows. She could

  practically taste the relief hanging heavy in the air, thick as exhaust

  fumes.

  But they didn’t know.

  They didn’t realize—didn't understand the price that had been paid.

  The victory, so loudly proclaimed, was built on a foundation of

  sacrifice.

  "Where's Mercer?"

  The question, sharp and unexpected, sliced through the cheering like a

  cold knife. The applause died instantly, the remnants fading into an

  awkward, unsettling hush.

  The voice belonged to Captain Reed. He was standing near the doorway

  of his cramped office, a hulking figure framed by the dim light. His

  arms were crossed tightly over his chest, a posture of barely contained

  authority. His sharp eyes, usually crinkled with a hint of wry

  amusement, were locked onto Cross with an intensity that made her

  stomach drop, twisting into a painful knot. They were the eyes of a man

  who already suspected the worst.

  The room, moments ago a vibrant hub of camaraderie, went quiet. Every

  shuffled paper, every cough, every click of a pen seemed amplified in

  the sudden absence of noise.

  Cross's mouth felt like it was filled with sand. Dry and gritty,

  making it impossible to swallow. She couldn't speak, the words caught in

  her throat like a jagged piece of bone. The weight of the unspoken

  truth pressed down on her, crushing the air from her lungs.

  Captain Reed stepped forward, his polished shoes clicking sharply

  against the linoleum floor. His face was still calm, almost eerily so,

  but his voice was a low, dangerous rumble, demanding a response.

  "Cross," he repeated, slower this time, drawing out her name as if assessing its worth. "Where the hell is Mercer?"

  She felt her knees buckle, the bones suddenly refusing to support her

  weight. The adrenaline that had coursed through her veins during the

  chase now drained away, leaving her weak and trembling.

  The entire squad room watched in confusion as she suddenly dropped,

  landing hard on her knees, the rough floor scraping against her skin.

  Her body shook uncontrollably, a violent tremor fueled by grief and

  guilt.

  Then—

  She broke.

  Her chest heaved, the muscles contracting in a painful spasm. And

  before she could stop it, before she could force down the torrent of

  emotion threatening to engulf her, the first sob tore out of her throat.

  A raw, animalistic sound that echoed through the silent room.

  No one moved.

  No one spoke. They were frozen, caught between the celebration they

  had so readily embraced and the raw pain that was now unfolding before

  them.

  Then—

  "He saved me."

  The words came from Dr. Lennox, the man they had risked everything to rescue.

  His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, as if the act of

  speaking was physically painful. But in the unnerving silence of the

  precinct, everyone heard it.

  "Mercer… he…" Lennox swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing

  nervously. His hands trembled as he reached up to adjust the bandage on

  his head. "He told Cross to take me and go. He… stayed behind. To keep

  the bomb stable."

  The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, like the acrid smell of gunpowder.

  No one breathed.

  Cross could barely see through her tears, her vision blurred and

  distorted. But she heard the subtle shift in the room. The intake of

  breath, the collective gasp of understanding.

  The quiet horror that swept through the ranks.

  The realization that dawned on their faces, one by one, stripping away the joy and replacing it with grim acceptance.

  Mercer was gone.

  And they had celebrated too soon. The victory felt hollow, stained with the blood of a hero.

  The air in the squad room hung thick and heavy, a suffocating blanket

  of grief and simmering rage. You could almost taste the metallic tang

  of unspoken threats, the tension drawn so taut it felt like a single

  spark could ignite the whole room. Mercer was gone. Vanished. Erased

  from their ranks.

  Not just any cop. Mercer had been one of the best, a sharp mind with a

  calming presence, a steady hand in the chaos they faced daily. He had a

  wife and two kids, a little league coaching gig, and a damn good shot

  at making detective. Now, he was just a memory fueling the fire of fury

  that raged within these walls.

  The rage was a living thing, palpable and radiating from every

  corner. Some officers stood frozen, shell-shocked by the sudden loss,

  their faces pale masks of disbelief. Others paced like caged animals,

  their hands a restless ballet of clenching and unclenching, jaws

  grinding in silent fury. The rhythmic squeak of Cross's boots on the

  floor reverberated and filled the silence. A few, unable to contain

  their grief-laced anger, had already slammed fists against desks, the

  wood groaning in protest beneath the impact. Muffled curses escaped

  their lips, words like "bastards" and "Mercer" laced amid the noise.

  "Fucking Harbinger bastards," Alvarez spat, the words like venom. His

  knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of his desk, the veins in

  his forearms bulging, his face red with anger. He looked ready to tear

  apart anyone who dared to utter a word in defense of the cult.

  Captain Reed, usually a man of controlled demeanor, stood ramrod

  straight at the front of the room. His posture was rigid, a carefully

  constructed dam holding back a torrent of grief and fury. The muscles in

  his jaw ticked, betraying the barely contained storm within. He had a

  personal connection to Mercer, had mentored the younger officer, and the

  loss hit him hard. Reed knew that if he let his rage consume him, it

  would only lead to mistakes.

  He turned to Dr. Lennox, his gaze intense, his voice low but firm,

  each word carefully measured. “Doctor,” he said, the single word echoing

  in the room, “I need you to tell me everything. Start from the

  beginning. How did they take you?”

  Lennox, usually a picture of calm professionalism, took a shaky

  breath. His eyes, wide and haunted, darted around the room, as if

  searching for an escape route. Perspiration beaded on his forehead. For a

  split second, he seemed lost, his mind struggling to grasp the reality

  of what had happened, his tongue unable to shape the words he needed to

  say.

  Cross watched him, her heart aching with sympathy. She could still

  see his hands trembling, a subtle tremor that spoke volumes of the

  trauma he had endured. The color in his face was completely gone.

  She took a step closer to him, closing the distance, offering a

  silent reassurance. “Lennox,” she said, her voice softer, more gentle

  than usual, but no less urgent. “Just tell us. Every detail matters.

  Even the things that seem insignificant. It will help us bring them to

  justice."

  The doctor exhaled slowly, a visible release of pent-up anxiety. He

  was clearly shaken to the core, but he nodded, a small, almost

  imperceptible movement, and began to speak. The words were barely

  audible.

  Dr. Lennox’s Story – The Kidnapping

  "It started three nights ago," he began, his voice uneven and hoarse,

  laced with fatigue and fear. "I had just finished a long shift at the

  hospital – longer than usual. Trauma never sleeps. I left around

  midnight, exhausted, and parked in my usual spot – the third level of

  the underground garage. It's well-lit, usually, but the flickering

  fluorescent lights cast long, distorted shadows that night."

  "But when I got to my car, I noticed a piece of paper tucked under my

  windshield wiper. At first, I thought it was just some advertisement, a

  flyer, but when I picked it up…" He paused, licking his lips, his voice

  trailing off. "It was blank. Just a plain, white piece of paper. No

  markings, no writing, nothing."

  Cross frowned, her brow furrowed in confusion. "Blank? That's it?"

  Lennox nodded, his eyes filled with a faraway look. "I didn’t think

  much of it at the time. Just dismissed it. But something felt… off. I

  got this weird feeling, a prickling sensation on the back of my neck,

  like I was being watched. Like I was a rat in a cage."

  "I looked around, scanned the garage, but there was no one there – or

  at least, no one I could see. The only signs of life were the

  occasional hum of the elevator and the distant rumble of traffic

  outside. So, I got in my car, started the engine… and that’s when I

  noticed my side mirror was tilted down, almost pointing at the ground."

  His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, the Adam’s apple moving

  nervously. He was reliving the horror, each memory a fresh wound.

  "When I reached out to adjust it… I saw them. Reflected in the glass."

  "Two men. Standing in the shadows, near one of the support columns. Out of the light."

  "Both of them were wearing black robes, the kind you see in old

  movies, hoods up, obscuring their faces. They were just… watching me.

  Silent. Immobile. Like statues carved from the night itself."

  Cross felt a chill run down her spine, despite the warmth of the

  squad room. The image Lennox painted was unsettling, the kind of thing

  that haunted nightmares.

  Lennox took another breath, his hands gripping the edge of the desk so tightly his knuckles were bone-white.

  "I should’ve driven off right there, slammed the car into gear and

  gotten the hell out of there, but I hesitated. I second-guessed myself. I

  thought I was being paranoid. And that’s all it took. A moment of

  doubt. A fatal hesitation."

  "The back door of my car ripped open with a screech, the cheap metal

  protesting the force. Someone grabbed me from behind, a strong grip

  pulling me back, and put something over my face – a rag or cloth. It

  smelled sweet, cloyingly sweet, like chemicals and almonds. Like death."

  "The last thing I remember was struggling, trying to fight, but the

  fumes were overwhelming. My vision blurred, the world started to spin,

  and then… blackness. Just an endless, suffocating blackness."

  The Cave & The Recording

  "When I woke up, I was in a dark cave," Lennox continued, his voice

  now little more than a whisper, thick with dread and lingering fear. "It

  was cold, bone-chillingly cold. Damp. Water was dripping from a leak in

  the ceiling and hitting the cave floor with a soft 'plink'. The air

  smelled acrid and stale, like mold and burnt wood. It reeked of death

  and despair. The sound of the dripping water echoed through the cave.

  "There were torches sputtering on the walls, casting flickering,

  dancing shadows that seemed to writhe and mock me. And in front of me,

  there was a camera – an old VHS recorder, archaic, mounted on a rusty

  tripod. It looked like something you'd find in a museum."

  "And behind it… was a man in a mask." He hesitated, his gaze fixed on some unseen point in the distance.

  "The same mask we saw in that video. The one that haunted Mercer's nightmares."

  Cross and Captain Reed exchanged a quick, significant glance. The connection was undeniable.

  "The Harbinger?" Reed asked, cutting through the tension, his voice sharp and demanding.

  Lennox nodded, a single, jerky movement.

  He rubbed his arms, as if trying to physically shake off the memory,

  the lingering sensation of the cold dampness of the cave clinging to

  him.

  "He was eerily calm, unnervingly collected. His eyes were hidden

  behind the mask, but I could feel them staring at me, piercing me. He

  spoke to me in that strange language – the same one you heard in the

  tape, that guttural, unearthly tongue. I couldn’t understand a word. It

  sounded like a language that was a mixture of Latin and something

  ancient, something that should have remained buried.

  "But then… he switched to English. His accent was untraceable, but his voice had a dark and gravelly tone."

  Cross narrowed her eyes, her mind racing. "What did he say? What were his exact words?"

  Lennox exhaled, a long, weary sigh.

  “He said, ‘Doctor, today you will be an instrument of revelation.’”

  Silence descended upon the squad room, thick and heavy. Every officer's breath seemed to catch in their throat.

  Lennox continued, his voice trembling slightly.

  "They tied me to a crude wooden chair, the ropes digging into my

  flesh, facing the camera. Then they started the recording. The red light

  was a physical weight on me."

  "I didn’t know what they were saying in that strange language – I

  still don’t. But they made me repeat certain phrases after them. Like I

  was reciting something from a play. Like I was a puppet, dancing to

  their tune."

  "Then… they put a knife in my hand. A long, wickedly sharp blade, cold against my skin."

  His voice cracked, breaking on the memory.

  Cross stiffened, her hand instinctively moving towards the holster at her hip.

  “They told me to choose.”

  She felt her stomach clench into a knot, cold and hard. “Choose what? What did they want?”

  Lennox’s gaze flickered up, his eyes dark with a depth of horror that chilled Cross to the bone.

  "My own death, or someone else’s."

  A heavy, oppressive silence fell over the room, broken only by the sound of Lennox's ragged breathing.

  Lennox’s hands were visibly shaking now, the tremor so intense it rattled the desk.

  "I refused," he whispered, the word barely audible. "I told them I

  wouldn't play their game. I thought they’d kill me right there, end it

  all… but they didn’t. Instead, they just laughed. A cold, cruel laughter

  that echoed through the cave, and still haunts my dreams."

  "Then they said, ‘The Harbinger decides who lives and who dies. You will see that soon. You do not decide your fate.’"

  "After that… they blindfolded me. And when they took it off again… I was in the catacombs."

  I hope this expanded version gives you the added depth you were looking for! Let me know if you'd like any further adjustments.

  A chilling silence had fallen over the room after Lennox's cryptic

  statement, a silence quickly shattered by the jarring crackle of the

  emergency radio on Captain Reed's desk. The sound, usually a mundane

  background hum, now felt like a thunderclap, heralding impending doom.

  "Unit One to Command, we have a developing situation downtown—large

  crowd forming near Union Square. Possible cult-related activity. Repeat,

  large group of civilians influenced by the Harbinger." The voice on the

  radio was tight, laced with a barely concealed tremor. The term

  "Harbinger" hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications.

  Reed, a man forged in the fires of countless crises, stiffened

  instantly. His face, usually etched with a roadmap of wrinkles from

  years of laughter and weariness, became a mask of grim determination.

  “Shit.” The single word, rasped through gritted teeth, was a concise summation of the gravity of the situation.

  Another voice, younger and more frantic, cut through the tense

  atmosphere. "We have a leader in the crowd claiming to be a direct

  messenger of the Harbinger. He’s trying to convert people—convincing

  them to spread the message. Situation is escalating. We need

  instructions."

  The sterile, fluorescent-lit room, moments before a place of relative calm, exploded into a frenzy of organized chaos.

  Cops, their faces a mixture of apprehension and hardened resolve,

  began grabbing their riot gear – helmets, vests, batons – the symbols of

  their authority now taking on a more ominous significance. Phones rang

  incessantly, their shrill cries adding to the cacophony. Officers

  shouted orders, their voices barely audible above the rising tide of

  panic and urgency. The air thrummed with a palpable sense of dread.

  Reed, his eyes scanning the room, focused on Cross, his most trusted

  detective. "We’re shutting this down. Now." His voice was a low growl,

  devoid of emotion. He was a general marshaling his troops, ready to wage

  war on the streets of his city.

  Cross, known for her sharp intellect and unwavering resolve, didn’t

  hesitate. She grabbed her worn leather coat, the familiar weight a

  comforting presence in this turbulent moment. "Captain, listen to me. We

  can’t use force. Not yet." Her voice was calm, a beacon of reason

  amidst the growing hysteria.

  Reed's brow furrowed, his patience wearing thin. He knew the

  potential for disaster. "We have to stop this before it gets out of

  hand. Every second we waste, more people are being swayed."

  "I know," Cross said, her voice urgent but controlled, "but if we go

  in with riot shields and batons, we turn them into martyrs. We make them

  stronger. Right now, the public is teetering. Some are afraid—others

  are starting to believe. We can’t give them a reason to fully commit."

  She paused, her gaze locking with Reed’s. "We have to be smarter."

  Reed exhaled sharply, the sound like air escaping a punctured tire.

  He knew Cross was right, even if his gut screamed for immediate action. A

  forced confrontation would only fuel the flames of fanaticism.

  Then – with a barely perceptible nod, his decision was made. "Fine.

  We play this carefully. But if things go sideways –" The unspoken threat

  hung heavy in the air.

  Cross finished for him, her voice firm and unwavering. "We shut it

  down. Fast." There was no room for doubt, no hesitation. It was a

  promise, a vow, a declaration of war if necessary.

  Reed nodded, acknowledging the grim agreement. "Let’s move." He

  turned and strode towards the door, a human wall against the approaching

  storm.

  As the officers geared up, the metallic clang of equipment and the

  hurried footfalls echoing through the precinct, Cross felt a deep unease

  settle in her chest, heavier than any bulletproof vest. This wasn't

  just about maintaining order; it was about fighting a rising tide of

  something far more insidious.

  The Harbinger wasn’t just killing anymore. The murders, the chaos – they were just the opening act.

  He was building an army. He was using fear, desperation, and

  charismatic manipulation to gather followers, to transform ordinary

  citizens into weapons. He was preying on the vulnerable, the lost, the

  disillusioned, offering them a twisted sense of purpose and belonging.

  And if they didn’t stop it soon – if they failed to understand the true nature of the threat –

  The city wouldn’t just be scarred; it would be conquered. The city

  would belong to him. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, a cold

  premonition of the darkness that threatened to engulf everything she had

  sworn to protect. The fight for the soul of the city had begun, and the

  stakes were higher than ever before.

  The Veiled Lord Cometh

  The New York City night clung heavy and damp. Mist, thick as grave

  shrouds, choked Central Park, swallowing the meager glow of the antique

  streetlights. They cast an anemic, watery light that barely pierced the

  oppressive haze. But even through the suffocating dimness, the crowd was

  unmistakable – a sea of faces, hundreds strong, gathered in a loose,

  almost reverent circle. At its heart, a single elevated figure held

  their silent vigil.

  The cult speaker, a man named Silas, stood atop the weathered stone

  fountain, its cherubic carvings now grotesque in the torchlight. The

  flickering flames cast dancing shadows, painting his silhouette against

  the inky sky. He was a figure of stark contrast: the crimson robe he

  wore billowed around him, its deep hue a splash of vibrant color amidst

  the gray. The hood, pulled low, obscured his face, leaving it a mystery

  of shadow and implication.

  And etched into his forehead, a permanent brand of devotion or

  madness – whether by the cruel sting of ink or the brutal kiss of

  scarification – was the symbol of the cult: a spiral, unending and

  hypnotic, enclosing a single, unblinking eye. It seemed to bore into the

  soul, promising enlightenment or oblivion, depending on one's faith.

  Behind him, draped across the fountain's algae-streaked base, was a

  massive black banner, a dark monolith rippling in the night wind.

  Embroidered upon its expanse, in threads of shimmering silver, was that

  same twisted sigil – the mark of their deity, the emblem of their

  unwavering belief:

  "VORL-KAI, THE VEILED LORD."

  "He Who Watches in the Dark."

  "The Whisper Beyond the Veil."

  "The Herald of the New Dawn."

  Detective Isabella "Cross" Moretti stepped cautiously out of the

  armored police van, the gravel crunching under her heavy boots. Forty

  officers, a wall of blue reinforced with tactical vests and grim

  determination, fanned out behind her, holding their ground against the

  encroaching darkness and the unsettling silence. The air hummed with

  unspoken tension, the kind that preceded a storm.

  But the moment the first officer emerged from the vehicles, the crowd

  reacted. A collective intake of breath, a subtle ripple of unease that

  spread like wildfire. Cross, her senses honed by years on the force,

  felt it instantly – a shift in the very atmosphere.

  She had seen this kind of mass hysteria before, the dangerous alchemy

  of fear and hope. Crowds that weren’t just listening – they were believing.

  Their faces, illuminated by the unholy light, were blank masks, devoid

  of doubt, filled with only the intoxicating promise of Silas's words and

  the hope of the Veiled Lord's return.

  Some were swaying gently, their bodies moving to an unheard rhythm of

  faith. Others had tears glistening on their cheeks, their eyes glazed

  over, staring at Silas like he was a messiah, a savior come to deliver

  them from their pain. Cross felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach.

  This wasn’t just a group of people exercising their right to

  assemble. This was a congregation. And they were one step away from

  becoming a mob, a force driven by something far more powerful and

  dangerous than reason.

  The Serpent's Tongue

  Silas, the cult leader, raised his hands, his fingers long and

  slender, the crimson robe falling back to reveal pale wrists. He was an

  anomaly in this age of brashness and loud pronouncements. His voice was

  calm, almost soothing, bordering on hypnotic, yet undeniably commanding –

  a tone that seemed to bypass the ears and vibrate through the bones of

  everyone who heard it.

  "Brothers and sisters…" he intoned, his voice echoing slightly in the

  damp air. “…the time has come.” A pregnant pause hung in the air, thick

  with anticipation. "The blind shepherds of this city – those who wear

  their badges and claim to protect you – have arrived not to keep you

  safe, but to silence the truth! They seek to extinguish the flame of

  enlightenment that burns so brightly within your hearts!"

  A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd, a tide of unrest washing

  over the hushed reverence. Some shifted their weight, glancing

  nervously at the encroaching officers.

  Cross clenched her jaw, her mind racing. She needed to disrupt this,

  to sever the connection Silas had forged with these people, and to do so

  now!

  She strode forward, her voice booming across the park, amplified by

  the years of authority ingrained in her. “This gathering is over!” she

  barked, her words cutting through the cult leader's sermon. “You are

  unlawfully assembled. Everyone is to leave the park immediately and

  return home. Disperse now, and there will be no charges.”

  The murmur intensified, a sea of faces turning towards her, but no

  one made a move to leave. Their eyes, glazed with devotion, remained

  fixed on Silas.

  Instead, the cult leader let out a low chuckle, a sound that sent a

  shiver down Cross's spine. It was the sound of a man who knew he held

  the power, a man who knew he had won them, the look of a predator right

  before a strike.

  "You see how they tremble, my friends?" he called out, gesturing

  theatrically towards the police line. "They do not understand… They fear

  what they cannot control! They fear the power that you hold, the power of faith, the power of Vorl-Kai!"

  And then—

  From deep within the crowd, a guttural voice, raw with fervor, pierced the night: "KAI'RAH VORL-KAI! KAI'RAH VORL-KAI!"

  A chant. A spark igniting a tinderbox.

  Cross felt her stomach tighten, the adrenaline coursing through her

  veins as she recognized the danger. This wasn't just dissent; it was a

  religious fervor, a mass hysteria fueled by years of manipulation.

  More voices joined in, tentative at first, then growing bolder, louder, more insistent.

  Then more.

  And more.

  Until the entire crowd was screaming in unison, their faces contorted in ecstasy or rage:

  "KAI'RAH VORL-KAI! KAI'RAH VORL-KAI!"

  ("The Veiled Lord Rises! The Veiled Lord Rises!")

  The sound was deafening, a cacophony that drowned out the night. A

  primal, rhythmic roar that clawed at the senses, filling the void around

  them.

  It shook the air, vibrating through the ground, echoing off the

  surrounding buildings, growing more intense with each repetition. It had

  an almost hypnotic quality, like a siren's song, pulling them further

  down the path of religious insanity.

  Some of them were raising their hands towards the sky, their eyes

  rolling back in their heads, their bodies shaking in an almost

  trance-like state, as if they were being possessed. Others had tears

  streaming down their faces, clutching each other for support, their eyes

  wild with a fanatic devotion as if they had just witnessed a miracle.

  The Edge of Chaos

  Cross had dealt with riots before. Tear gas, batons, the controlled

  chaos of mass panic. She had handled protests fueled by anger, unrest

  born of injustice, mass panic triggered by fear. She had seen humanity

  at its worst but this…

  This was something else entirely.

  This wasn’t simply fear. This was faith. A power that could move mountains, or shatter a city.

  The people here weren’t just supporters—they were followers. They had

  drunk Silas’s poisonous Kool-Aid to give them a reason to live.

  Some of them had blind devotion burning in their eyes, a dangerous

  light that saw no reason or logic. Others had desperation etched on

  their faces, as if this cult had given them something to believe in when

  the world had failed them, when the city had crumbled beneath their

  feet.

  And then there were the truly dangerous ones—the zealots. The

  fanatics. Their eyes gleamed with an unholy fire, the look of men and

  women willing to kill, to die, for their cause, for their god.

  Cross gritted her teeth, her gaze surveying the crowd, her mind

  working to find a way to stop this brewing storm without bloodshed.

  This was exactly what she feared. The harbinger's message was spreading. The cult was getting stronger and they need answers.

  And if they weren’t careful, if they didn't stop Silas and his

  madness, this city would belong to Vorl-Kai before they even knew what

  happened. The darkness was rising. The Veiled Lord was coming. And the

  city was on its way to chaos.

  The air

  was thick with tension, as if the very atmosphere had imbibed the weight

  of the moment, vibrating with the restless energy of the assembled

  crowd. They stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces a mix of fervor and

  uncertainty, eyes locked on the figure at the center of it all. The

  cultist, a man dressed in flowing robes that flared dramatically, stood

  resolutely on the stone fountain, an eager elevation that granted him a

  commanding view of his followers. With his arms spread wide like a

  self-proclaimed prophet, he basked in the electrifying presence of his

  devoted acolytes, reveling in their deafening chant that reverberated

  through the square like a battle cry.

  "KAI'RAH VORL-KAI! KAI'RAH VORL-KAI!" they shouted, their voices

  merging into a singular force that threatened to consume any lingering

  doubts amongst them.

  Yet, beneath the surface of their fervent devotion, the crowd was

  beginning to grow restless. A mix of anxiety and aggression swirled

  through those who clutched metal rods in tight hands or held torches

  that flickered ominously in the dusk. A few had fashioned homemade

  banners, their rough edges fluttering in the erratic wind, scrawled with

  cryptic messages about "the awakening," which only deepened the mystery

  surrounding their cause.

  Detective Alvarez stepped closer to Cross, his demeanor tense, his

  voice sharp as a razor. “We need to act now. We have to take him down

  before this turns into a full-blown riot.” His gaze darted to the edges

  of the growing assembly, scanning for signs of unrest and violence

  brewing.

  Cross exhaled sharply, the weight of his words settling heavily upon

  her. He was right—each moment spent hesitating was a moment that pushed

  them closer to chaos.

  But if they resorted to brute force, it could ignite the crowd into a

  frenzy. The cult leader’s influence over them had already woven a

  tapestry of loyalty and devotion—if they saw him get arrested by force,

  it would only serve to validate his claims of persecution and injustice.

  This was far more than just apprehending a criminal; this was about a

  much more subtle form of warfare—a desperate need to turn the crowd

  against their ringleader and unearth the truth hidden beneath layers of

  deceit and manipulation.

  An idea flickered in Cross’s mind, sparking with the promise of possibility.

  Cross's Strategy: Turning the Mob Against the Cultist

  Cross adjusted her stance and stepped forward, feeling the weight of

  the megaphone in her hand as she raised it high, her voice booming with

  authority. “You claim to seek the truth, don’t you?” she called out, her

  words slicing through the chaotic chants.

  For the first time, the chanting faltered, the intensity of their

  collective fervor momentarily diminished. Several of the less fanatical

  followers turned their heads, curiosity tugging at their fraying

  devotion.

  The cult leader snapped his gaze to her, irritation and anger brewing

  beneath the surface, but Cross pressed on, unwavering. “Your leader

  here—he preaches about the Veiled Lord, about enlightenment. About some

  ‘new order.’ But what has he really given you? Has he shown you the

  truth? Has he provided any evidence at all? Or is he just another man

  asking you to have blind faith in his manipulated narrative?”

  A murmur rippled through the outer edges of the crowd, skepticism cracking the once-solid wall of conviction.

  Cross seized the moment, refusing to let the opportunity slip away.

  “You want the truth?” she declared, her tone steady and resolute.

  With a swift motion, she pulled out her phone and raised it high

  above her head—displaying a LIVE feed from the police database for all

  to see.

  There—on the illuminated screen—were the names and faces of known

  cult members, each linked to crimes that tarnished their supposed

  enlightenment.

  Among them stood the cult leader himself, his true identity starkly

  illuminated next to a damning criminal record that detailed offenses

  such as:

  

  
• Fraud


  
• Manipulation of Vulnerable Individuals


  
• Embezzlement


  

  The gasp that rippled through the crowd was like a shockwave, a

  collective intake of breath that echoed the shock settling over them.

  Crucially, murmurs began to accumulate as followers shared incredulous

  glances among themselves.

  Cross knew the winds of change were favorable, and pressed on, her

  voice cutting sharper with each word. “This man isn’t some prophet. He’s

  merely a con artist masquerading as something greater than himself.”

  The cultist's face darkened with a tempestuous fury, eyes narrowing

  as he clenched his fists. “Lies!” he barked, desperation lacing his

  words. “Do not be swayed by their deceptions! The Veiled Lord watches

  over us!”

  Yet, palpable tension hung heavy in the air; the crowd had fallen

  silent, the once-vibrant chants extinguished like flickering flames in a

  sudden downpour.

  A seed of doubt had taken root, threatening to upend the cultist's grip on their minds.

  One man near the front took a cautious step back, his hands trembling

  as he glanced at the follower standing next to him, eyes wide with

  uncertainty.

  Then another stepped back, and another, the once-unified front of fervor now splintering into factions of uncertainty.

  Cross recognized the pivotal moment; she needed to finalize this

  breakthrough, to topple the remaining illusions that held the crowd

  captive.

  Turning her gaze fiercely back to the assembly, her voice cold and

  cutting, she delivered her final blow: “If he’s so righteous, then why

  is he smiling while you’re the ones risking your lives? Why does he get

  to be safe while you fight his battles? Why does he want you to suffer…

  but not himself?”

  That line struck the crowd like lightning, the shift in their collective energy palpable.

  The mob’s once-loud rage began to collapse inward, their unity

  fracturing into uncertain murmurs swirling in the charged air. All the

  fervent belief that had marinated in the essence of the gathering was

  now scattered, each individual reconsidering their stance.

  Before the cult leader could regain control, Cross seized the moment, signaling her officers.

  Two specialized SWAT operatives moved in with swift precision,

  tackling him to the ground—a figure who had, until moments before,

  appeared all-powerful now reduced to a mere man.

  He didn’t resist; he simply laughed, the sound sinister against the backdrop of the tense silence.

  When Cross and Alvarez stood over him, fists clenched in

  determination, he looked up at them with a defiant smirk that chillingly

  contrasted with his predicament. “You think you’re winning?” he

  murmured, his eyes glinting with a knowing malice. “You don’t even know

  how deep this goes.”

  A shiver crept unbidden down Cross’s spine, a cold realization beginning to dawn.

  The Message from Mercer

  Before she could even begin to process the weight of his cryptic

  words, her phone buzzed violently in her pocket, the vibration jarring

  her back into reality. She stole a glance at the screen, and her breath

  caught in her throat, the blood freezing in her veins.

  A message from Mercer.

  “Holy shit,” she breathed, her heart hammering against her chest as panic surged through her body.

  Alvarez caught sight of her expression, eyes narrowing. “What is it?” he asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

  She turned the screen to show him the lifeline she had stumbled upon.

  “Mercer,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s alive. And

  he sent his location.”

  Instantly, tension coiled around Alvarez’s frame, his body tightening

  at the revelation. “This could be a trap,” he cautioned, the

  implication heavy in the twilight atmosphere.

  Cross nodded solemnly. “I know,” she replied, determination fueling her words.

  “Then we take the squad,”

  The Rescue of Mercer

  Cross drove through the dark, twisting streets, every nerve in her

  body attuned to the shadows that loomed in the periphery of her vision.

  Her fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly, heart racing, as her

  mind replayed the scenario that had led her to this moment. Moments

  earlier, she had received the urgent call about Mercer’s abduction—a

  member of the task force she had grown to trust, perhaps even care for

  in ways she hadn't acknowledged until now.

  As she neared the mansion, its imposing silhouette emerged against

  the moonlit sky. The windows were dark, a palpable tension hanging in

  the air, making it feel like an unsettling trap waiting for the unwary.

  Swallowing her apprehension, Cross parked the jeep, her instincts alight

  with awareness, and stepped out. She moved like a predator—silent,

  purposeful, and intensely focused.

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  Cautiously, she advanced toward the mansion. With her gun drawn and

  at the ready, she edged toward the entrance, every creak of the

  floorboards beneath her feet echoing ominously in the stillness. As she

  pushed open the heavy door, the silence enveloped her like a thick fog,

  pressing against her ears.

  Then she heard it—a disturbance. A muffled sound that pierced through

  the quiet. A struggle. Her blood ran cold, and without a second

  thought, she burst through the door, adrenaline coursing through her

  veins. She raised her weapon high, her senses heightened, scanning the

  room.

  Her eyes quickly found Mercer. He was there, a bloodied figure

  slumped against a chair, his face contorted in pain. Two cultists loomed

  over him, greed and malice evident in their expressions as they

  restrained him. Rage ignited within her, like a firestorm. Without

  hesitation, she squeezed the trigger—one shot found its mark in the head

  of one cultist, while the other was greeted with a shot to the chest.

  Their lifeless bodies crumpled to the floor.

  "Cross!" Mercer gasped, struggling to look up at her. A weak grin

  played on his lips, but it was stained by the pain he was enduring.

  “About damn time,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

  She rushed forward, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him

  upright with urgency. “Can you walk?” The question felt futile as dread

  crept into her gut. The sight of blood seeping through his shirt was

  terrifying.

  “Like a drunk,” Mercer groaned, wincing at her touch, but he leaned

  against her nonetheless, desperately trying to regain his balance.

  That’s when she heard it—the unmistakable sound of footsteps and

  muffled shouts coming from behind them. Gunfire erupted, just as she had

  feared. More cultists were arriving, and they were ready for a fight.

  “Hurry!” she shouted, her voice rising above the chaos. She carefully

  maneuvered him through the dimly lit hallways, firing a few shots back

  to cover their escape. The echoes of her gunshots mixed with the

  panicked shouts of their pursuers, creating a menacing cacophony.

  They burst through the front door and stumbled into the night. Her

  jeep waited—an oasis in the midst of their ordeal. With a surge of

  determination, she helped Mercer inside, sliding him into the passenger

  seat as she slammed the door shut.

  As she slammed her foot on the gas, the engine roared, but she didn’t

  dare glance at Mercer just yet. Not until a heavy silence settled

  around them. That’s when she noticed him—his head had slumped back

  against the seat, his complexion waxen. Panic gripped her as she stole a

  glance; his breathing was ragged, shallow, and each passing second felt

  like an eternity.

  “Mercer!” she snapped, shaking him gently, desperation thickening her throat. “Hey—stay with me!”

  His eyes fluttered open briefly, catching the faint glimmer of the

  dashboard lights. “Didn’t know… you cared this much,” he replied, his

  voice tinged with pain and humor.

  “Shut up,” she ordered, but in her mind, the words rang hollow. The

  reality of the situation hit her—she couldn’t let him slip away now when

  they were so close to safety. She pressed harder on the gas, every

  ounce of her will focused on reaching the hospital.

  The Hospital Arrival

  The emergency room doors burst open as Cross rushed in, holding

  Mercer upright against her as they staggered through the threshold. The

  beeping of machines and the cacophony of frantic voices surrounded them,

  but all that mattered in that moment was getting him help.

  Eyes turned towards them—officers, nurses, and doctors alike. They

  all recognized Mercer, and expressions of disbelief quickly morphed into

  action. Alvarez was the first to reach them, his face lighting up in

  shock as he took in the scene.

  “Jesus Christ,” he breathed, looking at Mercer, who managed a weary

  grin despite the blood caking his shirt. “You crazy bastard.”

  “Missed me?” Mercer croaked, his attempt at humor a clear reflection of his fighting spirit.

  The doctors moved in with urgency, pulling him away from Cross as

  they began to assess the situation. She stood there for a moment, her

  heart still racing as the realization settled in. The immediate threat

  was over, at least for now. For the first time all night, she allowed

  herself to breathe, a deep exhalation that felt liberating yet heavy

  with relief.

  After what felt like an eternity, the doctor returned, hands scrubbed

  clean and expression serious yet hopeful. “He’s stable. The bullet

  barely grazed him. He’ll be fine.”

  A wave of relief washed over her, and she turned to Alvarez, her

  emotions overwhelming her. In one swift motion, she hugged him tightly.

  It wasn’t romantic. It was raw, genuine, and borne from the unrelenting

  bond of survival.

  Alvarez embraced her back, his warmth a stark contrast to the chilling events they had just faced.

  Cheers erupted around them as officers began to realize that Mercer

  was alive, his spirit unbroken despite the horrors he had endured. Grupo

  after grupo joined in the reaction, celebrating the fact that they

  still had a brother among them.

  And in that moment, as joy and relief coursed through the room, Cross

  knew one undeniable truth—this was far from over. The battle against

  the cultists, the darkness that threatened everything she held dear,

  continued to loom. Yet amidst the uncertainty, the flicker of hope

  ignited once again.

  For now, they had achieved one small victory.

  The hospital room was a sanctuary of muted beiges and soft grays, a

  stark contrast to the chaotic symphony of flashing screens and urgent

  voices just beyond its closed door. The single window offered a sliver

  of predawn light, barely enough to cut through the gloom. The rhythmic whoosh and beep

  of medical equipment formed a sterile counterpoint to the turmoil

  raging within Mercer. Every nerve ending screamed in protest, a chorus

  of aches and throbs. A bullet wound in his side, a throbbing head, and

  bruises blooming like dark flowers across his skin served as brutal

  reminders of the night before, but the pain was a welcome sign of life.

  The events of the past twenty-four hours clung to him like a shroud,

  replaying with the disorienting logic of a fever dream. The opulent

  mansion, reeking of dust and decay despite its evident riches; the

  masked figures chanting guttural phrases from a language he'd only heard

  flickering from static on a grainy VHS tape. He saw again the cult

  leader's unnerving calmness, a serene mask concealing something cold and

  predatory. And then, the ritual… the horror of it, the chanting, the

  blood, the feeling of being a horrified spectator in a nightmare he

  couldn't escape.

  But right now, as the pain medication began to take hold, none of

  that mattered. Not the cult, not the mansion, not even the looming dread

  that clung to the fringes of his consciousness.

  Because as his eyes finally adjusted to the room's dimness, he saw

  her. Cross. Asleep in the uncomfortable-looking plastic chair beside his

  bed.

  Her head was tilted at an awkward angle, her dark hair falling across

  her face. She had traded her tactical gear for some soft sweatpants and

  a hoodie. Her arms were crossed protectively, a habitual posture even

  in sleep. Her normally sharp, almost predatory expression was softened

  by exhaustion, revealing a vulnerability he rarely glimpsed. The lines

  etched around her eyes and mouth seemed deeper, amplified by the

  fatigue. She looked like she hadn't moved from that spot in hours, maybe

  all night. He wondered if she even closed her eyes.

  For the first time in a long while, Mercer felt something unfamiliar

  stir within him – a warmth that spread slowly through his chest, a faint

  ember glowing after years of ice. It was something akin to gratitude,

  maybe, but laced with a deeper, more complicated emotion he didn’t dare

  name. A flicker of hope burned within his chest.

  He just watched her for a moment, his chest rising and falling in

  slow, careful breaths, savoring the unexpected peace. The steady beeping

  of the heart monitor seemed to echo the rhythm of his own slowly

  thawing heart.

  Then, the thirst kicked in, a primal urge that shattered the fragile

  tranquility. His throat felt like sandpaper, a burning reminder of the

  trauma his body had endured. A glass of water, tantalizingly close, sat

  just inches away on the bedside table.

  Carefully, painstakingly, he reached for it, each movement sending

  stabs of pain through his ribs. He tried to be as silent as possible,

  not wanting to disturb her. He didn't want to break this moment.

  But his fingers, weakened by pain and medication, slipped on the smooth glass.

  The glass tipped, teetered for a heartbreaking fraction of a second,

  and then crashed to the cold tile floor with a sharp, earsplitting

  clatter. Water splashed everywhere, a miniature flood in the sterile

  environment.

  Cross jerked awake instantly, her hand flying to her hip out of pure

  reflex, her eyes snapping open with the predatory alertness of a

  seasoned soldier. For a split second, her gaze was distant, unfocused,

  reliving some past battlefield. Then, recognition dawned, and the

  tension visibly drained from her body as she registered her

  surroundings.

  Her eyes immediately landed on Mercer, pinning him with an intensity

  that made him acutely aware of his own vulnerability. The relief in her

  eyes was fleeting, but it was there.

  "You're awake," she whispered, her voice rough and hoarse from sleep. It was barely audible above the hum of the machines.

  Mercer smirked weakly, a painful grimace that stretched the stitches

  in his side. "Yeah. And I suck at grabbing things apparently."

  She sighed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with the heels of her

  hands. Without a word, she grabbed the pitcher of water, already

  assessing it. It was still half-full, she poured a fresh glass, and

  brought it to his lips with a surprising gentleness.

  "Here," she murmured, her voice softer now. "Drink."

  Mercer hesitated for a moment, studying her face. The concern etched

  there was a rare sight. He took a slow sip, the cold water a welcome

  balm. It ran down his parched throat, easing the burning dryness and

  washing away some of the lingering taste of fear.

  When he finished, he expected her to step back, to resume her usual

  guarded demeanor. Instead—she leaned closer, hesitating for a moment, as

  if battling with her instincts. Then, she wrapped her arms around him.

  Tightly.

  She buried her face in his shoulder, her body trembling subtly

  against his. He could feel the dampness of her eyes seeping into his

  hospital gown.

  "Jesus, Mercer," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I thought you were dead."

  He could feel the warmth of her breath against his skin, the way she

  clung to him as if reassuring herself he was real, solid, and alive. It

  was an uncharacteristic display of vulnerability from a woman who

  usually kept her emotions locked down tighter than Fort Knox.

  He didn't know what to say. Words seemed inadequate, clumsy in the face of such raw emotion.

  So he just held her back, carefully, mindful of his injuries. He let

  her cling to him, a silent promise of protection, a shared understanding

  that transcended words.

  For a moment, the chaos, the danger, the cult – it all faded into the

  background, a distant echo in the sterile hospital room. The weight of

  their shared experiences, the unspoken bond forged in the face of death,

  hung heavy in the air.

  It was just them. Two souls clinging to each other in the darkness.

  But after a few seconds, she suddenly pulled away, her face flushing a

  deep crimson as she realized the intimacy of the moment. The air

  between them crackled with unspoken tension, the comfortable silence

  shattered by embarrassment.

  She cleared her throat, avoiding his eyes, busying herself with

  straightening the rumpled blanket on his lap. "Uh—I mean—you scared the

  hell out of me, that's all."

  Mercer smirked, his heart still pounding from the unexpected embrace. "I think that's the first time you've hugged me."

  She shot him a glare, her usual defenses snapping back into place. "Shut up."

  He chuckled, but winced as a sharp pain shot through his ribs. "Damn. Laughing hurts."

  Cross folded her arms, her expression a carefully constructed mask of

  annoyance. "You shouldn't be laughing at all. You almost got yourself

  killed."

  "Yeah, well," he exhaled, leaning back against the pillows. "I tend to have that problem."

  She sighed, a flicker of exasperation in her eyes, then sat back down

  in the plastic chair, her movements stiff and self-conscious. "How are

  you feeling?"

  "Like I got shot and thrown through hell. But I'll live." He paused, considering her. "Thanks for waiting."

  A small smile flickered across her lips, a genuine smile that reached

  her eyes, but it was gone as fast as it came, replaced by her usual

  guarded expression.

  Then her expression turned serious, the humor vanishing like mist in the morning sun.

  "What the hell happened in that mansion?"

  Mercer's face darkened, the levity of the moment evaporating. The

  memories of the night flooded back, their horrifying details sharpened

  by the pain and the lingering fear.

  He ran a hand wearily over his face, gathering his thoughts, trying to organize the chaos in his mind into a coherent narrative.

  And then—he told her everything.

  The Truth About the Mansion:

  He told her about the masked figures, their faces hidden behind

  grotesque masks, their voices a chilling chorus of ancient syllables

  that resonated with a power he couldn't explain. He saw their leader,

  the manipulative bastard who remained implacably calm despite the

  madness swirling around him, a puppet master pulling strings in the

  shadows. He spoke of stumbling upon the laptop, the sinister portal

  through which the cult was spreading their influence online, infecting

  vulnerable minds through carefully crafted narratives of fear and false

  faith, preying on their insecurities and offering a twisted sense of

  belonging.

  He described the ritual in the desecrated church, the horrifying

  sight of the cultists chanting in unison, their voices rising to a fever

  pitch that seemed to vibrate the very foundations of the building. The

  air had grown thick with a palpable darkness, a feeling of dread so

  profound it had almost choked him. He recalled the sickeningly sweet

  smell of incense mixed with something metallic… something like blood.

  And then, the symbol—the mark of the Veiled Lord—painted across the

  walls in crimson strokes, carved into their skin with ritualistic

  precision. It was a symbol that resonated with a primal fear within him,

  a symbol that whispered of ancient evils and forbidden knowledge.

  Finally, he told her about the book he stole from the leader's room, a

  weighty tome bound in human skin, filled with coded messages, arcane

  diagrams, and ritualistic texts written in languages he barely

  recognized. But there was something else… something that felt important,

  crucial, even if he didn't understand it yet. A key, perhaps, to

  unraveling the mystery of the cult and their sinister agenda.

  By the time he finished, his voice was hoarse, and the silence in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife.

  Cross was silent, her face pale. Her brows were furrowed in

  concentration, her fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against the bedside

  table. The sterile hospital room suddenly felt cold, the air heavy with

  the weight of Mercer's revelations.

  "This isn't just a cult," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

  "This is something bigger. More organized. More… calculated. This is a

  network."

  Mercer nodded grimly. "They're not just worshippers. They're

  builders. They're actively expanding, spreading their influence like a

  virus."

  She exhaled slowly, a plume of air escaping her lips. "And we still

  don't know why they're targeting specific people. What that VHS tape

  meant. The connection."

  Mercer's jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "No. But I

  have a feeling we're about to find out. And it's going to be messy."

  Cross looked at him, her gaze unreadable, a mixture of concern,

  determination, and something else he couldn't quite decipher. Then,

  softly—

  "I'm glad you're okay, Mercer."

  He met her eyes, holding her gaze. For a second, neither of them said

  anything. The unspoken words hung in the air between them, a fragile

  bridge built on shared trauma and a growing, undeniable connection.

  Then he smirked, a genuine, albeit weary, smile spreading across his face.

  "Yeah. You and me both."

  The thin

  hospital blanket scratched against Mercer’s skin, a constant, irritating

  reminder of his confinement. He shifted against the crisp, starched

  sheets, a protest against the weakness that still clung to him. Every

  movement sent a dull throb through his ribs, a painful souvenir of the

  bullet that had nearly ended it all. But while his body protested, his

  mind was a whirlwind of urgency, piecing together the fragments of the

  case, the faces of the victims, the chillingly blank stare of the cult

  leader.

  He turned his head towards Cross, who had been a silent sentinel

  beside his bed since he’d regained consciousness. Her face was etched

  with a worry she tried to conceal, but the dark circles under her eyes

  and the tense set of her jaw betrayed her concern.

  “Where’s the bag?” Mercer’s voice, though raspy, held a firm demand.

  Years on the force had taught him to command attention, even from a

  hospital bed.

  Cross hesitated for a fraction of a second, a flicker of doubt

  crossing her face. “I gave it to the analytics team, Mercer. They’re

  already going through everything. The files, the hard drive, and that

  disturbing book you took from the cult leader’s library. Don’t worry

  about it. They’re professionals.”

  Mercer clenched his jaw, the sharp angle of his face emphasizing the

  weary determination in his eyes. “I need to see it myself. There might

  be something they’re missing. A detail, a symbol, anything.”

  “Not happening,” she shot back, her voice laced with the same

  stubbornness that defined her. “You’re still recovering. The doctors

  said you need rest.”

  He exhaled sharply, the sound a harsh rasp in the sterile air.

  Frustration flickered in his eyes, a blue fire beneath the exhaustion.

  “Cross, we both know this case is far from over. The Harbinger Cult’s

  influence is spreading like wildfire. We saw it, Cross. The chanting,

  the blank faces, the willingness to die for their leader. If we don’t

  act fast, we’re gonna lose control of the entire situation. This isn't

  some petty crime ring; this is something far more sinister.”

  “And if you push yourself too soon,” she countered, her voice softer

  now, laced with genuine concern, “you’ll just get yourself killed. Then

  who’s going to stop them?”

  The tension between them lingered, thick and palpable. Mercer knew

  she was right, logically. He needed to heal. But the images of the

  cult's influence, the disturbing rituals he'd witnessed, haunted him

  relentlessly. Every second they wasted, more people were getting pulled

  into the cult’s grasp. He was a shield, a protector, and the thought of

  being sidelined while the city crumbled around him was unbearable. The

  burden of responsibility was heavy, a weight he carried with grim

  determination.

  Before he could argue further, the door swung open, causing both of

  them to turn. Detective Alvarez stood in the doorway, his imposing

  figure filling the space. He was a man of few words but unwavering

  loyalty, a rock in the turbulent sea of their profession. His usually

  stoic face registered surprise, his eyes widening as he saw Mercer awake

  and alert.

  “You son of a bitch,” Alvarez muttered, a hint of relief coloring his gruff tone.

  Then, before Mercer could say anything, Alvarez was across the room,

  pulling him into a bear hug. The force sent a jolt of pain through

  Mercer's ribs, a searing reminder of his injuries.

  Mercer winced, gritting his teeth. “Jesus, Alvarez. I just got shot, you trying to finish the job? Ease up, you oaf!”

  Alvarez let go, smirking, but with a visible softening around the

  eyes. “Shut up. You scared the hell out of us. Cross hasn’t left your

  side since they wheeled you in.”

  Mercer grinned, a flash of genuine warmth in his eyes. “You’re getting soft, man. All that family time must be rubbing off.”

  “Yeah, well, near-death experiences have that effect. Makes you

  appreciate what you almost lost.” Alvarez’s voice was serious now, the

  smirk fading.

  Mercer leaned back against the pillows, a flicker of suspicion in his

  eyes. "I thought you were on leave? Visiting family in Miami? When did

  you get back?"

  Alvarez’s expression darkened, the humor completely gone. “The moment

  Captain Holt died. The department called me in immediately. Said it was

  all hands on deck. When I got back, everything was a complete

  shit-show. The cult activity had exploded. It was like a dam had

  broken.” The grief over their Captain's loss was evident, a shared pain

  etched onto his face.

  Cross nodded, her voice low and somber. “You have no idea. The city

  is on edge. The media is feeding the frenzy. Everyone is looking for

  someone to blame.”

  Alvarez ran a hand through his closely cropped hair, a gesture of

  frustration. “We managed to capture the cult member from Central Park.

  The one involved in the ritual sacrifice. He’s locked up and under heavy

  security. But…” He hesitated, his gaze meeting Mercer's.

  Mercer narrowed his eyes, sensing the unspoken weight of the situation. “But what? Speak plainly, Alvarez.”

  Alvarez exhaled, the sound heavy with weariness. “The guy’s tough. Hard as nails. He’s saying nothing.

  Not a damn word. No threats, no demands, not even a single reaction.

  Just sits there, staring at the wall like he’s waiting for something…or

  someone.”

  Mercer’s fists tightened under the blanket, the knuckles white. He

  had seen their kind before. Men and women consumed by belief, their

  minds warped by ideology. Blind devotion. Absolute loyalty. They were

  the most dangerous kind.

  He looked between Cross and Alvarez, his decision already made. “Let me question him.”

  Cross immediately shook her head, her eyes wide with protest. “No.

  Absolutely not. You just got out of surgery, Mercer! You’re in no

  condition to handle a volatile situation like that.”

  Alvarez hesitated, weighing the risks and benefits. Then, he said, “I

  don’t know, Cross. He’s the only one who’s seen the cult from the

  inside. He was one of their inner circle. If anyone can get inside this

  guy’s head, it’s him. Mercer knows how these cults operate; he studies

  their methods.”

  Cross clenched her jaw, clearly torn. She looked at Mercer again, her

  expression a mixture of concern and reluctant understanding. “I don’t

  like it. It’s too risky.”

  Mercer sighed, rubbing his temples, ignoring the throbbing pain. “I

  can’t sit here doing nothing while this city is spiraling into darkness.

  Every second we waste, more people get pulled in. More people die. We

  need information, and he’s the only one who might have it. I’m fine,

  Cross. I can handle this. Just get me some coffee.”

  Cross looked at him, her expression unreadable. She knew his

  stubbornness, his unwavering commitment to his job. She also knew the

  toll this case had already taken on him.

  Then, finally, she sighed in defeat, the fight draining out of her.

  “Fine. But if you pass out in that damn interrogation room, I’m dragging

  your ass back here myself. And you’re on bed rest for a week. Got it?”

  Mercer smirked, a spark of his old self returning. “Deal. Besides, I only pass out during car chases.”

  Alvarez clapped him on the back, a renewed sense of purpose in his eyes. “Alright, then. Let’s go crack this bastard.”

  The war against the Harbinger Cult was far from over. The streets

  were filled with fear, the air thick with uncertainty. The only thing

  standing in the way of the oncoming darkness was a wounded detective, a

  determined partner, and a captured acolyte holding the key to unraveling

  the cult's secrets. The fight for the city's soul had only just begun.

  The room was a study in sterile dread. Not a soundproofed

  interrogation chamber in the typical sense, but a hastily converted

  sub-basement cell. Cold seeped from the reinforced steel lining the

  walls, a metallic chill that bit through clothing and settled deep in

  the bones. The air, stale and recycled, vibrated with the almost

  imperceptible, ever-present hum of at least half a dozen surveillance

  cameras, their lenses like unblinking eyes watching every twitch and

  breath. In the center of the room, a bare metal table occupied the space

  below a single, flickering fluorescent light, its erratic buzzing a

  constant, maddening counterpoint to the silence. Strapped to the table,

  wrists bound by heavy-duty cuffs that looked almost too large for his

  slender frame, sat the cult member.

  He was unnervingly still. Not the stillness of fear, but of profound

  detachment. His gaze was fixed on a point on the wall, a greasy stain

  perhaps, but his focus seemed to extend far beyond that. It was as if he

  wasn’t even inhabiting his own body, merely a shell waiting for a

  command.

  Mercer paused at the doorway, his hand still resting on the cold

  steel frame. He had interrogated countless criminals in his years on the

  force – hardened murderers with eyes full of rage, slick con artists

  weaving elaborate webs of deceit, fanatical terrorists clinging to their

  twisted ideologies. But this was different. This man radiated an

  unnerving calm, a serenity that defied the circumstances. It wasn’t

  bravery, not exactly. It was something… beyond fear.

  He wasn’t fighting back; no shouts, no anger, no demands for a lawyer.

  He wasn’t resisting; no struggles, no clenching of fists, no visible tension.

  He wasn’t even present; vacant eyes, hollow and absent of the slightest sign of emotion.

  Mercer closed the heavy door behind him with a soft click, the

  finality of it echoing in the confined space. He could feel the gaze of

  Cross and Alvarez, his partners, boring into the back of his head

  through the one-way glass in the adjacent observation room. He knew

  they'd seen it all too. This guy was different.

  He pulled out the metal chair with a screech. It was far from

  comfortable, but he barely noticed. He took his seat slowly,

  deliberately, across from the cultist, meeting his empty stare.

  "Name?" Mercer's voice was low, a practiced timbre that usually commanded attention.

  Silence. It stretched on, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the buzzing light and the faint hum of the cameras.

  Mercer leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, fingers

  interlaced. He hated this part. The charade. "You know who I am. You

  know what I do, what I’m capable of doing. We’ve been tracking your

  group for months. Let’s not waste time." He kept his voice even, devoid

  of threat, but the underlying steel was unmistakable.

  The cultist finally moved. It was a slow, almost languid motion. He

  turned his head, each vertebra clicking faintly, until his eyes locked

  onto Mercer’s. The eyes weren't so vacant after all. They were deeply

  set and dark like he had looked into a never-ending pit.

  And then… he smiled. It wasn't a mocking grin or a triumphant sneer. It was a serene, almost pitying expression.

  "You’re already wasting time, Detective Mercer," he murmured.

  His voice was calm – measured, even musical. Not arrogant, not

  defiant, not pleading. Just… certain. Absolutely, utterly certain. It

  sent a shiver down Mercer's spine.

  Mercer exhaled slowly through his nose. He had seen this before, the

  almost zealous calm. Usually it was just a fa?ade, hiding a world of

  fear and deception. But this… this felt different.

  "You’re waiting for something, aren’t you?" Mercer pressed, trying to

  break through the placidity. "An escape? A rescue? The end of the

  world?"

  The cultist tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question

  with genuine interest. "No. I’m waiting for nothing, detective. You, on

  the other hand... you are waiting for something you will never find."

  His eyes seemed to pierce Mercer, to see something hidden beneath the

  surface. This was something personal now.

  Mercer’s jaw tensed. He ignored the subtle jab. "Let’s start simple. Why did you join the Harbinger?"

  The man let out a soft chuckle, a dry, rustling sound that seemed to

  come from deep within his chest. "Join? You think I 'joined'?" He said

  it as if the word had a bitter aftertaste.

  Mercer leaned back slightly, studying him with narrowed eyes. "You

  were recruited then? Indoctrinated? Radicals like you don’t just wake up

  one day and start worshiping a god that no one else has ever heard of."

  The cultist’s smile never wavered. It was fixed, almost unsettlingly peaceful.

  "You think faith is something that is given, like a pamphlet or a

  sales pitch. It’s not. It’s something that is awakened, like a sleeping

  giant."

  Mercer folded his arms across his chest. "Awakened through what?

  Lies? Manipulation? Violence?" He listed the hallmarks of every cult

  he'd ever encountered.

  The cultist chuckled softly. "And what is the world outside, if not a

  lie? If not manipulation? If not violence?" There was a hint of

  challenge in his eyes.

  Mercer’s fingers tightened into a fist beneath his arm, but he kept

  his face carefully neutral. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction of

  seeing him riled up.

  "Explain that to me," he said, his voice even and controlled.

  The cultist’s smile finally faded, and for the first time since

  Mercer had entered the room, his expression was completely serious. A

  small part of Mercer felt like he had finally broken through.

  "Do you know what it feels like to be nothing, Detective Mercer? To

  wake up every day knowing you are insignificant? That no matter what you

  do—no matter how hard you fight, no matter how much you

  sacrifice—nothing will change? That the world will continue to rot, that

  the powerful will continue to rule, and that the weak will continue to

  suffer?" His tone was almost confessional, yet with an undercurrent of

  something darker.

  Mercer said nothing, letting the silence hang in the air. He had

  heard the complaints before from people in the street. He had also heard

  them from hardened criminals trying to justify heinous acts.

  The cultist leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "That is

  the real world, Detective Mercer. That is your world. And do you know

  what the Harbinger offers?"

  "Delusion," Mercer muttered, the word laced with contempt.

  The cultist’s expression didn’t change. "No. Purpose."

  He sat back, his gaze now fixed on some distant point beyond the

  walls of the room. "I spent years as a nobody. Meaningless job.

  Meaningless life. No direction. I drank too much. I struggled to get by.

  I asked myself every day, ‘Why am I even alive?’ And then… I was shown

  the truth."

  Mercer narrowed his eyes, suspicion coiling in his gut. "By who? The Leader?"

  The cultist chuckled, a knowing sound. "You already know the answer to that."

  The Leader. The puppet master at the heart of the Harbinger, the man who had seduced so many lost souls.

  Mercer exhaled, trying to keep his frustration in check. "You’re

  saying this ‘truth’ made you a killer? A torturer? A psychopath?"

  The cultist smiled again, that disturbingly serene smile. "We are all

  killers, detective. Your police force kills every day, whether they

  pull the trigger or not. Your government kills every day with its

  policies that allow people to go hungry and to rot in prison. Your

  justice system lets the guilty walk free, while the innocent suffer. But

  we... we do not kill in vain. We kill for a purpose."

  Mercer scoffed, struggling to maintain his cool. "You murder innocent

  people in cold blood. You destroy families. You leave nothing but ash

  in your wake."

  The cultist shook his head slowly. "No. We release them from the

  confines of existence. We save them from this terrible world. We show

  them the path to ascension."

  Mercer clenched his jaw, the muscle ticking uncontrollably. "You

  brainwash them. You prey on their vulnerabilities. You fill their heads

  with nonsense."

  The cultist smiled. "Tell me, detective—when a man is drowning and he

  is pulled from the ocean and given air to breathe, has he been

  ‘brainwashed’ into believing in air? Or has he been saved?"

  Mercer stared at him, speechless for a moment, trying to find a logical counterargument.

  The cultist continued, pressing his advantage. "You cannot understand

  because you have never felt it. The burden of nothingness. The crushing

  weight of meaninglessness. The fear of knowing that you are

  replaceable, just another cog in the machine. But we... we are not

  replaceable, detective. We are eternal."

  "Eternal?" Mercer repeated, the word tasting like ash in his mouth.

  The cultist sighed almost sympathetically. "You see the world in

  years. In decades. In lifespans. But we... we see it in centuries. We

  have existed before you. We will exist long after you. When the world is

  nothing but ash, we will rise again!"

  Mercer leaned forward again, his voice low and dangerous. "Then tell

  me why you kill. Why Gibson? Why Captain Holt? Why Lennox?" He named

  three recent victims of the Harbinger, each death more brutal and

  incomprehensible than the last. People he called friends.

  The cultist shook his head, his expression almost pitying. "You are

  still asking the wrong questions, Detective Mercer. Not who we kill, not

  why. But what they were keeping from us. What important piece of the puzzle they possessed."

  Mercer’s blood ran cold. He felt a surge of adrenaline, a primal

  instinct screaming at him to be wary. "What… what were they keeping?"

  The cultist simply smiled again, that serene, maddeningly confident smile.

  Silence descended once more, heavier than before.

  Mercer studied him, his mind racing. This wasn’t just devotion. This

  was something deeper, something… absolute. He was beyond saving.

  He thought back to every criminal, every radical, every extremist he

  had ever interrogated. None of them had looked at him the way this man

  did.

  Like Mercer was already dead. Like he was a character in the man's story that had already run its course.

  He leaned back in his uncomfortable chair, exhaling sharply. "You’re insane."

  The cultist nodded slowly, his eyes unblinking, fixed on some unseen

  point beyond Mercer's head. "So they said about Copernicus when he spoke

  of the stars that the world could not revolve around the Earth. So they

  said about Galileo when he told them the Earth was not the center of

  the universe. So they said about the prophets when they spoke of the

  divine truth."

  His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible above the hum of the cameras.

  "And so they will say about us… until the world belongs to Him."

  Mercer’s stomach tightened in a knot of dread.

  He had faced murderers before. Terrorists. Monsters.

  But this… This wasn't a monster you could trap, cage, or even kill.

  He knew that much. This was something else entirely. Something much more

  dangerous. Something that could change the world.

  This was belief incarnate.

  The

  interrogation room was sterile, a box of harsh fluorescent light and

  cold metal. Mercer leaned forward, the metal legs of his chair scraping

  against the linoleum floor, a sound amplified in the tense silence. His

  voice, usually a low rumble, was now a carefully honed weapon, dripping

  with calculated contempt. He wanted to unnerve his subject, to peel back

  the layers of fanaticism and expose the frightened, vulnerable core.

  “I met your leader.”

  Across the steel table, the cultist’s head tilted slightly. A flicker

  of… something… crossed his face, too quick to decipher. He was young,

  maybe late twenties, but his eyes held the unnerving intensity of

  someone who had traded independent thought for blind faith.

  "Did you?” The question was simple, almost polite, but Mercer detected a subtle challenge beneath the surface politeness.

  Mercer nodded, letting his gaze linger on the man’s face, cataloging

  every micro-expression. "Oh yeah. Dramatic guy. Loves to talk. A real

  showman. All booming voice and theatrical gestures." He smirked, a thin,

  cruel twist of his lips. "But you know what I saw? A fraud. A man who

  hides behind myths and symbols because he’s too much of a coward to face

  reality. A man who needs an audience to validate his pathetic

  existence."

  The cultist’s smile faltered—just for a second. The corner of his mouth twitched downwards before he quickly regained control.

  Mercer noticed. He filed it away, a pinprick of weakness in the cultist’s carefully constructed facade.

  Good. A small victory, but victories were built on small gains.

  "He acts like he’s some kind of prophet," Mercer continued, hammering

  his point home. "Speaks of cosmic truths and ancient prophecies, but

  all I saw was a man desperate for control. A manipulator. A parasite

  feeding off the weak-minded, sucking away their hope and replacing it

  with his twisted ideology."

  The cultist’s hands, which had been resting relaxed on the table,

  palms down, now curled into fists. The knuckles were white beneath the

  pale skin. Tension radiated from him like heat from a furnace.

  "You don’t understand," he muttered, his voice barely audible. It was

  a defensive reflex, a desperate attempt to shield his belief system

  from the assault.

  Mercer pressed harder, smelling blood in the water. "Oh, I understand

  perfectly. He preys on people like you—people who feel lost, who need

  something to believe in, some sense of purpose in this chaotic world.

  And what does he do? He fills your head with fairy tales, convinces you

  to kill for him, die for him. He promises salvation, but delivers only

  destruction. He's a wolf in sheep's clothing. But in the end, he’s just

  another power-hungry lunatic, using you for his own selfish ends."

  The cultist’s jaw clenched, the muscles bulging as if he were

  grinding his teeth. His breathing became heavier, ragged and uneven.

  Mercer knew exactly what he was doing. He’d done it a hundred times

  before. He was pushing the cultist's buttons, chipping away at the

  carefully constructed barriers of his belief. He was using the cultist's

  own fervor against him.

  Push him. Make him crack. Get him to reveal something, anything.

  "You’re nothing but his pawn," Mercer sneered, layering on the

  contempt. "A tool. A disposable asset. He doesn’t care about you. He’ll

  throw you away the moment you’re no longer useful. He'll sacrifice you

  without a second thought to further his own twisted agenda."

  The cultist slammed his cuffed fists against the table, the metal

  rattling loudly in the small room. The sound was a release, a physical

  manifestation of his internal turmoil.

  "You speak of things you cannot comprehend!" he snarled, his face

  contorted with rage. "He is not a man! He is a harbinger of the eternal!

  A vessel of divinity! He is beyond your mortal understanding!"

  Mercer kept his voice calm, a stark contrast to the cultist's

  outburst. But his eyes were sharp, like chips of ice. He held the

  cultist's gaze, refusing to be intimidated. "A ‘harbinger’? Of what?

  More death? More suffering? More lies? Is that what your 'divinity'

  brings to the world?"

  The cultist was breathing heavily now, his whole body shaking with fury. He looked like he was on the verge of exploding.

  "He is the bringer of awakening!" he spat, flecks of saliva flying

  from his mouth. "He is the voice that calls to us from beyond the veil!

  He is the chosen one, and we—his devoted—are the architects of the new

  world! We will cleanse this world of its corruption and usher in an age

  of enlightenment!"

  Mercer locked eyes with him, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

  "Then tell me what he's planning. Tell me about this 'new world' you're

  building. What is he going to do?"

  The cultist suddenly stopped moving. His eyes widened slightly, and for a fleeting second, Mercer thought he was going to break.

  His breathing slowed. His fingers uncurled. The rage melted from his

  face like frost in the morning sun. He looked… almost serene.

  And just like that… he smiled again. A slow, knowing, haunting smile

  that sent a chill down Mercer’s spine. It wasn’t the smile of a

  believer, but of someone who knew something Mercer didn't.

  "You’re trying to break me, detective." The smile widened, revealing a hint of teeth.

  Mercer’s stomach tightened. He’d been so close, so sure he was on the

  verge of cracking him. Now… now he felt like he'd walked into a trap.

  Damn it. He’d underestimated this one.

  The cultist leaned in, his voice soft but unnervingly confident. "You

  think you are the hunter, but you are merely another blind soul

  stumbling in the dark. You believe you are exposing us, but in truth, we

  have already exposed you. We know your weaknesses, your fears, your

  doubts."

  He exhaled, almost amused, the sound a low, guttural chuckle. "You

  have no idea how deep this goes. How long we have waited. How close we

  are to achieving our goal."

  He stared straight into Mercer’s soul, his eyes now piercing and predatory.

  "It has already begun."

  Mercer felt something cold settle in his chest, a primal fear that

  transcended logic and reason. A feeling that he was no longer in

  control. That he was a pawn in a much larger, much more dangerous game.

  He wasn’t lying. Mercer could feel it in his bones. Whatever this

  cult was planning, it was already in motion. And he was running out of

  time.

  The room

  was tense, the air thick with the weight of Mercer's last question, a

  question unanswered and lingering like a specter. The fluorescent lights

  hummed, a monotonous counterpoint to the silence that screamed in the

  small space. Sweat slicked the cultist's brow, his eyes darting

  nervously around the stark, concrete walls.

  “It has already begun.”

  Those words echoed in his mind, bouncing off the inside of his skull

  like a trapped bird. The cultist’s admission, cryptic and unsettling,

  hung heavy in the air.

  Mercer could feel it—the cultist was close to breaking, but not close

  enough. He needed that final push, the lever that would pry open the

  secrets locked within the man's fanatic heart. He needed more than

  interrogation tactics. He needed leverage.

  And he had it. He'd risked everything to obtain it, carrying it with

  him since that night. The weight of it in his pocket was a promise and a

  threat.

  Slowly, deliberately, savoring the anticipation, Mercer reached into

  his pocket and pulled out his phone. It was a simple black rectangle, an

  unassuming device capable of unleashing chaos.

  Cross and Alvarez watched in confusion from the observation window,

  their faces pressed close to the glass. They'd witnessed Mercer's

  unorthodox methods before, but this was new. This was…different.

  Mercer unlocked the phone with his thumb, the screen illuminating his

  face with an eerie glow. He swiped through his files, a digital library

  of the unsettling and the unexplained, until he pinpointed the one he

  needed. He tapped a single audio recording, a digital echo from the

  heart of darkness.

  The room filled with a voice—commanding, deep, and otherworldly. It

  resonated not just in the air, but in the very bones. A voice that

  seemed to claw its way out of the abyss.

  A voice speaking in the ancient language he had heard in the mansion,

  a language older than civilization, a language that whispered of

  forgotten gods and unspeakable rituals. Blood and sacrifice.

  The cultist flinched, as if struck. The sound was a physical blow.

  His fingers trembled. His breathing hitched, catching in his throat

  like a sob. A sudden, involuntary twitch rippled across his face, a

  subtle sign of the internal war raging within.

  Alvarez’s brows furrowed, a knot of unease tightening in his stomach.

  "What the hell...?" He glanced at Cross, searching for an explanation,

  but found only mirrored confusion.

  Cross leaned closer to the glass, her eyes narrowed, sensing

  something deeply wrong. A primal instinct screamed at her, warning her

  of dangers unseen. The air crackled with an unseen energy.

  The voice continued, its tone unwavering, like a priest delivering a

  sermon from the depths of the abyss. Each syllable was a step deeper

  into madness. The words were foreign, unintelligible, but the power

  behind them was unmistakable, a force of nature unleashed. A malevolent

  storm contained within sound waves.

  The cultist’s twitches worsened, becoming more pronounced, more violent.

  His body jerked as if something inside him was fighting against an

  unseen force, tearing at his soul, unraveling his sanity. He was a

  puppet, and the voice was pulling the strings.

  "S-Stop..." he muttered, his voice strained and hoarse, a desperate

  plea lost in the rising tide of the ancient language. "Please...make it

  stop..."

  Mercer didn’t. He couldn't. Not yet.

  He turned the volume up, amplifying the voice’s unholy power. The

  cultist’s suffering was agonizing, but the information he held was too

  vital to ignore.

  The voice shifted—the cadence changed, becoming more insistent, more

  urgent. The words seemed to bore into the cultist’s mind, bypassing his

  conscious defenses.

  It wasn’t just speaking anymore. It was commanding, demanding obedience with an authority forged in the fires of hell.

  Something about the tone was different this time—sharper, more

  urgent, laced with a threat so visceral it made the air tremble. A sonic

  dagger aimed directly at the cultist’s soul.

  The cultist’s eyes widened, pupils dilating until they were black

  pools of terror. His breath hitched, a strangled gasp that echoed in the

  suddenly silent room.

  And then—

  He started crying.

  Not just silent tears that traced paths down his cheeks.

  Sobbing. Deep, wracking sobs that shook his entire frame, raw and unbridled.

  A grown man—a fanatical, brainwashed cultist, hardened by years of

  indoctrination—weeping like a child, his carefully constructed facade

  shattered into a million pieces.

  Mercer leaned forward, his voice low and firm, cutting through the

  cultist’s anguish. "Tell me what I need to know." The time for subtlety

  was over. He needed the location of the impending ritual. He needed the

  truth.

  The cultist shook his head violently, his hands gripping his hair,

  tearing at his scalp as if trying to rip the voice from his mind. His

  body convulsed as though something inside him was breaking apart,

  shattering under immense pressure.

  "Make it stop! Please, make it stop!" he screamed, his voice raw with desperation.

  Mercer’s thumb hovered over the pause button, the power to silence

  the voice resting at his fingertips. The ethical implications gnawed at

  him, but the stakes were too high to falter.

  "Tell me, and I will." His voice was steel. A promise and a threat. Both sides of the same coin.

  For a second, Mercer thought it had worked. The cultist’s sobs

  subsided slightly, replaced by ragged, gasping breaths. He seemed on the

  verge of surrender.

  But then—

  The cultist's eyes rolled back into his head, revealing only the whites. His pupils vanished, leaving him blind and vacant.

  His body spasmed once, a final convulsion of the muscles, a violent expulsion of life… then went completely still.

  Mercer froze, his hand still hovering over the pause button. He

  stared at the unmoving figure, his mind struggling to process what had

  just happened.

  Cross and Alvarez saw it too, witnessed the final, devastating

  collapse. The panic hit them instantly, a wave of dread washing over

  them.

  Cross slammed the door open, the metal echoing in the small room.

  "What the hell did you do?!" Her voice was tight with anger and fear,

  accusing and demanding.

  Alvarez rushed inside, kneeling beside the cultist and frantically

  checking for a pulse. His fingers pressed against the side of the man's

  neck, searching for the faintest sign of life.

  Nothing.

  “Shit, get the doctor in here!” Cross shouted, her voice laced with

  urgency. She glanced back at Mercer, her eyes blazing with a mixture of

  fury and disbelief.

  A moment later, the station’s on-call doctor rushed inside with a

  team of medics, their faces grim with anticipation. They pushed Mercer,

  Cross, and Alvarez out of the room, creating a frenzied flurry of

  activity around the lifeless body.

  As the medics worked frantically on the cultist, trying to revive him, Cross turned on Mercer, her voice a low, dangerous growl.

  "What the hell was that?!"

  Mercer exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. He was still

  trying to process it himself, the weight of the moment pressing down on

  him. The line between interrogation and destruction had blurred, and he

  wasn't sure which side he was on.

  “I saw him do it.” He spoke softly, almost to himself.

  Cross narrowed her eyes, suspicion etched on her face. "What?"

  Mercer looked up at her, his eyes filled with a grim understanding. “The leader. Back in the mansion. He did the same thing.”

  Alvarez crossed his arms, his expression hardening. “Explain. Now.”

  Mercer leaned against the hallway wall, gathering his thoughts,

  trying to piece together the fragments of memory and horror. "When I was

  escaping, I saw him in the ritual chamber. He was surrounded by his

  followers, chanting and swaying. But there was one in particular—one of

  them was being questioned by the leader."

  He clenched his jaw, remembering the eerie stillness in the room, the

  oppressive atmosphere, the dim candlelight flickering against the cult

  leader’s grotesque mask. The memory was a festering wound in his mind.

  "The leader spoke in that same voice—the one from the recording. The exact same tone, the same rhythm, the same…control."

  Cross was listening intently now, her initial anger replaced by a

  growing sense of dread. The pieces were beginning to fall into place,

  revealing a picture more terrifying than she could have imagined.

  “And the cultist… he reacted just like this guy did. He twitched, he

  convulsed, and then—” Mercer exhaled, shaking his head. "He broke down.

  He told the leader everything. Every detail about their plans. About the

  ritual."

  “So you recorded it?” Alvarez asked, his voice flat.

  Mercer nodded. "I knew it was important. I didn’t know how, but

  something about it—" he gestured toward the interrogation room,

  "—something about the way he controlled them with his voice. It’s not

  just language. It’s like…"

  Cross finished his sentence, her voice barely a whisper. "A trigger."

  They all fell silent, the implications of Mercer's recording settling

  over them like a shroud. If the cultists were susceptible to such

  manipulation, the situation was far more dire than they had initially

  believed.

  Inside the room, the doctor was still working frantically, fighting to stabilize the cultist, but the situation looked grim.

  Cross folded her arms, her face grim. “What if they’ve been

  conditioned? Hypnotized? Brainwashed to respond to certain commands?”

  Mercer nodded. "It’s possible. And if that’s true… it means the

  leader has complete control over them. He can activate them, deactivate

  them, use them as puppets without them even knowing it."

  The weight of that realization settled over them, heavy and

  suffocating. The cult wasn't just a fringe group of fanatics. It was a

  sophisticated organization with methods of control they were only

  beginning to understand.

  Alvarez rubbed his face, his expression weary. “Jesus Christ.”

  Cross turned toward the observation window, watching the cultist’s

  lifeless body as the doctor worked. The room was silent save for the

  beeping of the machines. “If they’re this far gone, how do we fight

  something like this?”

  Mercer didn’t answer. He looked at the floor, and saw no ready answers there either.

  Because the truth was—

  He had no idea. They were facing an enemy unlike anything they had

  ever encountered, an enemy that could manipulate minds and break wills

  with a single word. He had no idea how to stop them. He only knew they

  had to try.

  The room

  was tense, the air thick with the weight of Mercer's last question, a

  question unanswered and lingering like a specter. The fluorescent lights

  hummed, a monotonous counterpoint to the silence that screamed in the

  small space. Sweat slicked the cultist's brow, his eyes darting

  nervously around the stark, concrete walls.

  “It has already begun.”

  Those words echoed in his mind, bouncing off the inside of his skull

  like a trapped bird. The cultist’s admission, cryptic and unsettling,

  hung heavy in the air.

  Mercer could feel it—the cultist was close to breaking, but not close

  enough. He needed that final push, the lever that would pry open the

  secrets locked within the man's fanatic heart. He needed more than

  interrogation tactics. He needed leverage.

  And he had it. He'd risked everything to obtain it, carrying it with

  him since that night. The weight of it in his pocket was a promise and a

  threat.

  Slowly, deliberately, savoring the anticipation, Mercer reached into

  his pocket and pulled out his phone. It was a simple black rectangle, an

  unassuming device capable of unleashing chaos.

  Cross and Alvarez watched in confusion from the observation window,

  their faces pressed close to the glass. They'd witnessed Mercer's

  unorthodox methods before, but this was new. This was…different.

  Mercer unlocked the phone with his thumb, the screen illuminating his

  face with an eerie glow. He swiped through his files, a digital library

  of the unsettling and the unexplained, until he pinpointed the one he

  needed. He tapped a single audio recording, a digital echo from the

  heart of darkness.

  The room filled with a voice—commanding, deep, and otherworldly. It

  resonated not just in the air, but in the very bones. A voice that

  seemed to claw its way out of the abyss.

  A voice speaking in the ancient language he had heard in the mansion,

  a language older than civilization, a language that whispered of

  forgotten gods and unspeakable rituals. Blood and sacrifice.

  The cultist flinched, as if struck. The sound was a physical blow.

  His fingers trembled. His breathing hitched, catching in his throat

  like a sob. A sudden, involuntary twitch rippled across his face, a

  subtle sign of the internal war raging within.

  Alvarez’s brows furrowed, a knot of unease tightening in his stomach.

  "What the hell...?" He glanced at Cross, searching for an explanation,

  but found only mirrored confusion.

  Cross leaned closer to the glass, her eyes narrowed, sensing

  something deeply wrong. A primal instinct screamed at her, warning her

  of dangers unseen. The air crackled with an unseen energy.

  The voice continued, its tone unwavering, like a priest delivering a

  sermon from the depths of the abyss. Each syllable was a step deeper

  into madness. The words were foreign, unintelligible, but the power

  behind them was unmistakable, a force of nature unleashed. A malevolent

  storm contained within sound waves.

  The cultist’s twitches worsened, becoming more pronounced, more violent.

  His body jerked as if something inside him was fighting against an

  unseen force, tearing at his soul, unraveling his sanity. He was a

  puppet, and the voice was pulling the strings.

  "S-Stop..." he muttered, his voice strained and hoarse, a desperate

  plea lost in the rising tide of the ancient language. "Please...make it

  stop..."

  Mercer didn’t. He couldn't. Not yet.

  He turned the volume up, amplifying the voice’s unholy power. The

  cultist’s suffering was agonizing, but the information he held was too

  vital to ignore.

  The voice shifted—the cadence changed, becoming more insistent, more

  urgent. The words seemed to bore into the cultist’s mind, bypassing his

  conscious defenses.

  It wasn’t just speaking anymore. It was commanding, demanding obedience with an authority forged in the fires of hell.

  Something about the tone was different this time—sharper, more

  urgent, laced with a threat so visceral it made the air tremble. A sonic

  dagger aimed directly at the cultist’s soul.

  The cultist’s eyes widened, pupils dilating until they were black

  pools of terror. His breath hitched, a strangled gasp that echoed in the

  suddenly silent room.

  And then—

  He started crying.

  Not just silent tears that traced paths down his cheeks.

  Sobbing. Deep, wracking sobs that shook his entire frame, raw and unbridled.

  A grown man—a fanatical, brainwashed cultist, hardened by years of

  indoctrination—weeping like a child, his carefully constructed facade

  shattered into a million pieces.

  Mercer leaned forward, his voice low and firm, cutting through the

  cultist’s anguish. "Tell me what I need to know." The time for subtlety

  was over. He needed the location of the impending ritual. He needed the

  truth.

  The cultist shook his head violently, his hands gripping his hair,

  tearing at his scalp as if trying to rip the voice from his mind. His

  body convulsed as though something inside him was breaking apart,

  shattering under immense pressure.

  "Make it stop! Please, make it stop!" he screamed, his voice raw with desperation.

  Mercer’s thumb hovered over the pause button, the power to silence

  the voice resting at his fingertips. The ethical implications gnawed at

  him, but the stakes were too high to falter.

  "Tell me, and I will." His voice was steel. A promise and a threat. Both sides of the same coin.

  For a second, Mercer thought it had worked. The cultist’s sobs

  subsided slightly, replaced by ragged, gasping breaths. He seemed on the

  verge of surrender.

  But then—

  The cultist's eyes rolled back into his head, revealing only the whites. His pupils vanished, leaving him blind and vacant.

  His body spasmed once, a final convulsion of the muscles, a violent expulsion of life… then went completely still.

  Mercer froze, his hand still hovering over the pause button. He

  stared at the unmoving figure, his mind struggling to process what had

  just happened.

  Cross and Alvarez saw it too, witnessed the final, devastating

  collapse. The panic hit them instantly, a wave of dread washing over

  them.

  Cross slammed the door open, the metal echoing in the small room.

  "What the hell did you do?!" Her voice was tight with anger and fear,

  accusing and demanding.

  Alvarez rushed inside, kneeling beside the cultist and frantically

  checking for a pulse. His fingers pressed against the side of the man's

  neck, searching for the faintest sign of life.

  Nothing.

  “Shit, get the doctor in here!” Cross shouted, her voice laced with

  urgency. She glanced back at Mercer, her eyes blazing with a mixture of

  fury and disbelief.

  A moment later, the station’s on-call doctor rushed inside with a

  team of medics, their faces grim with anticipation. They pushed Mercer,

  Cross, and Alvarez out of the room, creating a frenzied flurry of

  activity around the lifeless body.

  As the medics worked frantically on the cultist, trying to revive him, Cross turned on Mercer, her voice a low, dangerous growl.

  "What the hell was that?!"

  Mercer exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. He was still

  trying to process it himself, the weight of the moment pressing down on

  him. The line between interrogation and destruction had blurred, and he

  wasn't sure which side he was on.

  “I saw him do it.” He spoke softly, almost to himself.

  Cross narrowed her eyes, suspicion etched on her face. "What?"

  Mercer looked up at her, his eyes filled with a grim understanding. “The leader. Back in the mansion. He did the same thing.”

  Alvarez crossed his arms, his expression hardening. “Explain. Now.”

  Mercer leaned against the hallway wall, gathering his thoughts,

  trying to piece together the fragments of memory and horror. "When I was

  escaping, I saw him in the ritual chamber. He was surrounded by his

  followers, chanting and swaying. But there was one in particular—one of

  them was being questioned by the leader."

  He clenched his jaw, remembering the eerie stillness in the room, the

  oppressive atmosphere, the dim candlelight flickering against the cult

  leader’s grotesque mask. The memory was a festering wound in his mind.

  "The leader spoke in that same voice—the one from the recording. The exact same tone, the same rhythm, the same…control."

  Cross was listening intently now, her initial anger replaced by a

  growing sense of dread. The pieces were beginning to fall into place,

  revealing a picture more terrifying than she could have imagined.

  “And the cultist… he reacted just like this guy did. He twitched, he

  convulsed, and then—” Mercer exhaled, shaking his head. "He broke down.

  He told the leader everything. Every detail about their plans. About the

  ritual."

  “So you recorded it?” Alvarez asked, his voice flat.

  Mercer nodded. "I knew it was important. I didn’t know how, but

  something about it—" he gestured toward the interrogation room,

  "—something about the way he controlled them with his voice. It’s not

  just language. It’s like…"

  Cross finished his sentence, her voice barely a whisper. "A trigger."

  They all fell silent, the implications of Mercer's recording settling

  over them like a shroud. If the cultists were susceptible to such

  manipulation, the situation was far more dire than they had initially

  believed.

  Inside the room, the doctor was still working frantically, fighting to stabilize the cultist, but the situation looked grim.

  Cross folded her arms, her face grim. “What if they’ve been

  conditioned? Hypnotized? Brainwashed to respond to certain commands?”

  Mercer nodded. "It’s possible. And if that’s true… it means the

  leader has complete control over them. He can activate them, deactivate

  them, use them as puppets without them even knowing it."

  The weight of that realization settled over them, heavy and

  suffocating. The cult wasn't just a fringe group of fanatics. It was a

  sophisticated organization with methods of control they were only

  beginning to understand.

  Alvarez rubbed his face, his expression weary. “Jesus Christ.”

  Cross turned toward the observation window, watching the cultist’s

  lifeless body as the doctor worked. The room was silent save for the

  beeping of the machines. “If they’re this far gone, how do we fight

  something like this?”

  Mercer didn’t answer. He looked at the floor, and saw no ready answers there either.

  Because the truth was—

  He had no idea. They were facing an enemy unlike anything they had

  ever encountered, an enemy that could manipulate minds and break wills

  with a single word. He had no idea how to stop them. He only knew they

  had to try.

  LATE-NIGHT DINER – 11:15 PM

  The diner was nearly empty now, the hum of the neon sign outside flickering against the window. The air was thick with the scent of coffee, grilled food, and something unspoken between them.

  Mercer sat back in the worn-out booth, his fingers tracing the rim of his coffee cup. Cross leaned forward, arms resting on the table, her eyes scanning his face.

  “So, what happens after this?”

  Mercer looked up. “After what?”

  She smirked. “The case. The cult. The madness. What do you do when it’s all over?”

  Mercer exhaled, thinking for a moment. “I haven’t really thought that far ahead.”

  Cross tilted her head. “Bullshit. You’re always thinking ahead.”

  He chuckled. "Fair enough. But… I guess I never pictured a future where this wasn’t my life."

  Cross took a sip of her coffee. “You’re saying you’ll just keep doing this forever? Chasing the next case, the next psychopath, the next conspiracy?”

  Mercer gave a small shrug. "What else would I do?"

  She studied him for a long second. "Live, Mercer. You could actually live."

  Her voice was softer now, almost careful, like she was saying something she wasn’t sure she should say.

  Mercer met her gaze, something flickering between them.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  Cross smirked. “I don’t know… maybe I’ll leave the force and open a bar on the beach.”

  Mercer raised an eyebrow. “A bar? You hate dealing with drunk idiots.”

  She laughed. "Yeah, but at least there I can kick them out without worrying about paperwork."

  He smiled. "Sounds nice."

  Cross sighed, twirling her spoon in her empty coffee cup. "In all seriousness… I don’t know. Lately, I’ve been thinking about slowing down. Maybe settling down. Having something that isn’t just the job."

  Mercer’s eyes flickered with something unreadable.

  “You deserve that.”

  She looked at him, almost like she wanted to say something more, but then she shook her head with a small smile.

  "So do you."

  A beat of silence.

  Then Cross sat up and stretched. “Alright, come on. You’re not going home alone tonight.”

  Mercer frowned. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re coming to my place.”

  He scoffed. “I don’t need a babysitter, Cross.”

  She crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. “You just got out of the hospital, you look like hell, and if I let you go home alone, you’ll probably pour whiskey on your stitches instead of disinfectant.”

  Mercer smirked. “You don’t know that.”

  Cross gave him a pointed look. “I know you.”

  A silence passed between them.

  Mercer sighed. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

  She grinned. “Nope.”

  He shook his head. “Fine. But only because I don’t want you drinking alone in that imaginary beach bar of yours.”

  She laughed, tossing a few bills on the table. “Come on, tough guy. Let’s go.”

  CROSS'S APARTMENT – 11:50 PM

  Cross’s place was exactly what Mercer expected—organized, practical, but lived-in.

  The small apartment had a modern, minimalistic feel—a dark leather couch, books stacked neatly on a coffee table, a few framed photos on the walls. There were signs of life everywhere—a half-empty bottle of wine on the kitchen counter, a few jackets casually thrown over a chair, a worn-out punching bag hanging near the window.

  It was the kind of place that belonged to someone who spent more time working than at home.

  Mercer glanced around, smirking. “I figured you’d be the type to have a punching bag in your living room.”

  Cross shrugged, tossing her keys on the counter. “Better than therapy.”

  She walked to the kitchen, grabbing a couple of beers from the fridge. Tossing one to Mercer, she leaned against the counter, watching him.

  “You ever think about it?”

  Mercer popped open the beer. “Think about what?”

  She hesitated, then said, “What life would’ve been like if things had gone differently?”

  Mercer exhaled, his jaw tightening. He knew what she meant.

  His wife. The life he lost.

  He set the beer down, running a hand through his hair. “All the time.”

  Cross didn’t push. She just watched him, giving him space to speak if he wanted to.

  And, for some reason, he did.

  “I still dream about her sometimes.”** His voice was quieter now.** “I wake up, and for a second, I think she’s still there. Then reality kicks in.”

  Cross swallowed, stepping closer.

  “I’m sorry, Mercer.”

  He nodded, exhaling shakily. “I tried moving on. Tried pretending like it didn’t break me. But…” He looked at her. “You can’t outrun grief. It catches up eventually.”

  Cross’s heart clenched at the pain in his voice.

  Without thinking, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

  Mercer tensed at first, then slowly let himself relax into her warmth.

  They stood there, in the quiet of her apartment, just holding each other.

  Mercer closed his eyes, breathing her in. “Thank you.”

  She pulled back slightly, her hands still on his arms. "For what?"

  “For being here.”

  Their eyes met, something unspoken crackling between them.

  Cross’s fingers tightened slightly on his arm. Mercer’s gaze flickered down to her lips.

  They were close now. Closer than they’d ever been.

  Neither of them moved. Neither of them pulled away.

  Then—

  Cross’s phone rang.

  They both froze.

  The moment shattered like glass.

  Cross sighed, stepping back and grabbing her phone. "It’s Alvarez."

  She answered. "Alvarez, what’s up?"

  Alvarez’s voice was tense.

  “Cross… someone stabbed the cult member in his cell.”

  Her stomach dropped.

  Mercer straightened, instantly alert.

  “We’re on our way.”

  And just like that—the case had pulled them back in.