Alastor woke to the soft hum of the city outside his window. The unmistakable sound of traffic, voices, and distant subway trains filtered through the walls of the Brooklyn apartment. The air felt cool this morning, a break from the usual warmth of summer. He stretched, the creak of his back a small reminder that even the smallest moments of stillness could be filled with tension. It was his day off from work, no café to manage today. The quiet felt different. He relished it.
He reached for the newspaper on the small table by his bed and unfolded it, scanning the pages for any new developments. The headlines still screamed of chaos—violent robberies, unusual disappearances, and the unsettling reports about the concert disaster that had shaken the city. There was always something happening here in Brooklyn, but even he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something different this time.
"How do people live like this?" Alastor murmured to himself, his voice barely above a whisper as his eyes lingered on the story about a series of bizarre deaths around the borough. "How does it not drive them mad?"
A door creaked open in the distance, the faint shuffle of footsteps reaching his ears. Mr. Thompson, as predictable as ever, was up and about. Alastor's thoughts lingered on the newspaper for a moment longer before he let it fall to the table, letting the warm light from the window fill the room.
Mr. Thompson appeared in the doorway, dressed casually, his hair mussed from sleep. He stretched, a lazy yawn escaping his lips before he turned his attention to Alastor.
"You up already?" Mr. Thompson asked, grinning. "No work today, huh?"
Alastor gave a small nod, his gaze still lingering on the city beyond the window. "Yeah... no work. Just trying to make sense of all of this," he muttered, a touch of frustration in his voice.
Mr. Thompson walked over to the counter, grabbing a mug. "Don't waste your time on that, kid. People do what they do. Can't fix all of it."
Alastor gave a half-smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Maybe. But I can't help wondering. What's the point of it all? This constant mess. I've never seen anything like it."
"You think too much," Mr. Thompson said, laughing as he poured himself a cup of coffee. "Get yourself a phone. I'm tired of sending Jack to do my dirty work." He took a sip, his eyes meeting Alastor's. "Seriously. It's for your own good. You're a part of this mess, whether you like it or not. You should at least be reachable."
Alastor's brows furrowed. The idea seemed unnecessary at first. He thought back to the chaos during the concert—Jack calling Mr. Thompson's phone, and Alastor picking up the line, though the situation had already been spiraling. Could having a phone really help with that?
"... Fine," Alastor replied after a moment of silence, the words feeling foreign as they left his mouth. "I'll get one."
Before Mr. Thompson could respond, the doorbell rang, cutting through the quiet apartment like a blade.
"That must be her," Mr. Thompson muttered, setting down his mug and standing. Alastor followed him as he opened the door, revealing a woman standing outside. She had dark, shoulder-length hair, her posture relaxed but confident. A badge was pinned to her jacket, though she was off duty. She exuded an aura of authority, but there was a warmth in her eyes that immediately caught Alastor's attention.
"Well, look who's here," Mr. Thompson said with a grin. "Rachel! It's good to see you."
The woman smirked playfully, crossing her arms. "You look like you've been living on coffee and old take-out again, Uncle Thom. How've you been?"
"I've been fine," Mr. Thompson replied with a laugh, stepping aside to let her in. "Same old Brooklyn life. You know how it is."
Rachel gave a quick glance around the apartment before her eyes settled on Alastor. "And you must be Alastor Faramir. You've been keeping this guy company?" She extended a hand, her voice warm but carrying an edge of confidence.
Alastor hesitated for a moment before shaking her hand. "Yeah, I've been... around."
"Rachel Thompson," she said, flashing him a teasing smile. "And yes, I'm the niece. Apparently, Uncle Thom's been telling you all about me, huh?"
"Not much," Alastor replied, his tone casual, though his curiosity about her began to grow.
"Pfft, typical," she said, stepping inside. "But it's good to finally meet you. Looks like I'll be stuck in Brooklyn for a while, so I figured I'd drop by. Besides, my uncle keeps telling me you're 'interesting,' but I want to see that for myself."
She dropped her jacket over the arm of a chair, sitting back and crossing her legs, her eyes studying the apartment with the same perceptive gaze she'd turned on Alastor.
Mr. Thompson grabbed his coffee and leaned back against the kitchen counter, watching as Rachel began to fill the space with her easy banter. "You've been busy, huh, Rachel? What's new?"
Rachel's smile faded slightly, replaced by a more serious expression. "You could say that. The city's been... interesting lately. Crazy stuff happening all over. And don't get me started on the concert disaster. I've got more paperwork than I know what to do with. Not to mention a string of weird cases that aren't adding up."
Alastor leaned forward slightly, intrigued. "What kind of cases?"
Rachel glanced at him, noting his sudden interest. "Strange disappearances. Unsolved murders. Cults trying to recruit in the middle of all this mess. And you've probably heard about the concert. The whole thing went south faster than anyone could've imagined. Something feels off about it all. It's not just bad luck. Someone's pulling the strings."
Alastor's mind raced. He'd seen his fair share of human chaos, but this... this felt different. The mention of cults and odd disappearances struck a chord with him.
"Cults?" he asked, his voice low, almost disbelieving. "In Brooklyn?"
Rachel nodded, her eyes darkening slightly. "Yeah. And that's not the only thing. Strange symbols are showing up around the city. People are turning up dead in the weirdest ways, and no one can make sense of it. I'm telling you, there's something bigger going on here."
Mr. Thompson sighed, rubbing his temples. "I've heard the rumors. Doesn't sit right."
Alastor remained silent for a moment, his mind turning over her words. It wasn't just a series of disconnected incidents. Something was happening—something deliberate. The more Rachel spoke, the more it felt like he was hearing the first whispers of something much darker.
"So what's the next step?" Alastor asked quietly, his gaze sharp.
Rachel smirked, sitting back in her chair. "The next step? We keep digging. Someone's behind all of this. And we're going to find out who."
She looked directly at Alastor, her gaze challenging. "And you're going to help us. Whether you like it or not."
Alastor's heart skipped a beat.