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. His gaze lingered on a particular article at the bottom of the front page.
"Pop Star Sarah Lee Missing: Authorities Baffled by Singer's Sudden Disappearance."
The grainy photo of Sarah's abandoned car was plastered next to a smaller, smiling portrait of her from a previous event. The article recounted the attack at her concert, her composed yet shaken appearance during the press conference, and the eerie lack of leads since her disappearance. Speculation filled the paragraphs: Was it a targeted kidnapping? A stalker? Or something darker?
Alastor frowned, his fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the paper. He remembered the flashes of chaos from that night—the screams, the panicked crowd, the way he'd intervened just enough to stop the worst of it without drawing attention to himself. He had seen Sarah safely leave safely, surrounded by her team. He had made sure of it.
And yet, here she was—gone.
He let out a slow breath, his eyes scanning the article again. "How does someone disappear like this, with no one noticing?" he murmured to himself. His voice was low, tinged with something close to frustration.
The city's chaos had always felt like noise to him, something he could observe from a distance without becoming a part of it. But now, it felt closer, more personal. The threads of the concert's events unraveled in his mind, intertwining with the unanswered questions about Sarah's disappearance.
"How do people live like this?" Alastor said, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze flicking to the window. The bustling world outside seemed oblivious to the growing tension. "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?
His gaze drifted back to the newspaper, the headline about Sarah Lee still visible. He thought about the unanswered questions, the speculation, and the weight of the city's chaos pressing down on him.
"... 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. A badge was pinned to her jacket, though she was off duty. Her posture was relaxed yet exuded a quiet confidence, radiating authority while still carrying a warmth in her eyes that immediately captured Alastor's attention.
Alastor's breath caught as his eyes took in her appearance. She was tall, though not quite as towering as him, with a curvaceous figure that filled her police uniform with effortless elegance. Her shoulder-length red hair, deep and fiery like the last glow of sunset, cascaded in soft waves over her shoulders, catching the light in a way that made it seem almost ethereal. Her hazel eyes, warm and piercing, swept across the room with a sharp, focused intensity, yet there was a gentle invitation in them—as if she was assessing everything and everyone around her. She had that rare kind of beauty, one that commanded attention effortlessly, an alluring elegance that was both captivating and formidable.
Alastor was captivated by her. It wasn't just her beauty—though that was undeniable—it was the confidence that radiated from her, the effortless charm. There was something magnetic about her presence, something that made it impossible for him to look away. She had the same kind of commanding energy that Alastor often gave off, but with a softness that he hadn't anticipated.
"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's eyes swept the apartment briefly before settling on Alastor. Her smirk softened into something more amused. "And you must be Alastor Faramir. Uncle Thom's told me about you." She extended a hand, her voice warm but carrying an edge of confidence.
Alastor hesitated before shaking her hand. Her grip was firm, stronger than he expected, and her smile carried a teasing challenge.
"Rachel Thompson," she said, flashing him a knowing look. "And yes, I'm the niece. Apparently, Uncle Thom's been keeping you in the dark about me."
Alastor offered a faint smile, his curiosity growing. "Not much," he replied.
"Pfft, typical," Rachel said, stepping inside. "Well, it's good to finally meet you. Looks like I'll be sticking around Brooklyn for a while."
She draped her jacket over the back of a chair and leaned back, crossing her legs. The room seemed to shift with her presence, her energy commanding attention as easily as it filled the space.
Mr. Thompson grabbed his coffee, leaning against the counter as Rachel began to talk. "You've been busy, huh? What's new?"
Rachel's smile faded slightly, replaced by a more serious expression. "The city's been... interesting lately. The concert disaster was only the beginning. And now, Sarah Lee's disappearance has everyone on edge."
Alastor tensed slightly, his gaze sharpening. He didn't interrupt, but Rachel noticed his subtle shift.
"What do you mean?" Mr. Thompson asked, his tone quieter now.
Rachel sighed. "I've been hearing whispers. Cults operating underground, strange symbols popping up in random places, people disappearing without a trace. It's all connected, but no one knows how yet. And now, Sarah Lee's name is tangled up in it. There's more going on here than anyone's willing to admit."
Alastor's mind raced. Cults. Symbols. Missing persons. The words hung in the air, heavy and foreboding.
"Cults?" he said, his voice low.
Rachel nodded. "Brooklyn's seen its fair share of weirdos, but this is different. These aren't random groups of fanatics. There's a pattern—one we're barely scratching the surface of."
Alastor's jaw tightened as he processed her words. He thought back to the night of the concert, the chaos he had worked quietly to quell, the way Sarah had seemed safe—only to disappear. The mention of cults struck a deeper chord, and for the first time, he felt the weight of something larger pressing down on him.
"And Sarah Lee?" he asked, his tone careful.
Rachel sighed, her eyes darkening. "We don't know. All we have are questions. Why her? What's the connection? And why now?"
Mr. Thompson rubbed his temples, muttering something under his breath. "I've heard enough of this. Be careful, Rachel. You dig too deep, and you might not like what you find."
Rachel glanced at him, her gaze softening briefly. "We all have our reasons, Uncle Thom."
Her attention shifted back to Alastor, her expression hardening into something determined. "And you're going to help us figure this out. Whether you like it or not."
Alastor's heart skipped a beat. Something in Rachel's tone, something in her focus, told him that this wasn't just about Sarah Lee, strange symbols and missing persons. She was after something much more personal. And, despite her confident words, he couldn't shake the feeling that Mr. Thompson knew exactly what that was.
Thompson's gaze lingered on Rachel for a moment, almost too long, before he took another sip of his coffee. His expression softened slightly as if he understood the weight of her search. "Be careful," he said quietly, not meeting anyone's eyes. "Some things aren't meant to be uncovered."
Rachel's eyes narrowed at him, but there was no anger in them—just a deep, sorrowful understanding. She turned back to Alastor, the hard edge returning to her features. "We all have our reasons, uncle."