Alastor sat back in the creaky chair, the sunlight creeping in through the apartment window, casting long shadows across the floor. Rachel sat across from him, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, waiting for him to speak. She'd made it clear she wanted his help, but Alastor couldn't quite grasp why she thought he was the right person for the job.
"Why me?" he finally asked, his voice quieter than he intended, betraying a hint of hesitation. "I mean, I'm no detective. I don't exactly fit the bill for... whatever this is."
Rachel leaned forward, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. "Mr. Thompson thinks you're more capable than you let on," she said, her voice light. "And, you know, he mentioned something about you helping out at the café a while back. Stopping a gang from hurting some woman. Impressive stuff."
Alastor blinked, taken aback. The café incident? He had almost forgotten about it—the way he'd stepped in without thinking, when a group of gangsters came in, their intent clear. It hadn't felt like a big deal at the time, just a reflex, really. But hearing Rachel mention it made him realize how much people actually noticed him when he didn't want them to.
"I didn't... exactly stop them," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Rachel didn't seem convinced, her eyes narrowing slightly as she observed him. But she said nothing more, allowing the silence to stretch before continuing, "Well, whether you believe it or not, that moment made an impression. People talk, Alastor. And we're facing something here that needs more than just talk. We need someone who's not afraid to get their hands dirty."
The words struck deeper than he expected. Alastor leaned back in his chair, his gaze shifting to the window, watching the busy streets of Brooklyn below. The noise from the city seemed to buzz in his ears, but his mind was far from the traffic. It was on the cults—on the things happening in the dark corners of Brooklyn, the things that couldn't be ignored anymore. People were disappearing, showing up dead, and strange symbols were appearing everywhere. And Alastor knew, deep down, that this wasn't going to end quietly.
He thought about what Rachel had said—the cults, the disappearances—and how all of it could rip through the fabric of the city, hurting the people who were just trying to survive. Was he really going to stand by and watch it all unfold? Even if he didn't want to draw attention to himself, wasn't there a part of him still itching to protect the people around him? To save them?
The weight of it all hit him harder than expected. His past—the heroism, the need to protect—came flooding back. He hadn't been able to ignore it when Emily Rodriguez had needed help before, and he sure as hell couldn't ignore it now.
"Alright," Alastor said, his voice steady, though a little reluctant. "I'll help. But we do this on our terms, okay? I'm not looking to get caught up in something bigger than I can handle."
Rachel's eyes lit up, a grin spreading across her face. "You're in? Great! This is gonna be fun. I knew you'd come around. I've got a feeling we'll make a hell of a team."
Mr. Thompson, who had been quietly sipping his coffee in the background, looked between them, a proud smile creeping onto his face. It was as if he had been waiting for this moment all along. "You two make a good pair. I think you're gonna work well together. Maybe even more than that."
Alastor glanced at him, caught off guard, but Mr. Thompson just chuckled and winked, taking another sip from his mug. Alastor rolled his eyes, though a small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his lips. This wasn't going to be as easy as he thought. But there was something about Rachel's enthusiasm that made it hard to back out.
Meanwhile, in a small, dimly lit office at the local newspaper, Emily Rodriguez sat with a cup of coffee in hand, her fingers tapping thoughtfully on the edge of her desk. The steady click of her pen against the notepad was the only sound that filled the otherwise quiet space. She had been researching the recent surge of cult-related activities in Brooklyn, trying to piece together the mystery that had been plaguing the city. Something didn't add up.
She jotted down another note about the strange symbols appearing at crime scenes. It was like a pattern, but she couldn't see the whole picture yet. Who was behind all this? And why? The questions circled her mind, but she couldn't seem to find any answers that made sense.
Just then, the door to the office opened, and in walked Derek Velasquez, a friend of Emily's. His brown eyes searched the room before landing on her, and he flashed her a soft, hopeful smile.
"Hey, Em. Got a minute?" he asked, his voice light. "I was thinking maybe we could hang out after your shift?"
Emily looked up at him, pausing for a moment as she considered the offer. Derek was a good guy—easygoing, fun to be around—but today wasn't the right day for that.
"Sorry, Derek," she said, shaking her head. "I've got some errands for my family. You know how it is." She tried to sound apologetic, but she could see the disappointment flicker across his face. "Rain check?"
Derek gave a small sigh but nodded, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Yeah, sure. Monday's good, right? We can hang then?"
Emily smiled warmly, hoping to lift his spirits. "Yeah, Monday in the evening. I'll be free. It's a promise."
His mood visibly lifted, and he grinned. "Alright, I'll see you then." With that, he gave a small wave and left the office, the door closing softly behind him.
As the door clicked shut, Emily turned back to her work, her mind wandering back to the cults and the unsettling feelings they brought. What was happening in Brooklyn? And who was orchestrating it all?
Outside, the bustling streets of Brooklyn were alive with the usual chaos. Alastor and Rachel stood in front of a phone store, their footsteps echoing on the sidewalk as they entered. Alastor had agreed to get a phone, and Rachel had insisted on accompanying him to make sure he didn't end up with some outdated relic.
"So, why don't you own a phone?" Rachel asked, her curiosity clear in her tone as she eyed him. "You don't strike me as the type who avoids technology."
Alastor shrugged, looking down at his boots as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "Not really my thing. I've never needed one."
Rachel raised an eyebrow. "Really? That's... kinda weird. Everyone has a phone these days."
"I'm old school, I guess," Alastor replied, trying to sound nonchalant, though the words felt hollow. He didn't want to explain too much—didn't want to tell her the real reason he stayed disconnected. People noticing him was something he tried to avoid.
"Uh-huh, sure you are," Rachel teased, her voice light and playful. "And let me guess—you still write everything down with a pen and paper?"
Alastor couldn't help the small smirk that tugged at his lips. "Something like that."
Rachel didn't press further, though she kept asking him little questions, each one feeling a little more personal than the last. Alastor answered as vaguely as he could, but it was clear Rachel wasn't buying it entirely. She gave him a look now and then, as though she could see through his attempts to hide the truth, but she didn't call him out.
Eventually, their playful bickering shifted into a comfortable silence as they picked out a phone, both of them glancing at each other every now and then, each secretly amused by the other's quirks.
Alastor knew this was just the beginning. But even if he didn't want to be caught up in it all, something about working with Rachel—and whatever else was coming—felt right.
At least, for now.