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, Sarah, 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 known as the Tribune, Emily Rodriguez sat with a cup of coffee in hand, her fingers tapping thoughtfully on the edge of her desk. The soft hum of her computer monitor was the only sound in 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.
On her screen, an article about Sarah Lee's disappearance stared back at her. "Pop Star Missing: Sarah Lee Vanishes After Concert Attack." The headline was bold, the story sensationalized, but the lack of concrete details gnawed at Emily. It didn't add up.
She sipped her coffee, scrolling through reports of the incident. Witness statements were scattered, contradictory. Some swore they saw Sarah get into a car after the press conference; others claimed she left on foot. And then there were the murmurs—unconfirmed whispers about strange symbols found near the scene, similar to the ones Emily had been tracking in her investigation of the cults.
Her notepad was already littered with scribbled connections:
•Symbols at the crime scenes → Cult activity?
•Missing persons linked to similar locations.
•Sarah Lee—targeted? Why her?
She flipped back to a previous page where she'd outlined the cult's rumored recruitment tactics. Symbolism. Fear. High-profile victims to spread their influence. Sarah Lee's name was scrawled in the margin, circled and underlined.
Emily's pen tapped against the desk. Was Sarah Lee just another victim of circumstance, or was there something more?
The door to the office creaked open, and in walked Derek Velasquez, a friend of Emily's. His brown eyes scanned the room before landing on her, and he flashed her a soft, hopeful smile.
"Hey, Em. Got a minute?" he asked, leaning casually against the doorframe. "I was thinking maybe we could hang out after your shift?"
Emily looked up from her notes, pausing for a moment. Derek's easygoing demeanor was usually a welcome distraction, but today wasn't the day for that. Her mind was too tangled in the threads of her research.
"Sorry, Derek," she said, shaking her head. "I've got some errands for my family. You know how it is." Her tone was apologetic, though she could see the flicker of disappointment in his expression. "Rain check?"
Derek sighed but nodded, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Yeah, sure. Monday's good, right? We can hang then?"
Emily smiled warmly, hoping to ease the sting of her refusal. "Yeah, Monday evening. I'll be free. It's a promise."
Derek's mood visibly lifted, and he grinned. "Alright, I'll see you then." With a small wave, he left the office, the door clicking softly behind him.
As the door shut, Emily exhaled and turned back to her screen. She pulled up a police report about Sarah Lee's abandoned car, her eyes scanning the details. The location of the vehicle matched an area where other strange symbols had been reported. Coincidence? She doubted it.
Her mind buzzed with questions. Why Sarah? The concert attack didn't seem personal—it felt chaotic, unplanned. But her disappearance? That was something else entirely.
Emily opened a new tab, searching through forums and local blogs for any mention of Sarah or the cult activity she'd been tracking. A post on a conspiracy forum caught her eye:
"Rising Star in the Shadows: Cults and Celebrity Connections?"
She clicked the link, her coffee forgotten. The thread was a mess of speculation, but one comment stood out:
"Sarah Lee's disappearance fits the pattern. Public figure, massive following, disappears under mysterious circumstances. The symbols found near her car aren't random—they're tied to the same cult that's been operating in the boroughs for months. They're sending a message."
Emily leaned back in her chair, her heart racing. If the cult was involved, it meant Sarah's disappearance wasn't random. It was deliberate. Calculated.
Her pen hovered over her notepad before she jotted another note: Sarah Lee = target. Why? What's the cult's endgame?
She glanced at the clock on her desk. The office was nearly empty, but her mind was far from quiet. If Sarah was still alive, Emily knew the window to find her was shrinking.
Keep digging, she told herself. The answers are out there somewhere.?
On the other side of Brooklyn, Alastor and Rachel stepped into a phone store, the neon sign casting a faint glow on their faces. Alastor wasn't thrilled about this errand, but Rachel had insisted, claiming he'd probably walk out with a rotary phone if she didn't tag along.
"So," Rachel began, brushing her hair over her shoulder. "What's your excuse for not owning a phone? Allergic to being reachable?"
Alastor glanced at her, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. "Never needed one."
Rachel scoffed. "What are you, a hermit? How do people find you?"
"They don't," he replied simply, scanning the display.
"Wow," she said, crossing her arms. "Do you send smoke signals or just glare until people figure out what you want?"
"Smoke signals would be faster than having this conversation," he shot back, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Rachel gasped in mock offense. "Here I am, helping you not look like a caveman, and you repay me with sass?"
"You've known me for thirty minutes. You don't have to like it," he replied, tone calm but amused.
"Thirty minutes, and you're already lucky to have me," she quipped.
Alastor huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. He wasn't used to people like her—teasing and confident. "I'll survive."
"Debatable," Rachel said, grabbing a phone off the shelf. "Here. Modern, sleek—nothing you'll ignore anyway."
He took it, giving it a brief look. "It's fine."
"Fine?" she repeated, exasperated. "You're impossible."
"I'm practical," Alastor corrected, handing the phone to a nearby clerk.
Rachel rolled her eyes but grinned. "You're welcome, by the way. This'll keep you from looking like a time traveler."
As they waited for the setup, she tilted her head at him. "So, what do you actually do with all your free time? Brood in a dark room? Practice mysterious stares?"
Alastor gave her a flat look. "You're exhausting."
"And yet you keep answering me," she said with a laugh. "Don't worry, Alastor. I'll crack your shell eventually."
He leaned back against the counter, arms folded. "I'm sure you will."
By the time they stepped back out onto the busy sidewalk, Rachel bumped his arm lightly. "Congrats—you've joined the 21st century. How does it feel?"
"Overwhelming," he deadpanned, slipping the phone into his pocket.
Rachel grinned. "Don't worry, I'll show you the ropes."
"Generous isn't the word I'd use," he replied, though the faint smirk on his lips softened the jab.
"Keep talking, and I might just take that phone back," she teased, walking ahead with a spring in her step.
Alastor watched her for a moment, shaking his head before following. He wasn't sure what he'd gotten himself into, but something about her energy felt oddly… right. Even if it came with a headache.