As the conversation between Alastor, Rachel, and Emily winds down, Rachel's phone buzzed insistently on the table, the name "Officer Hayward" lighting up the screen. She frowned, her brows knitting together as she picked up the call and stepped out of the room.
"This is Officer Thompson," she answered briskly, her professional tone immediately taking over.
"Thompson, it's Hayward," came the reply, his voice clipped and a little rushed. "I thought you'd want to know—we've got some reports coming in about that bar incident last night."
Rachel stiffened, her grip tightening on the phone. "What kind of reports?"
"Witnesses at the bar said some masked men stormed in, started a fight, and a couple of people got hurt. One of the patrons flagged down an officer outside, and it's making its way up the chain now. Some of the staff are corroborating it, but they don't seem to have seen much—they were outside for most of it."
Rachel exhaled slowly, forcing herself to stay calm. "Any names in the report? Injured parties?"
Hayward hesitated. "Not yet. The patron who flagged us didn't know the people who got hurt. We're waiting on the staff to give statements, but it sounds like there were a few folks who tried to fight off the attackers—dumb move if you ask me. The responding officers mentioned blood on the scene, but no one stuck around for medical help. We're listing it as gang-related for now."
Rachel's heart pounded. The mention of blood confirmed what she already knew—Alastor and Jack had been injured. She glanced toward the conference room, where Alastor and Emily were still talking, oblivious to her conversation.
"Gang-related?" she repeated, keeping her tone neutral. "What makes them think that?"
"Masked men, coordinated attack—it fits the profile," Hayward replied. "Doesn't mean it's the right call, but it's the best we've got with what little info we have. Thompson, you were off duty last night, right? You weren't anywhere near there?"
The question was casual, but Rachel caught the hint of curiosity behind it. She forced a light chuckle. "No, I wasn't. Why, do I sound like I was?"
"Just checking. You're always on top of these things, so I figured if you were involved, you'd already know." There was a faint grin in his voice, but Rachel didn't relax.
"I appreciate the heads-up, Hayward," she said evenly. "Keep me posted if you hear more."
"Will do," he replied. "You take care, Thompson."
The call ended, and Rachel stood in the hallway for a moment, her mind racing. The department was already piecing together a narrative about what happened at the bar, but it was only a matter of time before they started digging deeper. If any evidence of Alastor's powers or the light crystal had been left behind, it could lead to questions they weren't prepared to answer.
She stared at her phone, biting the inside of her cheek. Lying to Hayward felt wrong, but the truth? That could ruin everything—not just for Alastor but for her as well. If her involvement in withholding information was uncovered, her career could crumble overnight. Her lieutenant might not care about the masked men's strange motives, but if word got out that she'd concealed critical evidence, she'd be finished. Worse, if the department decided Alastor was a threat... Rachel's jaw tightened at the thought.
Pushing her worries aside, she stepped back into the conference room, her expression neutral but her movements deliberate.
"Sorry," Rachel mutters, stepping aside to take the call. Emily and Alastor exchange a glance, the tension lingering from their earlier discussion still heavy in the air.
Rachel returns a few moments later, her face unreadable but her tone clipped. "Looks like word's spreading about the bar incident," she says, crossing her arms. "One of the officers just called me. Apparently, a patron reported what happened."
Emily leans forward, her brow furrowing. "What exactly did they report?"
Rachel sighs, pulling out her phone and scrolling through a few notes. "Not much, thankfully. Most of the patrons and staff were outside when things got intense, so they only caught fragments—masked men rushing in, some kind of fight breaking out, and people getting hurt. No one mentioned anything about… unusual details."
Alastor's expression hardens, his jaw tightening. He could feel his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He'd gone through this before—the prying eyes, the endless questions, and the constant judgment from people who didn't understand. Now, even with Rachel's help, the scrutiny was starting again. And worse, it was dragging people like Emily and Rachel into the crossfire.
"But they know enough to raise questions," he muttered.
Rachel nods. "The officer who called said the department's starting to compile a report. Right now, it's just being treated as a possible gang incident. But…" She hesitates, her gaze flicking to Alastor. "If anyone digs deeper, they might start asking the wrong questions."
Emily frowns, her mind already whirring with ideas. "Then let's get ahead of it. We can't let them control the narrative." She straightens in her chair, her determination hardening. "I might be able to help. If I can get access to the archives or contacts here, I can cross-reference incidents that might be linked to these men. Or even find patterns the police haven't caught yet."
Rachel glances at Emily, impressed by her quick thinking. "That could work. But we'd need to be subtle. If anyone connects you to the investigation, they might start asking why you're involved."
Emily smirks faintly. "I'll handle it. I've navigated tougher stories than this."
Alastor leans back in his chair, his gaze distant. Guilt gnawed at him, more insistent than ever. He hated that Rachel was lying to her department for him, that Emily was risking her reputation to help. He'd spent years trying to keep his past from ruining anyone else's life, but here they were, caught in the storm he couldn't seem to escape.
Rachel interrupted his thoughts. "If we're going to stay ahead, we need to figure out what evidence, if any, those men left behind. Blood, weapons, anything."
Alastor's focus sharpened. "If the masked men left behind anything tied to their motives, it could give us a lead. But if the police find it first…" He trailed off, his mind already racing with scenarios where their discoveries attracted more dangerous attention.
"They won't," Rachel said firmly, though the uncertainty in her voice betrayed her own doubts.
Emily nodded, her determination unwavering. "Let's start with what we know. I'll dig into the archives and see if there are any overlaps with similar cases. Rachel, you focus on what the police are working on. And Alastor…" She glanced at him, her voice softening. "We'll figure this out. Together."
Alastor's lips twitched into a faint, almost reluctant smile. "Let's hope we can keep ahead of it."
The three exchanged determined glances, the room thick with the weight of their shared burdens. They had no guarantees, no clear path forward—only each other and the resolve to face whatever came next.
The faint hum of city life outside the Tribune broke through the silence, a reminder of the world continuing obliviously around them. Alastor stood and stretched, his gaze distant as he processed Rachel's words and Emily's plan.
"I'll head out first," he said finally, his tone steady but subdued. "We've got a lot to think about."
Rachel nodded. "Be careful," she said simply. The weight of the conversation lingered in her voice.
As Alastor stepped out into the brisk night air, Rachel and Emily exchanged a look, each silently acknowledging the battle that lay ahead. Outside, the city seemed quieter than usual, the streetlights casting long shadows that danced across the pavement.
A few miles away, another set of headlights pierced the darkness. Hannah gripped the steering wheel of her car, parked on the side of a dimly lit street. Her laptop rested open on the passenger seat, its glow illuminating the interior of the vehicle. Beside it, a notebook filled with scribbled notes and sticky tabs lay open, evidence of her hours of obsessive research.
She adjusted her rearview mirror, scanning the area for any movement, then turned back to the laptop. Her fingers hovered over the trackpad as she clicked through article after article. Each one seemed more frustratingly vague than the last.
One headline caught her attention: "High-Security Warehouse Robbed: Foreign Materials Stolen in Coordinated Heist."
Hannah squinted at the screen, her brow furrowing. The phrase foreign materials stood out like a red flag. It was the kind of intentionally ambiguous phrasing journalists used when they didn't have—or weren't allowed to have—all the facts. She picked up her pen and underlined the phrase in her notebook, circling it twice.
Something about these thefts wasn't sitting right. The pattern of robberies, the lack of follow-up coverage, and the strangely precise targets all suggested more than random opportunism. Her instincts told her this wasn't just some petty crime spree.
As she scrolled further, another name jumped out at her: Astraliros Enterprises. She clicked on the link, finding an article buried in the archives about a tech company allegedly tied to some of the stolen materials.
"Astraliros," she murmured to herself, the word tasting unfamiliar and strange. Her fingers flew across the keyboard as she searched for more information, finding connections to private security firms and experimental research projects. The deeper she dug, the more uneasy she felt.
Her focus was interrupted by a soft tapping at her window. Hannah's head snapped up, her heart pounding. Outside her car, a figure stood partially shrouded in the shadows, his hood pulled low over his face.
She rolled the window down just a crack, her other hand slipping toward the pepper spray tucked into the side door. "Can I help you?"
The man leaned in, his voice low and hurried. "You need to stop."
Hannah's grip tightened on the canister. "Excuse me?"
"You're asking questions you shouldn't be asking," the man continued, his tone calm but menacing. "Astraliros isn't something you want to dig into. Trust me."
Her mind raced, but she forced herself to stay composed. "I think you've got the wrong person," she said coolly.
The man chuckled softly, but there was no humor in it. "Sure you don't. Do yourself a favor and drop this. You won't like what happens if you don't."
Before she could respond, the man stepped back and disappeared into the shadows. Hannah's hand remained on the pepper spray, her chest heaving as she scanned the street. The only sound was the faint hum of her car engine and the distant rush of traffic.
She sat back in her seat, staring at the now-empty street with her pulse racing. Whoever that man was, he'd just confirmed what she'd suspected—she was onto something. And now, it was clear someone didn't want her to find out what.
Hannah turned back to her laptop, her eyes narrowing as she clicked through the articles again. Astraliros Enterprises glowed back at her on the screen.
She picked up her notebook, flipping to a fresh page and scrawling down the words: Why Astraliros? Why now?
Her jaw tightened as she tossed the pen down and shut her laptop. "If you think a little scare tactic is going to stop me, you're wrong," she muttered under her breath, her determination solidifying.
Hannah started the car and pulled away from the curb, the headlights cutting through the dark as she drove off. The man's warning lingered in her mind, but it only fueled her resolve. Whatever Astraliros Enterprises was hiding, she was going to find it.