At the Raguna Municipal Police Station, inside the evidence room. A heavily locked, tightly monitored, and highly guarded part of the station. Obviously, this is where the evidence is stored.
An enormous room with rows and rows of storage cabinets with boxes upon boxes lined up. It was almost endless.
And in the section where physical evidence is kept, a faint sound of a paper tearing and light footsteps can be heard. It was so light that a passing person would have easily missed it. But Dean was a different story.
He was one of the officers tasked with guarding the facility. He checks the credentials of everyone entering and leaving the room. It was to ensure that the chain of custody is well maintained.
Evidence tampering is a concern, as is theft of valuable evidence such as money or jewels seized during an investigation. That's why his job requires him to be very alert at all times.
And like the trained officer that he was, he didn't panic. He didn't jump to absurd conclusions either. Rather, he quickly headed over to where the CCTV monitors were.
And one by one, he glides his eyes from one screen to another, looking for the intruder but contrary to what he was expecting, there was none.
But that can't be. He can clearly hear some footsteps getting louder and louder, pacing back and forth so nonchalantly, completely unbothered.
Call it instinct or gut feeling if you will, but at that moment, Dean felt the need to let the other officers know. So he grabbed the walkie talkie clipped to his side, but while doing so, he caught the glimpse of the dark, lace-up ankle boots, tapping on the floor, facing him.
Dean froze. Then he looked up slowly, his eyes shaking. Then he plopped on the floor, fear-stricken, and face as pale as flour.
In front of him was the trench coat, bowler hat, and the pair of boots that were retrieved from the explosion that afternoon. They were brought to the evidence room just a few hours earlier, waiting to be examined.
But at that moment, it's as if they earned a life of their own, they started moving, pretending like a human, moving like one, acting like one as if possessed.
Dean tried to move. He did but his limbs won't budge and sweat began to accumulate in his chest area. He failed to process what the heck was going on.
*tak! *tak!
Something moved from behind him, and it seemed to be rummaging through something.
"He—Help…" He finally managed to squeeze some words out of his parched throat.
And even without a head, just a bowler's hat floating mid air, Dean could tell that the unknown entity just cocked its head to the side. He can almost see it furrowing its brows at him and unknowingly, he pissed his pants.
No matter how strong he may be physically, faced by an unknown entity that could probably kill him if it wanted to, Dean's limbs turned into noodles.
In the first place, becoming a police officer was never his choice. He only chose it because his father told him to. He was always the thinking type, never the passionate nor the valiantly strong.
Just a son forced into a profession he never wanted in the first place.
'Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!...' He repeatedly cursed inside his head. 'Oh gosh! I am so fucked! What did I ever do to deserve this?'
Then…
"Dean? What's the matter? What do you need help for? You seem out of breath. Over." It was Deputy Lou. Somehow, his poor attempt for help got through. Maybe his walkie talkie was connected to Director Lou's at that moment. Maybe he managed to push the PTT button somehow. He didn't know. He can't remember.
"P—Please…" He tried to say. But it didn't get transmitted this time, however.
His fingers slowly slipped from the walkie talkie as strength gradually left his body. A pair of black leather gloves were wrapped around his neck, pressing down his carotid artery.
That was the most traumatizing ten seconds of his life. And after that, everything went black. The last thing he saw was the trench coat fluttering above him.
Not long after that, Steve and Deputy Lou arrived. There were no signs of intruders or struggles. But what they saw instead was Dean lying on the floor by the CCTV monitors, foaming at his mouth, eyes wide with terror, but he was alive somehow.
And by his chest was a note with a rather familiar handwriting written with a blue marker. --I'M SORRY BUT I'VE GOT OTHER THINGS TO DO SO I HAVE TO EXCUSE MYSELF EARLIER THAN PLANNED. I DIDN'T KILL HIM. P.S. IT WAS SO STUFFY INSIDE THE PAPER BAG. TREAT ME BETTER NEXT TIME WE MEET, PLEASE.--
"Just what on freaking hell happened here?" Deputy Lou muttered under his breath after reading it.
***
At the Mini Stop Hotel.
Derrick was sitting on the bed, facing the typewriter. He didn't know what to make of the situation anymore.
He had a conflicted look on his face as he read the typing papers spouting out of the typewriter in real time.
*tap! *tap!
--MY NAME IS VICTOR QUINN. A STRIVING WRITER WHO HASN'T PUBLISHED A SINGLE BOOK IN HIS LIFE. I GOT HIT BY A TRUCK ON MY WAY TO A PUBLISHING FIRM. BUT WHEN I CAME TO, I FOUND MYSELF INSIDE THE STORY I'VE WRITTEN MYSELF AS A TYPEWRITER I USED ON WRITING MY BOOK. AND THAT WAS WHEN YOU FOUND ME, DERRICK JACKSON. I'M SORRY I ONLY TOLD YOU NOW. BUT I NEED YOU. I NEEDED TO GO BACK TO MY BODY SOMEHOW. I STILL HAVE DREAMS.--