In the quiet squad room, I sat at my desk, diligently typing on the computer. Despite my lack of proficiency, I managed to transcribe the intricacies of the Blood Evil Sword Technique with surprising clarity and speed.
Years of rogue behavior had forced me to become a quick study, mastering all aspects of police work, including the use of technology, to maintain my facade.
As the workday drew to a close, I stopped typing and sent the document to the printer. Wade arrived with my dinner - huevos rancheros from La Cocina de Abuela and brandade de morue from Chez Vous. Not the most refined cuisine, but it was affordable and filling.
I devoured the meal in a few bites, then stretched and headed towards the station gym.
Inside, Babar Khan was drenched in sweat, struggling through a set of basic boxing drills. The Wright brothers and Wade practiced their swordsmanship, their movements repetitive and uninspired. Butcher Garcia observed them with a critical eye, occasionally stepping in to correct their form with a forceful nudge or a well-aimed kick.
"You call this vampire slaying?" Garcia's voice boomed through the gym. "In a county as big as Pinewood, you rely on these flimsy techniques? Wade's got some potential, but the rest of you... pathetic."
Before anyone could respond, Babar Khan interjected, his voice laced with indignation. "Who is willing to fight vampires? It's all the old sheriff's sinister plan! He's targeting our sergeant, trying to get us killed!"
Butcher Garcia paused, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Those bastards," he muttered, spitting on the floor.
He had learned about Pinewood County's rampant beastvamp problem from the Wiry Samurai.
Concealing vamp disasters happened all over the place. It was not a strange thing. Last year alone, more than ten county executives were sentenced to death for this reason. But using monsters as a tool to eliminate dissent was a new low.
"Here you go," I said, handing over the printed pages detailing the Blood Evil Sword Technique.
My need to hunt vampires for lifespan directly opposed the sheriff's plans. I expected not only bureaucratic obstacles but potentially even shady tactics.
"So fast," Butcher Garcia remarked, taking the pages with a surprised grunt. "My technique is, to put it simply, a combination of physical training and martial arts. It's considered one of the easiest paths among the Seattle schools. As long as you have enough time, there are virtually no bottlenecks."
He tucked the pages away. "Don't hesitate to ask if you have any questions."
"Thank you," I replied, nodding my farewell.
I was leaving the station, carrying the fresh meat and vegetables Wade had procured.
"He can cook?" Butcher Garcia asked, scratching his head in disbelief.
"If you'd seen Sergeant Kane a week ago," Wade said, "you'd realize nothing about him is surprising anymore."
"Is that so?" Garcia chuckled, unconvinced.
After all, this was just a small town. How could they possibly comprehend the true meaning of genius, having never witnessed the prodigies of Seattle?
… …
The sky blazed with the fiery hues of sunset as I arrived home, knocking on the door before letting myself in.
The woman was slumped over the table, fast asleep. A cascade of blonde hair framed her delicate features, her usually serene face now etched with a hint of unease. Her furrowed brow and the slight tremor of her thick eyelashes betrayed the restlessness of her slumber.
I approached quietly, observing the impressive stack of paper piled next to her forearm. Ink stains marred its edges, some even smudging the corners of her lips.
Amused, I carefully lifted the pen from her mouth, its tip still held captive between her teeth.
"Mine...don't take it..." she mumbled, her eyes fluttering open. "Ugh... what's that taste..."
She blinked, taking in the scene before her, then glanced down at the stack of papers with a look of dismay. "Oh, it's smudged..." she sighed, quickly straightening the pages.
But then her eyes caught sight of the bags of groceries in my hands, and her face lit up with delight.
"You take care of these!" she declared, snatching the fresh meat and disappearing into the kitchen.
I gathered the scattered papers on the table, carefully organizing them into a neat stack.
Stepping into the kitchen, I found Rose diligently preparing dinner, her hair tied back in a practical bun. "Out, out," she shooed me away with a wave of her hand, her focus entirely on the task at hand.
The aroma of simmering spices filled the air, mingling with the gentle clinking of pots and pans. Rose's humming, a soft, contented melody, was the perfect soundtrack to this scene of domestic bliss. I leaned against the doorframe, content simply to observe.
Each of her movements was deliberate, a dance she knew by heart. The way she chopped vegetables with precision, the careful sprinkle of seasoning, the way she stirred the pot with a practiced hand - all spoke of a deep-rooted love for the craft. It wasn't just about preparing food, it was about creating an experience, a sense of warmth and comfort. And it was this warmth that enveloped me, chasing away any lingering chill of loneliness.
For the first time, I understood what it meant to have a home. It wasn't just four walls and a roof; it was the feeling of belonging, of being cared for. It was the simple act of someone cooking a meal, knowing you'd be there to enjoy it. It was the unspoken promise of shared moments, laughter, and love.
Rose appeared beside me, holding a fork with a small, perfectly cooked piece of steak. Her cheeks were flushed with pride as she held it out to me. "Open wide and try this," she urged.
Not used to such intimacy, I leaned back instinctively, about to protest, but she was quicker. The fork, laden with the tempting morsel, was already in my mouth.
"Well?" Rose asked, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.
The steak melted in my mouth, surprisingly tender and bursting with flavor, though a bit rarer than I'd usually prefer. It would pair beautifully with the pasta, I thought.
"Not bad," I admitted, nodding in approval. A genuine smile tugged at my lips.
I headed towards the stove to retrieve the pot of simmering sauce, a new lightness in my step.
"See?" Rose huffed, crossing her arms with a satisfied smile. "Even the …"
Her sentence was abruptly cut short. A violent pounding echoed through the house, shattering the tranquil atmosphere like a shard of glass.
"Kane! Get out here!" A gruff voice boomed from the other side of the door.
I froze, my brow furrowing in annoyance. Rose, sensing the tension, quickly retreated back into the kitchen without a word.
I turned and headed towards the front door, a sense of unease settling over me. The pounding intensified, each strike sending a tremor through the house.
The door splintered under the force of a battering ram, and five or six officers poured into the house, their faces grim and determined.
Two figures emerged from the chaos, their presence commanding immediate attention.
Sheriff Williams, a grizzled veteran with a stern expression, led the charge. Behind him, the Wiry Samurai stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his demeanor that of a detached observer enjoying a spectacle.
Outside, Wade and the three others were pinned against the wall, their struggles futile against the officers' blades pressed against their throats. Butcher Garcia stood across the street, his massive frame radiating an aura of quiet fury, his fist clenched so tightly that his knuckles whitened.
"The government placed its trust in you," Sheriff Williams roared, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. "You were entrusted with the vital task of managing vamp affairs. Yet, in just two nights, over ten children have been abducted, and three villages and six suburbs have been ravaged, while you were here, lounging in the comfort of your home! Your entire squad is a nest of vipers, turning a blind eye to the suffering of the people! I treated you like my own kin..."
The old man's voice cracked with emotion. "You deserve to die!"
"The squad room door was wide open!" Wade retorted, struggling against his captors. "We received no reports!"
Who wouldn't be frantic if their loved ones were missing? With Sergeant Kane's newfound fame, wouldn't they naturally seek his help instead of going to the sheriff?
A sharp slap silenced Wade's protests.
Sheriff Williams retracted his hand, his face contorted in anger. "Don't you dare talk back to me!"
As if on cue, over twenty young men marched down the street, their rifles held at the ready. Their uniforms distinguished them from the police; they were soldiers from the city garrison.
Sheriff Williams turned to me, his eyes burning with a cold fury. "If you can't eliminate these vampires today," he snarled, "I'll have your head!"