The precinct was unusually quiet when Canan Kane stepped inside the next morning. The usual clatter of ringing phones, murmured conversations, and the rhythmic tapping of keyboards seemed muffled, as though a heavy fog had settled over the place. Officers moved with deliberate restraint, their faces tight with a shared unease, eyes flicking toward the Internal Affairs officers who stood like silent sentinels near the captain's office. Their presence was impossible to ignore—their sharp suits, the cold precision of their gaze as it swept over the squad room, dissecting every detail.
Canan adjusted his patrol hat and strolled toward his desk, deliberately casual, trying to ease the weight that seemed to press down on the room. The air felt thick, suffused with an unspoken tension. He passed Officer Reynolds, who was leaning against the wall, his face drawn tight, eyes flickering nervously toward the IA officers.
"You hear about last night?" Reynolds whispered, his voice barely rising above the hum of the room.
Canan tilted his head, feigning casual curiosity, but his chest tightened. "Something big?"
Reynolds leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a near whisper. "Some major gang figures got taken out. Wade's crew was involved. Word is, it was a bloodbath. Wade came out of it with just a scratch—lucky bastard."
Canan's pulse quickened, but he masked his reaction behind a neutral expression. His stomach knotted, and that strange, subtle hum of awareness thrummed in his chest, sharper now, almost like a warning. "Sounds like a rough night. You think it'll blow back on us?"
Reynolds shrugged, glancing toward the IA officers, who were watching the room with clinical detachment. "Hard to say. They've been sniffing around all morning. Feels like they're looking for something specific." He lowered his voice even further. "And they're starting with us."
"Good to know," Canan said, offering a faint smile before he moved on.
He settled at his desk, his fingers brushing absently over a report he hadn't quite finished. His thoughts churned, replaying the events of the previous night. The memory of the blinding light from the night before flickered in his mind, a sharp intrusion that felt almost unreal. It wasn't just the light—it was the strange aftereffects like something in him had shifted. Since then, his senses had been unnervingly sharper. He couldn't explain it—didn't want to—but it was there, a subtle but undeniable shift in his awareness, like the hum of an electric current at the edges of his consciousness.
Sitting in the precinct, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. The way the officers' movements seemed slightly too calculated, the way conversations stuttered and died when the IA officers passed by. There was an undercurrent to everything, a ripple in the atmosphere that only he seemed to feel. His gut told him something bigger was at play, and he'd learned long ago to trust that gnawing sensation.
The summons came mid-morning. He hadn't expected it, but it still struck him with the weight of inevitability.
A lean man with slicked-back hair and an air of practiced authority approached his desk, his polished shoes clicking sharply against the floor. "Officer Kane," he said flatly, his voice devoid of warmth. "We need to ask you a few questions. Follow me."
Canan rose without protest, keeping his expression neutral. As they walked toward the interrogation room, he noted the way the other officers avoided his gaze. It was subtle, but the fear was there, hanging in the air. Wade, of course, was nowhere to be found. But Canan could feel the man's shadow lurking over everything.
Inside the interrogation room, the hum that had been lingering at the edges of his consciousness flared, sharper now. The room was sterile, with a glaring overhead light that made his skin itch. Another IA officer, a woman with sharp, almost predatory features, sat across from him. A recorder sat between them, its red light blinking steadily, a constant reminder of the scrutiny he was under.
"Officer Kane," the woman began, folding her hands in front of her, her eyes never leaving his. "We're investigating the events of last night. Specifically, the incident at the Northpoint Junkyard. We understand you were on duty during that time. Can you account for your whereabouts?"
Canan leaned back in his chair, relaxing his posture just enough to give the illusion of calm. His gaze never wavered from hers. "I was patrolling the industrial district. Routine sweep. I didn't hear about the junkyard until this morning."
She didn't blink, but there was a slight narrowing of her eyes. The man beside her scribbled notes, his pen moving rapidly across the pad.
"Did you notice anything unusual during your patrol?"
Canan hesitated, just long enough for it to seem like he was thinking, not avoiding. His stomach tightened as the hum rose, a faint vibration under his skin, guiding his response. "Nothing out of the ordinary. A few cars parked where they shouldn't be, but that's typical for the area. I didn't see anything worth reporting."
The woman's gaze flicked to her colleague, and then back to him. "And you didn't hear or see anything related to the gang activity that took place?"
"No, ma'am," Canan said smoothly, suppressing a flicker of unease. "If I had, I'd have called it in."
Her eyes stayed on him, calculating. The man beside her paused in his note-taking, staring at Canan for a moment longer than necessary, as if waiting for a crack to appear in the story. But Canan felt the hum again—faint but steady, a constant presence that guided his words and actions.
The interrogation continued, but Canan felt as though he were walking a tightrope with an invisible safety net. Every question, every shift in their tactics, seemed to feed his instincts, nudging him to say just the right thing. He couldn't say why, but he knew the truth would not come easily.
When they finally ended the questioning, the woman clicked off the recorder, her eyes lingering on him with faint suspicion.
"That'll be all for now, Officer Kane," she said, her tone cool. "But don't go far. We may have more questions later."
"Understood," Canan said, standing and offering a polite nod before leaving the room.
Back in the squad room, he found Reynolds waiting for him. The other officer's face was pale, his voice low and tense.
"Wade's in the captain's office. They're calling him a damn hero. Took out half the gang by himself, they say. The brass is eating it up."
Canan's jaw tightened, but he forced a casual shrug. "Guess that's Wade for you. Always knows how to make an impression."
Reynolds snorted. "Yeah, well, I'd watch your back if I were you. Feels like things are about to get messy."
As Reynolds walked away, Canan let his mask slip just a moment. His expression darkened as his thoughts raced. Wade was alive. Worse, he was thriving, using the chaos to solidify his power.
Canan returned to his desk, his gaze flicking across the room. The atmosphere in the precinct was suffocating, thick with suppressed conversation and unspoken fear. A ripple of movement caught his eye. The door to the captain's office opened, and Wade emerged.
He walked with the deliberate, unhurried gait of a man who owned the room, his uniform impeccable, save for the bandage peeking from beneath his sleeve. The only visible sign of the brutal night he had survived. Officers watched him in near reverence, their whispers fading as he passed. Canan's heart hammered in his chest despite his outward calm. The look in Wade's eyes when they met was cold, calculating—a silent promise of violence, of retribution.
Wade's lips curled into a faint, humorless smile, and he turned to address a cluster of officers with a commanding tone. The room buzzed with hushed admiration, but Canan barely heard the words. That fleeting moment of eye contact had spoken volumes—Wade was in control, and there would be no turning back.
As Wade disappeared down the hallway, Canan's stomach twisted, but he refused to let fear take hold. If Wade wanted a war, he would have one. Canan wasn't shaken. If anything, the stakes had only hardened his resolve.
The blinding light, the hum in his gut, the strange shift in his awareness—they all pointed to something beyond the natural. Canan didn't know what it was yet, but one thing was certain: the rules of the game had changed, and he wasn't about to lose.