Chapter 4: The Unwanted Retirement
Owuye had long suspected that his team's gruesome deaths were no accident. Despite relentless research and his own harrowing experience at the scene, his reports were dismissed. He was adamant—his team had been slaughtered by a creature not of this world. A beast. But each analysis, each shred of evidence he presented, was waved away, labeled the ramblings of a madman. So he took his case to the press, revealing what little he could without breaching confidentiality. Slowly, a narrative began to build, whispers that couldn't be ignored.
But just as the story began gaining traction, the head office shut it down. The case files were sealed, and Owuye found himself summoned to a disciplinary panel—a formality, he knew, that masked a predetermined judgment.
He entered the cold, sterile room with its harsh fluorescent lighting. Five faces greeted him—men and women he recognized from the department and three psychologists, faces unfamiliar but hardened with skepticism. The air was heavy with unspoken accusations. Rumors of his mental instability had preceded him, and he knew today's inquisition would be their way of ending his career. His glassy eyes and the faint smell of liquor that followed him didn't help his cause. Owuye was no stranger to the bottle; it dulled the edge of his nightmares, even if it added weight to their accusations.
Questions came like machine-gun fire—rapid, piercing, and unyielding. Each question more loaded than the last. "What exactly did you see that night?" "Why didn't you report the signs earlier?" "How can you be sure it was a single assailant?" His answers were disjointed, tripping over themselves as the barrage overwhelmed him. One psychologist leaned forward, her eyes narrow, analyzing his every twitch. He barely noticed the bead of sweat rolling down his temple, or the way his hands trembled when he reached for his cigarette box.
When the questions became too much, he paused, the weight of their disbelief pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. He pulled out a cigarette, placed it between his lips, and lit it with a flickering match. The smell of smoke was a comfort, a reminder of simpler times, of when his life had not yet spiraled into this madness. The room grew silent, the panel waiting, watching, vultures ready to descend on his weakness.
Owuye inhaled deeply and exhaled a slow plume of smoke, his gaze locking onto the lead psychologist, a thin, stern-faced man with silver-rimmed glasses. He could feel the disdain radiating off them, but in the midst of their scrutiny, a single, unexpected question fell like a thunderclap:
"Was that the only time you encountered a red werewolf?"
Owuye froze. His hand, halfway to his lips, halted as if he'd been slapped. He had never called it that. He had never used the word werewolf—not once. He had spoken of a "creature" or a "beast," but never named it. And certainly never mentioned anything about color. The cigarette fell from his fingers, scattering ashes across the table. His blood ran cold as he stared at the man, searching for a trace of a smirk, a hint of a mistake. There was none.
How could they know? Red. A chill crawled up his spine, and suddenly, everything fell into place. They knew. They had always known. And they weren't here to find the truth—they were here to bury it. There were secrets, truths darker and older than his understanding, lurking just beneath the surface of this charade.
A slow, bitter smile twisted Owuye's lips. He leaned back, not bothering to retrieve the fallen cigarette. "Tell me," he said, his voice low and defiant, "how do you know what it's called? Or what color it was? I never said that to anyone." His words hung in the air like the lingering smoke—heavy, accusatory, undeniable.
For a moment, the room was deathly silent. Then the lead psychologist's expression shifted, a flicker of discomfort passing over his face before he quickly masked it. Owuye knew then—he had hit a nerve. He rose from his chair, turning his back on their silence and walking towards the door, his footsteps echoing like the beat of a war drum. He didn't care what they would decide. Retirement, suspension, disgrace—it no longer mattered. They had revealed themselves, and he would not play their game any longer.
He paused in the doorway and, without looking back, asked one final question that sliced through the silence: "How many colors are there, anyway?"
No one answered.
Owuye left the room and let the door close behind him with a hollow, metallic click. He had already decided—this wasn't the end. Not for him, and certainly not for the truth he had glimpsed in the dark. As he walked away, the building felt smaller behind him, suffocating and stale. He had been wrong to think he could find justice here.
Outside, the wind had picked up, cold and sharp against his face. He pulled his coat tighter around himself and slipped a flask from his pocket, taking a long swig before lighting another cigarette. The fight wasn't over. It had only just begun.