The office of the Chief of Police smelled of burnt kaffe and old paperwork, a sour cocktail that did nothing to alleviate the jackhammer pounding behind Chief Ramirez's eyes. He stood by the polarized window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass, looking down at the street.

  The storm outside was cataclysmic. Rain lashed against the precinct walls in sheets, but it hadn't deterred the mob. They were a churning sea of black umbrellas and signs, their collective voice rising through the downpour as a muffled, rhythmic roar. Even four stories up, the vibration rattled the pens on Ramirez's desk.

  "LAW! NOT VIGILANTES!" "CLIP THE ANGEL’S WINGS! CLIP ANGEL’S THE WINGS!"

  Ramirez squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his temples. The headache was blooming into a full-blown migraine, pulsing in time with the chants. He turned his back on the window, facing the large display mounted on the far wall. It cast a jagged blue light across the darkened room.

  Channel 4. Breaking News. The chyron scrolled in blood-red capital letters: SLAUGHTER IN THE JEWELRY DISTRICT.

  On the feed, a young woman stood in the rain, clutching a microphone as if it were a lifeline. She couldn't have been more than twenty. Her cheap coat was soaked through, plastered to her shaking frame, and her cosmetic paint had run in dark, tragic streaks down her face.

  "He wasn't a monster," she choked out, her voice cracking on the broadcast. "I know Vincent had a record. I know he was rough. But he just wanted... he wanted us to start a life." She held up a trembling hand, empty of jewelry. "He told me he was getting a ring tonight. He said he'd finally found a way to make us happy."

  The cameraman, sensing gold, zoomed in until her grief filled the frame.

  "He didn't deserve to die like a dog in an alley! They say the Angel of Death got him. That... that psycho didn't arrest him. He butchered him!"

  Ramirez jabbed the mute button on his remote. The silence that rushed back into the room was heavy, broken only by the hum of the ventilation and the distant anger of the crowd.

  "He needed a ring," Ramirez muttered to the empty room, picking up the preliminary report and tossing it back down. "So he looted a high-end store and terrorized the district."

  Logic, however, was a flimsy shield against public perception. It didn't matter what Vincent had done. It only mattered how Angelo—how the Auron Division—had handled it.

  The door creaked open. Ramirez didn't turn. He kept his eyes on the silent, sobbing woman on the screen.

  "Is the incident report filed, Mike?"

  "Yes, Chief."

  Ramirez stiffened. He knew Mike's voice—usually a bored, gravelly baritone that complained about overtime and bad rations. This voice was brittle. Hollow.

  Ramirez turned slowly.

  Mike stood on the threshold, dripping wet. A puddle was already forming around his boots, soaking into the precinct carpet. He clutched a datapad to his chest like a blast shield, his knuckles white. He looked pale, as if he hadn't blinked or breathed since stepping out of the cruiser.

  "Well?" Ramirez gestured vaguely toward the screen. "The press is already crucifying us, Mike. Give me the good news. Tell me Ashworth followed the engagement protocols. Tell me the suspect escalated with lethal force and the kid had no choice but to put him down."

  Mike didn't speak. He walked forward, his movements stiff and robotic, and set the datapad gently on the dark desk.

  "I can't tell you that, Chief."

  Ramirez narrowed his eyes, the migraine spiking. "Excuse me?"

  "I'm saying..." Mike swallowed, his throat bobbing violently against his collar. "I'm saying the suspect was subdued. Aura down."

  The air in the office seemed to drop ten degrees. The chanting outside felt suddenly very far away.

  "He surrendered?" Ramirez asked. His voice was barely a whisper, dangerous and low.

  "He... he was begging, Chief." Mike looked up then, and the look in his eyes—pure, unadulterated haunt—chilled Ramirez to the bone. "He was asking for mercy. And Angelo put a hole through his chest."

  Ramirez closed his eyes, exhaling a long, shuddering breath that seemed to deflate his entire posture. Outside, the crowd screamed "Clip the Angel's Wings," and for the first time, Ramirez thought they might have a point.

  "It wasn't self-defense," Mike whispered. The finality of it hung in the air. "It was an execution."

  Ramirez reached for the heavy receiver of his desk unit. His hand felt old. "You did the right thing coming straight to me. Go home, Mike. Drink something strong. Sleep."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to do what I should have done six months ago." Ramirez lifted the receiver, the dial tone buzzing like an angry insect. "Dismissed."

  "Sir." Mike straightened, seemingly relieved to be dismissed, and vanished back into the hallway.

  Ramirez punched in the number from memory. He waited through three agonizing rings.

  "Heya, Chief!" The voice on the other end was too bright, too charismatic, oozing a jagged energy that grated against Ramirez's mood. "Long time no chat. How's the weather up in the tower?"

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  "I'm not the bearer of good news today, Sleeser," Ramirez said, his voice flat.

  The pause on the line was instant. The charisma evaporated. "This is about Angelo, isn't it?"

  "He went too far. And that is saying something, considering his track record. He's left me no choice."

  "Hey, hey now," Sleeser's voice sped up, a salesman trying to save a deal. "Let's not get hasty. Emotions are high. What exactly did the kid do?"

  "He murdered a criminal in cold blood last night, Sleeser," Ramirez growled, leaning over his desk, his grip tightening on the composite material until it creaked. "That's what he did."

  Sleeser sighed, a long sound of static and frustration. "Look, last time we had this talk, you told me your hands were tied. The Auron Protection Acts? Line of duty immunity?"

  "Those statutes don't apply here!" Ramirez snapped. "This wasn't remotely self-defense. He eliminated a neutralized target who was begging for his life. I have an eyewitness."

  Sleeser went quiet. "Dammit, Angelo..." he muttered, the words faint, as if spoken away from the mic.

  "I'm cutting the warrant today. I'm sorry it ended like this. I know you vouched for him, and frankly, the boy had raw talent." Ramirez shook his head, staring at the rain streaking the glass. "It's a damn shame he has such a twisted definition of justice."

  "Wait. Chief, hold on."

  "What?"

  "Don't file it yet. Please. Let me talk to the kid. Give me a chance to fix this!" Sleeser sounded desperate now, the smooth facade completely gone.

  Ramirez rubbed his eyes. "There is no fixing a corpse, Sleeser—"

  "PLEASE!"

  The shout was loud enough to make Ramirez pull the receiver away from his ear. He looked at the digital clock on his desk. The red numbers flickered.

  "...Fine. You have six hours," Ramirez said.

  "Six hours?! I'm at the border, there's no way—"

  "Six hours," Ramirez cut him off, ice in his tone. "That is the extent of my mercy. Clock starts now."

  "Fine. Six hours. I'll... I'll see what I can do."

  The line clicked dead. Ramirez held the receiver for a moment longer, a sensation of dread settling in his stomach like lead. He placed it down and immediately dialed an internal extension.

  "Vivian, pull Angelo's full personnel file. The unredacted one... Yes. Send it to my terminal immediately."

  He sat down, the leather chair groaning under his weight. On his primary monitor, he opened the template for a standard Arrest Warrant. He began typing what he knew from memory, the keystrokes loud in the quiet room.

  A chime signaled the arrival of the email. Ramirez opened the file on his secondary screen, ready to copy-paste the biographical data.

  NAME: Angelo Ashworth FATHER: Cyrus Ashworth MOTHER: Nova Ashworth

  Ramirez froze. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He blinked, once, twice, waiting for the words to rearrange themselves into something that made sense.

  "That... no. No, there's no way." He laughed nervously, a dry, humorless sound. "The name's not that uncommon. Has to be a coincidence."

  He shifted uncomfortably, loosening his tie. He began to do the math aloud, trying to talk himself down. "Okay, let's look at the timeline. He joined the special police program two years ago. He would have been sixteen. Just graduates so he's eighteen now..."

  He trailed off. The math worked. But the reality couldn't.

  "No, no. Impossible. Let's see where he was born." He scrolled down the document, eyes darting. "Bazel Hospital. Okay. See? Born right here in Novaria. Just a local kid. Not that Ashworth."

  He let out a shaky sigh, the tension in his shoulders dropping an inch. But the knot in his gut remained. It tightened.

  "But wait," he whispered. "Just because he was born here... doesn't mean he stayed here."

  He scrolled further down to the 'Background and Guardian' section. The blood drained from his face so fast it left him dizzy.

  Ward of the State. Ashford Orphanage.

  "No... no, no, no..."

  Ramirez buried his face in his hands. The migraine surged back with a vengeance. "What kind of cruel joke is this?"

  He slammed his hands onto the desk, the sudden violence startling him. "It's him. It's actually him. Those Ashworths' boy."

  He slumped back, suddenly looking twenty years older. The rain battered the window, mocking him. "To think he'd come back... to work right under my nose... Damn you, Sleeser. You knew. You had to know."

  Ramirez looked up. His gaze drifted from the glowing arrest warrant on the screen, down to the bottom drawer of his desk—the one that was always double-locked.

  He stared at the drawer for a long time, the conflicted look of a man realizing that the ghosts he buried were never really dead.

  Luminia's Capital, Lumecent - Government District

  Ramirez wasn't the only one staring down the barrel of the past. Far away in Lumecent, the sun was shining, but it did little to banish the shadows gathering in the high towers of the Government District.

  Harsh, unfiltered daylight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse office, illuminating the floating dust motes like suspended gold. The man standing before the massive ironwood desk squinted slightly against the glare, trying not to fidget as he clutched a thick leather folder to his chest.

  Everything about this room spoke of absolute power—from the imported tapestries to the panoramic view that transformed the city below into a tapestry of gleaming spires.

  But nothing commanded attention like the woman behind the desk, whose very stillness carried more authority than a shouted order.

  He cleared his throat, shuffling through his papers with hands that betrayed the slightest tremor.

  The woman took a long drag from her cigarette, the ember flaring briefly even in the bright sun. The smoke curled around features that seemed carved from cold marble by years of impossible decisions. She said nothing, merely gesturing with the burning tip for him to proceed.

  "The monthly threat assessment, My Lady," he began, his voice dry. "We've identified several developments that warrant attention."

  She drew deeply on the cigarette, the smoke escaping her lips to dance in the stagnant air as if alive.

  "Our intelligence from the Inferni border is... concerning," he continued. "Their military exercises have increased threefold, but more troubling are the reports of unmarked supply convoys moving under cover of darkness. The timing, just months before the New Light Festival..."

  The cigarette descended to a crystal ashtray with surgical precision. "Continue."

  His shoulders tensed. "Next... we have detected peculiar activity from one of them." The word landed like a loaded weapon on the desk. "It's one of their more... unconventional members. They were spotted circling one of our facilities. The report suggests they're not adhering to their usual policy."

  She crushed her cigarette and smoothly lit another from a silver case. "I see. Anything else?"

  "There's a... local matter in the city of Novaria. Over the past six months, one of the city's Auron officers has developed quite the reputation."

  Her hand froze halfway to her lips, smoke trailing forgotten. "Threat level?"

  The man's fingers tightened imperceptibly on the folder. "According to the reports, rather low. He goes mostly after common criminals."

  The silence that followed felt like the static charge before a lightning strike. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft but sharp. "And yet you went through such lengths to include him in this report. Why?"

  "Because we've uncovered a certain... connection to us that transforms him from a local curiosity into a potential... complication. Considering his position and reputation."

  Her cigarette hung suspended, as if the universe itself held its breath. "What connection?"

  Without a word, he withdrew a slim dossier from his folder and placed it on her desk with movements so careful they suggested he was handling active explosives.

  Her eyes swept across the pages like a predator tracking prey. When they reached a particular passage, her eyes widened—the first genuine reaction he'd seen from her all day. The cigarette finally found its way to the ashtray.

  "I was convinced that Ashworth boy was a dead end. To think he would resurface now... like this."