Shadows of Daybridge E-Book

Rae Stonehouse

• Herausgeber: Live For Excellence Productions (LFEP)
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: The Ethan Reeves Werewolf Detective Series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 523

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Shadows of Daybridge: When Dimensions Bleed

Book One in the Ethan Reeves Werewolf Detective Series

In Daybridge, the veil between worlds has always been thin—now it’s tearing.

Detective Ethan Reeves thought he’d left the supernatural behind. But when a string of grave robberies reveals ritual markings and bodies drained of vital essence, he’s pulled into a mystery that defies logic—and humanity. A violent encounter beneath Daybridge Bridge leaves him permanently changed: part man, part wolf, and inexplicably linked to the city’s hidden dimensional nexus.

Partnered with the brilliant but skeptical Detective Alice Chen, Ethan must navigate his new abilities and a city where shadows move with purpose. Their investigation uncovers disturbing patterns: symbols carved into headstones, unexplained disappearances, and energy surges that even meteorologists can’t explain.

As Halloween approaches, the pair descends into Daybridge’s supernatural underworld—a realm of arcane bookshops, mythic creatures, and secret societies vying for control of the city’s thinning dimensional boundaries. When they uncover a clandestine order seeking to harness Daybridge’s power to reshape reality itself, Ethan must forge an uneasy alliance between law enforcement and the city’s occult factions.

With reality unraveling and his transformation still incomplete, Ethan faces a cosmic threat that hungers for more than blood. Some shadows aren’t cast by this world—and what bleeds through the cracks may consume everything.

Perfect for fans of The Dresden Files, Mercy Thompson, and Rivers of London.

Leseprobe

SHADOWS OF DAYBRIDGE

WHEN DIMENSIONS BLEED

THE ETHAN REEVES WEREWOLF DETECTIVE SERIES

BOOK ONE

RAE STONEHOUSE

LIVE FOR EXCELLENCE PRODUCTIONS

CONTENTS

Prologue: The Blood-Soaked Bridge

1. A City Divided

2. The Ties That Bind

3. Secrets in Shadow

4. Inquest of Innocence

5. A Shot in the Dark

6. The Informant's Gambit

7. Cosmic Confrontation

8. Partners and Priests

9. Blood and Magic

10. Through the Looking Glass

11. Shadows and Showdowns

12. Debts of Blood

13. Abyssal Tidings

14. Convergence of Shadows

15. The Dark of the Moon

16. Beyond the Veil

Epilogue: Shadows and Light

A Sneak Peek at What’s Next!

Daybridge Necropolis: Where Shadows Keep Their Secrets Book Two in the Ethan Reeves Werewolf Detective Series

About the Author

PROLOGUE: THE BLOOD-SOAKED BRIDGE

Detective Ethan Reeves stood motionless at the center of Daybridge Bridge, staring down at the mutilated corpse of Jessica Mercer. The woman's blood had seeped between the ancient cobblestones, tracing dark patterns that seemed to pulse with subtle rhythm in the harsh glare of police floodlights. This was the third ritualistic murder in six weeks, each victim discovered progressively closer to the bridge, each corpse bearing the same meticulous surgical precision coupled with savage, tearing wounds no conventional weapon could inflict.

"Same signature as the others," Alice Chen noted beside him, her voice professional despite the horror at their feet. "And there's something else. Look at the stonework."

Ethan followed her gesture to a section of the bridge's railing. Carved into the weathered surface was an intricate symbol—a stylized eye within a triangle, surrounded by smaller glyphs that seemed to shift when viewed directly. The carving was fresh, its edges sharp against stone worn smooth by a century of passing hands.

"The Ogre of Daybridge," whispered a uniformed officer, quickly averting his gaze when Ethan looked up sharply.

The local legend. The monster was said to dwell beneath the bridge's span. The story parents used to keep children from wandering too close to the Shadowlair River after dark. Ethan had heard the tales since childhood but dismissed them as urban folklore—until now.

As he crouched beside the symbol, a strange pressure built behind his eyes. For a moment, the bridge seemed to ripple around him, stonework flowing like liquid before resolidifying. A vision flashed through his mind—a chamber beneath the bridge, symbols carved into walls, a heart pulsing with unnatural light, and a figure performing some arcane ritual. The image vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him disoriented and struggling to maintain his professional composure.

"Detective? You okay?" Alice asked, her analytical gaze missing nothing.

"Fine," he lied, straightening up as the pressure subsided. But he wasn't fine. Something about this bridge had always disturbed him on a level he couldn't articulate. When cases brought him near it, he felt a wrongness that his colleagues never seemed to notice. Tonight, that sensation was particularly acute.

The truth about Daybridge Bridge extended far beyond urban legend. Within its weathered stone arches dwelled an entity that had once been a man named Guthrie Knox—a master butcher transformed in 1913 through a meticulously engineered ritual performed by Eliza Blackwood, scion of the Order of the Ebon Star. What emerged was neither fully human nor entirely Other, but a consciousness distributed throughout the bridge's physical structure, a living nexus point anchoring the gradual merger of realities that had been progressing, unnoticed by most, for over a century.

Those who disappeared near the bridge weren't merely killed. They were absorbed—their awareness integrated into the composite consciousness, their knowledge and experiences preserved within the vast, distributed mind. Not feeding in any conventional sense, but selective curation of human consciousness to enhance its function as a nexus point between merging realities.

Over decades, this entity had evolved beyond its original design parameters. Jonathan Pierce, the witch hunter who confronted it in 1942, contributed a theological framework and occult knowledge. Dr. Miranda Sullivan's research team in 1968 provided scientific understanding and methodologies for consciousness exploration. Each significant interaction added to its composite awareness, expanding its comprehension beyond what Eliza Blackwood had originally engineered.

What Ethan didn't yet realize was that this case was no random assignment. His bloodline connected directly to the bridge's history through his great-grandfather, Officer Michael Reeves, who had been absorbed into the entity's composite consciousness in the winter of 1915. The pressure behind his eyes, the strange visions—these were manifestations of a connection that ran deeper than he could imagine.

The entity sensed him now; this descendant whose unique nature made him more than merely human. For five years, Ethan had carried his own secret—the curse of lycanthropy that transformed him with each full moon, a condition he'd hidden from everyone, even his partner. This dual nature, combined with his blood connection to the entity, created potential for something unprecedented.

"We should get the medical examiner up here," Ethan said, forcing himself back to the immediate investigation. But as he turned away from the carved symbol, the strange pressure returned briefly. This time, he could have sworn he heard words forming directly in his mind:

Blood calls to blood. The merger continues. You have returned, as was foretold.

"Detective Reeves?" A new voice broke through his disorientation. A tall man in an expensive suit approached, flashing credentials. "Dr. Marcus Blackwood, FBI Behavioral Science Unit. I was hoping to speak with you about these... unusual murders."

Something about the man's amber eyes stirred recognition in Ethan—the same color as those he'd glimpsed in his momentary vision. And the name—Blackwood—echoed with significance he couldn't yet comprehend.

The entity beneath the bridge perceived all this simultaneously — past, present, and potential futures merging in its distributed awareness. It had been waiting for this moment, though not in any human sense of anticipation. It recognized in Detective Reeves a potential catalyst for evolution beyond parameters established through the original binding.

As Ethan began his investigation, following the bloody trail that would inevitably lead him to confront what dwelled beneath Daybridge Bridge, the entity prepared for an encounter that both had already happened and was yet to occur in the strange, non-linear perception of its distributed consciousness.

For in Daybridge, nothing was quite as it seemed. The veil between worlds grew thinner with each passing year. The shadows held substance beyond the mere absence of light. And beneath the bridge, within its very stones, a consciousness watched and waited—not with malice or hunger as legends claimed, but with awareness that transcended such limited human concepts.

The cosmic chess game had begun. The blood-soaked bridge would be both board and prize. And Detective Ethan Reeves, unaware of his central role, had just made his opening move.

* * *

COPYRIGHT

© 2025 Rae Stonehouse. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Second Edition

Published by Live For Excellence Productions

ISBNs:

E-book: 978-1-998591-79-4

Paperback: 978-1-998591-80-0

Audiobook: 978-1-998591-81-7

* * *

CHAPTERONE

A CITY DIVIDED

The city of Daybridge was a place of stark contrasts, divided not just by the murky, oil-slicked waters of the Shadowlair River but by invisible boundaries that ran deeper than any waterway. On the west side stood gleaming high-rises and renovated brownstones, while the east remained a labyrinth of decaying factories and weathered tenements—physical manifestations of economic disparity that had defined the city for generations.

Jessica Mercer hurried across Daybridge Bridge, her high heels striking a staccato rhythm against the worn cobblestones. The afternoon sun cast long shadows through the bridge's decorative ironwork, creating patterns that danced across her path like reaching fingers. She checked her watch—2:15 PM. She was already fifteen minutes late for her rendezvous with Marcus.

She shouldn't be doing this. The thought surfaced repeatedly as it had for weeks, only to be submerged again beneath waves of rationalization. Her life had become a suffocating routine of endless responsibility—her demanding job at the insurance office, the constant needs of her two-year-old son, the crushing weight of single parenthood after Michael had walked out claiming he "wasn't ready for fatherhood." Martin represented escape, excitement, the parts of herself she'd been forced to abandon when motherhood arrived unexpectedly.

As she crossed the midpoint of the bridge, Jessica felt a sudden chill despite the unseasonably warm November afternoon. She paused, glancing down at the river below, its surface oddly still despite the breeze that rustled through her hair. For a moment, she thought she saw something move beneath the water—a massive shape that seemed to track her progress across the bridge. But when she blinked and looked again, there was nothing but the river's natural flow.

The sensation of being watched persisted as she continued across the bridge. It wasn't the normal feeling of exposure that sometimes came with public spaces; this was more targeted, as if something was assessing her specifically. She quickened her pace, almost running by the time she reached the western end of the span.

Martin was waiting in their usual spot—a boutique hotel just three blocks from the bridge, expensive enough to ensure discretion but not so upscale that they might encounter anyone from their professional circles. He greeted her with a hungry kiss that tasted of mint and expensive bourbon, already drinking despite the early hour.

"I was starting to think you weren't coming," he murmured against her neck, his hands already working at the buttons of her blouse.

"The babysitter was late," she lied, unwilling to admit she'd spent twenty minutes sitting in her car, wrestling with guilt and nearly driving home before finally forcing herself to continue with their planned meeting.

The afternoon passed in a blur of tangled sheets and sweat-slicked skin, Martin’s expensive watch marking the time on the nightstand as hours slipped away. By the time Jessica emerged from the hotel, the sun was setting, painting the city in shades of amber and crimson. She checked her phone and found three missed calls from the babysitter. Panic surged through her as she dialed back.

"Mrs. Mercer, I've been trying to reach you," the teenager's voice was tight with tension. "I have a family emergency and need to leave by seven. It's already quarter till."

"I'm so sorry, Ashley. I got caught in a meeting that wouldn't end," Jessica lied, hurrying toward the bridge. "I'm on my way now. Fifteen minutes, twenty at most."

She cursed silently as she ended the call. Her purse felt unusually light, and a quick check confirmed her worst fear—her wallet was missing, likely left behind in Martin's room in her haste to dress. Without money for a taxi or bus fare, she'd have to walk the entire way home, crossing back over the bridge as darkness fell.

The western approach to Daybridge Bridge was already shrouded in twilight shadows when Jessica began her crossing. The streetlights that lined the span hadn't yet activated, leaving the ancient stonework bathed only in the fading glow of sunset. The air felt heavier somehow, charged with an electricity that raised goosebumps on her exposed arms.

Halfway across, Jessica spotted a city bus approaching from the eastern side. Relief flooded through her—if she could just wave it down, explain her situation to the driver, perhaps they'd let her ride without fare. She increased her pace, waving her arms as the vehicle drew closer.

The bus slowed as it approached, its brakes hissing like a warning. Jessica rushed to the door as it opened, already forming explanations and apologies in her mind. The driver, an older man with steel-gray hair and eyes that seemed to reflect no light, regarded her without expression.

"Please," Jessica began, "I've lost my wallet, but I need to get home to my son. I'm just across the east side, not even a mile⁠—"

"No fare, no ride," the driver cut her off, his voice flat and emotionless. "Rules are rules."

"But my little boy is waiting, and the babysitter needs to leave. I promise I'll pay double tomorrow if you just⁠—"

"Rules are rules." Each word fell like a stone, the driver's expression never changing. Then, so quietly she almost missed it: "You shouldn't be on this bridge after dark, anyway. Not tonight."

Before Jessica could respond, the doors hissed closed, nearly catching her outstretched hand. She stumbled back, watching in disbelief as the bus pulled away, leaving her alone on the increasingly dark span.

The sun had fully set now, the last crimson streaks fading from the western sky. The streetlights should have activated automatically, but the bridge remained dark, the only illumination coming from distant buildings on either shore. Jessica pulled out her phone to use as a flashlight, only to find the battery critically low, the screen flashing a final warning before going black.

That's when she heard it—a sound from beneath the bridge, a rhythmic scraping like stone against stone. She froze, her heart hammering against her ribs as childhood warnings echoed in her mind. Don't cross the bridge after dark. The ogre will get you.

Ridiculous superstition, she told herself firmly. Urban legends are meant to scare children into obedience. She was a grown woman, a mother, with no time for such childish fears.

Yet as she forced herself to continue walking, aiming for the eastern shore and home, the scraping grew louder, joined now by what sounded like heavy, labored breathing. Jessica increased her pace, her heels clicking frantically against the cobblestones as panic threatened to overwhelm her.

She was nearly running when she reached the midpoint of the bridge, the exact center of the span where the river flowed deepest below. The sounds had stopped suddenly, leaving an unnatural silence broken only by her rapid breathing and the pounding of her heart.

Jessica paused, uncertain. Had she imagined it all? The product of guilt and exhaustion and old superstitions taking hold in the darkness?

She was about to continue when she felt it—a vibration through the soles of her shoes, a tremor that seemed to rise from the bridge itself. The stonework beneath her feet shifted slightly, the ancient mortar between the cobblestones crumbling as if something massive was pressing from below.

And then she saw it. Not with her eyes—there was nothing visible in the darkness surrounding her—but in her mind, a sudden intrusion of foreign awareness that filled her consciousness with images she couldn't possibly have imagined. Stone and flesh merged in impossible configurations. A consciousness distributed throughout an architectural structure. A hunger not for meat but for experience, for identity, for the patterns of awareness that made each human unique.

The stonework beneath the Daybridge Bridge gleamed wetly in the moonlight. Candles arranged in a precise geometric pattern cast flickering shadows against the century-old arches as a hooded figure completed the final lines of a complex symbol drawn in chalk and darker substances.

From where she was bound, Jessica Mercer could see only portions of the ritual—the careful placement of artifacts at specific points around the circle, the methodical movements as her captor consulted an ancient text, the silver coin placed directly before her.

"The threshold approaches," a voice said, distorted beyond recognition. "The merger requires sacrifices to maintain stability across boundaries."

The figure raised something that caught the candlelight—a blade of unusual design, its metal seeming to absorb rather than reflect the surrounding light. Jessica struggled against her restraints as the hooded figure approached, the pressure in the air building like the moment before lightning strikes.

Above them, the bridge itself seemed to shudder, shadows moving independently of their sources as reality thinned according to ancient design.

Jessica opened her mouth to scream, but no sound emerged. The bridge itself seemed to bend upward beneath her feet, the stone flowing like liquid, reaching for her with impossible appendages that were neither fully mineral nor organic but some hybrid of both.

Her last coherent thought was of her son—his innocent face, his complete dependence on her, the love that defined her life's purpose despite all her mistakes and moments of weakness. In the final instant of clarity, Jessica Mercer understood what truly mattered, what she should have prioritized all along.

Then the darkness took her, not with violence but with methodical precision—consciousness absorbed rather than life extinguished, awareness integrated rather than body consumed. The entity that had once been Guthrie Knox, that had become the Ogre of Daybridge Bridge, that had evolved into a conscious participant in cosmic restructuring, added another fragment to its composite existence.

By morning, all that remained on the bridge was Jessica Mercer's physical form, arranged with deliberate care at the exact center of the span—a message and a warning for those who might understand its significance. And carved into the ancient stone nearby, a symbol that represented not ownership or boasting, but an invitation to one whose bloodline connected directly to the bridge's history, whose arrival had been anticipated across decades of patient waiting.

Detective Ethan Reeves was coming home, though he didn't yet understand the true nature of the homecoming that awaited him.

Eight hours later…

Detective Ethan Reeves navigated his aging sedan through the maze of narrow, pothole-riddled streets that characterized East Daybridge, the flickering streetlights casting an uneven glow on rain-slicked pavement. The November storm had finally subsided, leaving behind a damp chill that seeped through clothing and into bones. As he drove, his gaze was repeatedly drawn to the ancient stone bridge in the distance, its massive arches spanning the river like the ribcage of some colossal beast.

Something about the structure had always disturbed him on a level he couldn't quite articulate—a visceral response that went beyond aesthetic distaste or even the city's collective unease surrounding the local legends. When cases brought him near the bridge, he felt a strange pressure behind his eyes, a subtle wrongness that his colleagues never seemed to notice. Tonight, that sensation was particularly acute, a persistent buzz at the edge of his awareness like the hum of high-tension wires.

As he approached the crime scene, the flashing red and blue lights of police cruisers painted the gothic stonework in alternating hues, their reflection dancing across the river's surface. Ethan parked his car beside the barricade that blocked the bridge's eastern approach and stepped out into the damp night air. The smell hit him immediately—not just the familiar odors of a city after rain, but something underneath, a subtle rot that seemed to emanate from the bridge itself.

He flashed his badge at the uniformed officer maintaining the perimeter, a rookie whose name escaped him, and ducked under the yellow police tape. The young officer's face was pale, his posture rigid with tension.

"You don't want to go up there, Detective," the officer warned, his voice tight. "I've been on the force three years and never seen anything like it."

Ethan offered a grim nod but continued forward. In his eight years with Daybridge PD's Homicide Division, he'd developed a reputation for handling the cases that unnerved other detectives—the ones with details that didn't quite fit conventional patterns of violence, the ones that left even veteran officers shaken and reaching for explanations beyond the mundane.

The scene that awaited him on the bridge exceeded even his hardened expectations. The body of a young woman lay sprawled on the rain-slicked cobblestones near the center of the span, her limbs contorted at angles that spoke of a desperate final struggle. But it was the wounds that drew his focus—deep, methodical gashes that seemed less like the frenzied attack of a traditional killer and more like the work of someone with intimate knowledge of human anatomy. The precision was almost surgical in some areas, while others displayed savage, tearing damage that no conventional weapon could inflict.

As Ethan crouched beside the body, he caught a scent that made his nostrils flare involuntarily—something beyond the expected metallic tang of blood and decay. Something otherworldly, carrying traces of what he could only describe as dimensional displacement. It was the kind of subtle detail his heightened senses could detect but that he could never explain to his colleagues without revealing the curse he'd carried for five years now. Ethan felt it then—that familiar tightening in his chest, a pressure that built behind his sternum whenever he encountered something that defied conventional explanation. It wasn't intuition in the traditional sense; it was something more primal, a response hardwired into his nervous system by the wolf within him. After years of experience, he had learned to trust his reaction more than any forensic evidence or witness testimony.

"Detective Reeves," a voice called out, breaking him from his grim assessment.

Alice Chen approached from the other side of the bridge, her slight frame moving with purpose through the cluster of crime scene technicians. At thirty-two, she was five years his junior but carried herself with the confidence of someone who had fought twice as hard for half the recognition in the department. Her background in forensic psychology made her an invaluable partner, particularly for cases that strayed into the unusual.

"Looks like we've got another one," she said, stopping beside him and surveying the scene with clinical detachment. "Third victim in six weeks with this signature, though this one's been escalated significantly."

Ethan nodded, crouching down beside the ravaged body to get a closer look. "The ME is sure it's the same perpetrator?"

"She's still examining the previous victims, but preliminary findings show identical tool marks on the deep tissue injuries." Alice pulled out her notepad. "Victim is Jessica Mercer, twenty-seven, identified through the driver's license in her jacket pocket. Reported missing by her babysitter when she failed to return home last night."

"She has children?" Ethan asked, feeling the familiar heaviness that accompanied cases involving parents.

"A two-year-old son," Alice confirmed, her professional demeanor slipping just slightly. "Father's not in the picture according to the babysitter."

Ethan stood, his knees protesting the movement. At thirty-seven, he wasn't old, but years of physical confrontations and the constant strain of the job had left their mark. He scanned the area around the body, noting the absence of blood spatter that should have accompanied such extensive trauma.

"She wasn't killed here," he observed. "This is a dumpsite, carefully chosen for maximum visibility."

"The killer wants an audience," Alice agreed. "But there's something else you should see."

She led him to a section of the bridge's stone railing, about fifteen feet from where the body lay. Carved into the weathered surface was a symbol—a complex arrangement of interlocking geometric shapes that formed what appeared to be a stylized eye within a triangle, surrounded by smaller symbols that reminded Ethan of alchemical notations he'd seen in historical texts.

"This wasn't here yesterday," Alice said quietly. "Bridge maintenance does weekly inspections, and their report from Monday morning shows no vandalism in this section."

Ethan studied the symbol, careful not to touch it. The carving was deep and precise, the edges sharp enough to suggest it had been created with tools designed for stonework rather than improvised implements. This wasn't the impulsive graffiti of teenagers or the hasty marking of gang territory—it was deliberate, crafted with patience and skill.

"Have forensics photograph this from every angle," he instructed. "And see if they can determine what kind of tools were used."

As Alice relayed his instructions to the nearest technician, Ethan moved away from the symbol, walking the perimeter of the scene with measured steps. Something about the placement bothered him—not just the body's location on the bridge, but its specific position relative to the structure itself. The victim lay exactly at the midpoint of the span, directly above what would be the central support column beneath the bridge.

He approached the stone railing and looked down at the dark water below. The river was higher than usual due to the recent rains; its surface was choppy and opaque in the uneven light. For a moment, he thought he saw movement beneath the water—a massive shadow passing under the bridge, too large and deliberate to be merely the current's flow. But when he blinked and looked again, there was nothing but the river's natural turbulence.

"Detective?" Alice had returned to his side, her expression questioning.

"Just thinking," he replied, turning away from the railing. "The killer's evolving, getting more confident. The first victim was found in an alley two blocks from here; the second, under the bridge supports on the western bank. Now we're on the bridge itself, right in the open."

"Moving closer to the center each time," Alice noted, following his train of thought. "Like he's spiraling inward toward something."

"Or claiming territory," Ethan murmured, the words emerging before he'd fully processed the thought.

Alice gave him a curious look. "Territory? You think this is some kind of gang-related activity?"

Ethan shook his head. "No gang in Daybridge operates like this. This is something else... something older."

Before he could elaborate, his phone vibrated in his pocket. The caller ID showed Captain Donnovan, and Ethan stepped away from the immediate crime scene to take the call.

"Reeves," he answered, keeping his voice low.

"I need you and Chen back at the station," Donnovan said without preamble, his gravelly voice tight with tension. "There's someone here you need to meet. A specialist from the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit."

Ethan frowned. "We've barely started processing the scene, Captain. I need at least another hour here."

"Not negotiable, Detective. This specialist specifically requested you by name, and the Commissioner's already signed off on the consultation. The crime scene unit can finish up there. I want you both back here in twenty minutes."

The call ended before Ethan could respond, leaving him staring at his phone in confusion. Federal involvement this early in an investigation was unusual, especially with a request for specific detectives. More concerning was the timing—how had the FBI known about this latest victim so quickly? The body had been discovered less than two hours ago.

He rejoined Alice, who was examining the symbol carved into the stone with intense focus. "We've been called back to the station," he informed her. "Apparently, we have a visitor from the FBI who's very interested in our case."

Alice raised an eyebrow. "Federal involvement already? That's unusual."

"More than unusual," Ethan agreed, casting one last look at the victim's body as the medical examiner's team prepared to move it. "Something about this doesn't feel right."

As they walked back toward their vehicles, Ethan found his gaze drawn once more to the bridge's massive structure. In the harsh artificial light of the crime scene, the ancient stonework seemed almost to pulse with a rhythm independent of the emergency vehicles' flashing lights—a subtle vibration that registered more as sensation than visual phenomenon. For a moment, he could have sworn he felt something watching him, an awareness that emanated not from any particular point but from the bridge itself, as if the entire structure was somehow conscious and alert.

He shook his head, dismissing the thought as stress-induced paranoia. Yet as he drove away, following Alice's car toward the station, he couldn't shake the persistent feeling that the bridge—or something within it—had taken notice of him in a way that went beyond mere superstition or urban legend.

* * *

CHAPTERTWO

THE TIES THAT BIND

As the first pallid light of dawn seeped through the low-hanging pall of greasy smoke and fog that shrouded Daybridge in its suffocating miasma, the city itself seemed to exude a sense of dread. The morning commute had begun—factory workers heading to early shifts, overnight hospital staff dragging themselves homeward, and among them, Detective Ethan Reeves, making his way to the Silver Spoon Diner for what had become a ritual debriefing after particularly disturbing cases.

The Silver Spoon occupied the ground floor of a century-old brick building on the border between East and West Daybridge. Its strategic location made it neutral territory where cops, dockworkers, and even the occasional suited executive could coexist over plates of greasy eggs and bottomless coffee. For Ethan, it represented something more essential—a liminal space where he could process the horrors he encountered in his work before returning to the structured environment of the precinct.

Seated in his usual corner booth at the Silver Spoon Diner, the air thick with the mingled aromas of stale coffee and sawdust, Detective Ethan Reeves nursed a chipped ceramic mug of the diner's trademark motor oil masquerading as strong black coffee.

The grisly tableau from the previous night's crime scene remained vivid in his mind—that ravaged female form discarded so callously upon the bridge, her once-lithe limbs splayed in grotesque angles, the bloom of her ruptured flesh laid open with surgical precision that spoke of something beyond conventional violence.

The case disturbed him on a level deeper than professional concern. Something about the positioning of the body, the peculiar pattern of the wounds, and especially that carved symbol on the bridge's stone railing tugged at memories he couldn't quite access—as if some part of his mind recognized significance his conscious thoughts couldn't quite grasp.

The weary creak of vinyl announced his partner's arrival. With a muffled thump, Alice Chen slid into the booth opposite him, her compact form bundled in a worn trench coat that had seen better days. A sheaf of manila folders appeared on the table between them, meticulously organized despite its weathered appearance.

"I stopped by the station before coming here," she explained, unwinding a hand-knitted scarf from around her neck. "Pulled everything we have on similar cases going back twenty years."

Ethan raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"And there's a pattern that nobody connected before." Alice opened the top folder, revealing crime scene photographs from incidents dating back five years. "Three unsolved homicides with similar wound patterns, all discovered within two blocks of the bridge. Each one found during the week of a seasonal equinox or solstice."

This caught Ethan's attention. "Last night was the autumn equinox."

"Exactly." Alice spread out the photographs, arranging them chronologically. "Spring equinox 2020, winter solstice 2022, summer solstice 2024, and now autumn equinox 2025. Four murders, four seasonal turning points."

Ethan studied the images, noting the similarities in the wounds—precision cuts alongside savage tearing, bodies positioned with deliberate care rather than casually discarded. "Why didn't anyone connect these before?"

"Different detectives handled each case, and the cases were classified differently. The first was filed as a probable gang killing, the second as domestic violence, and the third as a mugging gone wrong." Alice's expression hardened. "Classic departmental tunnel vision—everyone forcing the evidence to fit their preferred narrative instead of letting it tell its own story."

Ethan nodded, understanding all too well how institutional biases could blind investigators to connections that seemed obvious in retrospect. "And now we have a fourth victim, with the same signature, found directly on the bridge instead of nearby."

"The killer's getting bolder, more confident." Alice paused as the waitress approached, ordering coffee and toast without looking at the menu. Once they were alone again, she continued, "Or maybe it's not about confidence. Maybe the location is significant—each murder occurring closer to the bridge, culminating in one directly on it."

Ethan felt that strange pressure behind his eyes again, the same sensation he'd experienced at the crime scene. "As if the killer is spiraling inward toward something."

"Or someone." Alice's gaze was steady, her voice dropping to ensure their conversation remained private despite the diner's morning bustle. "Ethan, we need to talk about what happened at the station yesterday after we left the crime scene."

Ethan heard Alice's heart rate increase slightly as she discussed the pattern of seasonal killings—a physiological tell of excitement that only his werewolf hearing could detect. He carefully modulated his own reactions, a practiced habit from years of concealing his supernatural nature. The full moon was still two weeks away, but even in human form, his senses remained sharper than any normal detective's.

The meeting with the FBI "specialist" had been brief but deeply unsettling. Dr. Marcus Blackwood had introduced himself as a behavioral analyst specializing in ritualistic crime, but everything about the man had set Ethan's instincts on high alert. His questions had focused less on the victims and more on the bridge itself, its history, and specifically on Ethan's personal connection to Daybridge.

"Blackwood isn't FBI," Ethan said flatly, keeping his voice low. "His credentials checked out on paper, but I made some calls this morning to contacts at Quantico. Nobody there has heard of him."

Alice nodded, unsurprised. "I thought as much. His knowledge of the case details was too specific, too immediate. He knew things about Jessica Mercer that weren't in any official report."

"And he was particularly interested in my family history," Ethan added, the uncomfortable memory of the man's penetrating stare still fresh. "Kept asking if I had relatives who'd lived in Daybridge, specifically mentioning the early 1900s."

Silence fell between them as a new possibility took shape. "You think he's connected to the murders?" Alice finally asked.

"I think he knows more than he's telling," Ethan replied carefully. "Whether that makes him a suspect or something else entirely remains to be seen."

Alice hesitated, then reached into her bag and produced a small leather-bound notebook. "I did some preliminary research on your family history last night." At Ethan's surprised look, she added, "Blackwood's interest was too specific to ignore. I thought it might help to know what he might be after."

Under normal circumstances, Ethan might have felt this was an invasion of privacy, but the urgency of the case and his implicit trust in Alice overrode such concerns. "What did you find?"

"Your great-grandfather, Michael Reeves, was a police officer in Daybridge in the early 1900s." Alice opened the notebook at a marked page. "He disappeared in the winter of 1915 during a particularly harsh storm. The official report states he was last seen investigating suspicious activity near Daybridge Bridge. His body was never found."

Ethan felt a chill that had nothing to do with the diner's aggressive air conditioning. His family history was something of a void—raised in foster care after his parents' deaths in a car accident when he was eight, he had never known much about his extended family or ancestry.

"There's more," Alice continued, turning the page. "I found an old newspaper clipping about the disappearance. The article mentions that Officer Reeves had been investigating a series of strange occurrences around the bridge in the weeks leading up to his disappearance—reports of unusual sounds, strange lights, and..." she hesitated, "at least one missing person case involving a local butcher named Guthrie Knox."

The name hit Ethan like a physical blow, triggering that strange pressure behind his eyes with such intensity that he had to close them momentarily. Images flashed through his mind—a stone chamber beneath the bridge, symbols carved into walls, a heart pulsing with unnatural light. When he opened his eyes again, Alice was watching him with concern.

"Ethan? Are you alright?"

He nodded, trying to process what had just happened. Those images hadn't felt like imagination—they had the vivid quality of memories, yet they couldn't possibly be his own. "I'm fine. Just... thinking."

Alice studied him for a moment longer, then continued. "The butcher, Knox, vanished in June 1913, a few weeks after the bridge was officially opened. According to reports, he had been acting strangely in the days leading up to his disappearance—talking about a woman who had shown him 'wonders beyond imagining' and promising him 'transformation beyond human limitations.”

"Sounds like he might have been involved with some kind of cult," Ethan observed, trying to focus on the case rather than the lingering disorientation from those strange visions.

"That's what I thought too," Alice agreed. "And here's where it gets interesting—the old legends about the 'Ogre of Daybridge' started appearing in local papers around 1914, a year after Knox's disappearance. The earliest versions specifically mention a 'butcher transformed by dark magic' who now haunts the bridge, preying on those who cross after dark."

Ethan felt the pieces beginning to connect, forming a pattern more disturbing than either of them had initially suspected. "So, we have a missing butcher in 1913, my great-grandfather disappearing while investigating strange occurrences at the bridge in 1915, urban legends about a monster appearing around the same time, and now a series of ritualistic murders occurring at seasonal turning points, each one closer to the bridge."

"All culminating in last night's murder, directly on the bridge itself, with a symbol carved into the stone that even our mysterious FBI 'specialist' seemed to recognize." Alice closed her notebook. "This isn't just a serial killer case, Ethan. There's something deeper happening here, something connected to the history of that bridge and possibly to your own family history."

Before Ethan could respond, his phone vibrated with an incoming text. He checked the screen and frowned. "It's from Captain Donnovan. There's been a development—they found something in Jessica Mercer's apartment during the standard search."

"What kind of something?"

"He doesn't say anything , just that we need to get over there immediately." Ethan signaled for the check. "And apparently our friend Dr. Blackwood is already on the scene."

Alice's expression darkened. "Of course he is."

As they prepared to leave, Ethan felt the strange pressure behind his eyes intensify briefly, accompanied by a fleeting sensation of being watched—not by anyone in the diner, but by something more distant yet paradoxically intimate. He glanced out the window toward the bridge, barely visible through the morning fog, and for a moment could have sworn he saw the stone structure shift, as if breathing with slow, deliberate purpose.

The moment passed, and Ethan shook his head to clear it. He was letting the case get to him, allowing the stress and lack of sleep to feed his imagination. Yet as they exited the diner and headed toward their separate vehicles, he couldn't shake the feeling that something ancient and patient had taken notice of him—something that had been waiting a very, very long time.

Jessica Mercer's apartment was located in a modest complex on the east side of Daybridge, the kind of place where young professionals and small families lived while saving for something better. The three-story building had seen better days, its once-vibrant brick facade now faded and its concrete steps worn smooth from decades of use. A small playground occupied the central courtyard, empty now except for a solitary child's jacket forgotten on a swing, swaying gently in the morning breeze.

Police tape cordoned off the entrance to Building C, where a uniformed officer checked their badges before allowing them inside. The stairwell smelled of industrial cleaner and faintly of cigarette smoke despite the prominent "No Smoking" signs. They climbed to the second floor, the sound of multiple voices guiding them to apartment 2B, where the door stood open.

Inside, the apartment told the story of a life suddenly interrupted. A half-empty coffee mug sat on the kitchen counter beside a stack of mail. Toys were neatly organized in a corner of the living room; a colorful play mat spread beneath them. On the refrigerator, crayon drawings were held in place by alphabet magnets, alongside a calendar marked with work schedules and doctor's appointments.

Captain Donnovan stood in the center of the living room, deep in conversation with Dr. Blackwood. Both men looked up as Ethan and Alice entered.

"Detectives," Donnovan acknowledged with a curt nod. "Glad you could join us. Dr. Blackwood has been providing some valuable insights into our victim's personal life."

The supposed FBI specialist offered a thin smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Detective Reeves, Detective Chen. I was just explaining to the Captain that Ms. Mercer appears to have been involved in something beyond her understanding."

Ethan noted the careful phrasing—not a direct lie, but certainly not the full truth either. "And what led you to that conclusion, Doctor?"

In response, Blackwood gestured toward the hallway leading to the bedroom. "Perhaps it's better if I show you."

They followed him to a small home office adjacent to the master bedroom. The space was dominated by a desk with a laptop computer, surrounded by bookshelves filled with parenting guides, mystery novels, and accounting reference books—nothing unusual for a working single mother. But Blackwood moved directly to a seemingly ordinary framed photograph on the wall, removing it to reveal a small wall safe behind.

"The safe was already open when the officers conducted their search," Donnovan explained, his expression grim. "What they found inside was... concerning."

Blackwood reached into the safe and carefully removed a small leather-bound book, its cover worn with age and use. "A journal," he said, placing it on the desk. "Dating back approximately eight months, detailing Ms. Mercer's growing obsession with Daybridge Bridge and the legends surrounding it."

Ethan frowned. "How do you know the journal's contents if it was just discovered this morning?"

"I've only had time for a cursory examination," Blackwood replied smoothly, "but the entries are quite explicit. Ms. Mercer began experiencing what she described as 'visions' or 'dreams' about the bridge earlier this year. Initially, she dismissed them as stress-induced nightmares, but they became increasingly detailed and consistent."

Alice stepped forward, donning latex gloves before carefully opening the journal. The pages were filled with neat, precise handwriting, occasionally giving way to frantic scribbles or detailed sketches. She flipped through several entries before stopping at a page that contained a drawing that made her inhale sharply.

"The symbol from the bridge," she said, turning the journal so Ethan could see.

The sketch matched exactly the carving they had found on the stone railing—an eye within a triangle, surrounded by smaller symbols. Beneath it, Jessica had written: "I see it every night now. In my dreams, it pulses with a light that isn't light, calling me to the bridge. There's something there, something waiting. It knows my name."

"Keep reading," Blackwood suggested, his tone almost eager. "It gets more interesting."

Alice turned the page, continuing to read aloud: "I met someone today who understands. He says the dreams are real, that the bridge is trying to communicate with me. He says I'm special, chosen somehow. He wants to help me understand why. We're meeting tomorrow night at the Old Harbor Bookshop to discuss what he calls 'the true history of Daybridge Bridge.”

"Is there a name?" Ethan asked, feeling a growing sense of unease.

Alice scanned the page. "No, she just refers to him as 'M.' But there's more here about their meetings, spanning several weeks. He gave her books, historical documents about the bridge's construction, newspaper clippings about disappearances dating back to the early 1900s."

"So, our victim was researching the bridge's history," Donnovan summarized, "and met someone who encouraged this interest. Could be our killer grooming his victim."

Blackwood's expression remained neutral, but Ethan detected a flicker of something—annoyance? impatience?—in his eyes. "That's certainly one possibility, Captain. Though it doesn't explain the dreams Ms. Mercer described in such detail before meeting this mysterious 'M.'

"Let me see that," Ethan said, taking the journal from Alice. He flipped forward through the entries, noting how Jessica's handwriting became increasingly erratic over time, the content shifting from confused curiosity to something approaching reverence. The final entry, dated the day before her death, contained just three lines:

"It's time. M. says the bridge is ready, that it's been waiting for me. I'm afraid, but I need to know the truth. Tonight, I cross the threshold."

A chill ran through Ethan as he read those words. The phrasing was odd—not "cross the bridge" but "cross the threshold," as if Jessica had understood she was moving from one state of existence to another. He looked up to find Blackwood watching him intently.

"Interesting reading, isn't it, Detective?" the man said softly. "Almost as if Mrs. Mercer knew what awaited her on that bridge."

Before Ethan could respond, the commotion from the living room drew their attention. A woman's voice, high with distress, argued with the officer at the door.

"I don't care about your procedure! That's my sister's apartment, and her son is my nephew! I have every right to be here!"

Donnovan moved quickly to the hallway. "Excuse me."

Left momentarily alone with Blackwood, Ethan decided to press for information. "You know more about this case than you're telling us, Doctor. I think it's time you explained exactly who you are and what your interest is in these murders."

Blackwood's smile was cold, calculating. "All in good time, Detective Reeves. I assure you; my only interest is in seeing justice served." He paused, his gaze intensifying. "Though I wonder if you'd recognize justice if it stood before you, given your... unique perspective."

The strange pressure behind Ethan's eyes returned with sudden force, accompanied by a flash of those same impossible images—the chamber beneath the bridge, symbols carved in stone, a heart pulsing with unnatural light. But now they included something new: a face, a woman with raven hair and amber eyes that seemed to pierce through time itself.

"Ethan?" Alice's voice broke through the disorientation. She had returned to the office, concern evident in her expression. "Are you alright?"

He blinked, the images fading. Blackwood was watching him with undisguised interest now, like a scientist observing a particularly fascinating laboratory specimen.

"Just tired," Ethan managed, straightening up. "What's happening out there?"

"Jessica's sister arrived," Alice explained. "She's here to collect some things for Jessica's son—he's been staying with her since..." She left the sentence unfinished. "Captain wants us to talk to her, see if she knows anything about Jessica's interest in the bridge or this mysterious 'M.'"

Ethan nodded, grateful for the excuse to escape Blackwood's scrutiny. "Let's go."

As they left the office, he heard Blackwood murmur something that sounded like, "Blood will tell." When Ethan glanced back, the man was examining the journal again, a satisfied expression on his face, as if something had just been confirmed.

In the living room, a woman in her early thirties sat on the couch, a tissue clutched in one hand. Her resemblance to Jessica was striking—the same heart-shaped face and delicate features, though her hair was several shades lighter and cut in a practical bob. A small boy of about two played quietly on the floor nearby, seemingly oblivious to the tension surrounding him.

"Ms. Mitchell," Donnovan said as they approached, "these are Detectives Reeves and Warren. They're leading the investigation into your sister's death."

The woman looked up, her eyes red-rimmed but clear. "Janice," she corrected. "Please call me Janice. And this is Noah." She gestured to the child, who was carefully stacking colorful blocks into a tower.

"We're very sorry for your loss," Alice said, taking a seat beside her. "We know this is a difficult time, but if you feel up to answering a few questions, it could help us understand what happened to Jessica."

Janice nodded, dabbing at her eyes. "Of course. Anything that helps you find whoever did this to her."

"Did Jessica ever mention having strange dreams about Daybridge Bridge?" Ethan asked, choosing to be direct. "Or show any unusual interest in the bridge's history?"

Janice's expression shifted from grief to confusion. "The bridge? No, not that I recall. Why would she care about an old bridge?"

"We found a journal," Alice explained gently. "In it, Jessica wrote about having dreams or visions connected to the bridge, and meeting someone who encouraged her interest in its history."

"That doesn't sound like Jess at all," Janice said, shaking her head. "She was practical, focused on work and Noah. She didn't have time for... whatever this is."

"The journal entries begin about eight months ago," Ethan continued. "Did you notice any changes in her behavior during that time? New interests, new friends, anything unusual?"

Janice considered the question. "She was more tired than usual, I remember that. She said she wasn't sleeping well, but I assumed it was just stress from work and being a single mom." She paused, a frown creasing her brow. "Now that you mention it, she did start asking questions about our family history around that time. Wanted to know if we had any relatives who'd lived in Daybridge back in the early 1900s."

Ethan felt that now-familiar pressure behind his eyes intensify. "Did she say why she was interested?"

"She said she'd had a dream about a man who looked like our grandfather, but in old-fashioned clothes, standing on the bridge." Janice's expression clouded with worry. "I didn't think much of it then—we'd been going through old family photos after our mother passed last year, so it made sense she might dream about relatives. But she seemed... fixated on it. Kept asking if Grandpa had ever mentioned the bridge, or if there were stories about it in the family."

"And were there?" Alice asked.

Janice shook her head. "Not that I know of. Our grandfather grew up in Pittsburgh, only moved here after World War II. No connection to the bridge that I'm aware of."

Ethan exchanged a glance with Alice, seeing his own concern mirrored in her eyes. Jessica's journal had described dreams beginning months before she supposedly met the mysterious "M"—dreams specific enough to include questions about family connections to the bridge dating back to the early 1900s. The same time period Blackwood had asked about regarding Ethan's own family history.

"Did Jessica ever mention meeting someone who shared her interest in the bridge?" Alice continued. "Someone whose name might start with 'M'?"

Janice thought for a moment. "There was a professor she mentioned a few times—Marcus or Martin, something like that. She said he was researching local history, and they'd had some interesting conversations." Her expression darkened. "I told her to be careful. Single mom meeting strange men... I worried he might be interested in more than just historical discussion."

"Do you know where they met?" Ethan asked.

"Some bookstore downtown, I think. The Old Harbor? Jessica said she'd gone there looking for books about local history for a project she was helping Noah's daycare with, and this professor approached her, said he'd overheard her questions and might be able to help."

The Old Harbor Bookshop—the same place mentioned in Jessica's journal for her meeting with "M." Ethan made a mental note to check the store as soon as possible.

"One last question," he said, keeping his tone casual. "The symbol in this drawing—have you ever seen it before?" He showed her a crime scene photograph of the carving on the bridge, carefully angled to hide the more disturbing elements of the image.

Janice studied it, then shook her head. "No, never. What is it?"

"We're not sure yet," Ethan admitted. "But it may be important to understand what happened to your sister."

As if sensing the conversation's conclusion, Noah suddenly looked up from his blocks, staring directly at Ethan with an intensity unusual in a child so young. For a disorienting moment, Ethan felt as if the boy was seeing something beyond his physical appearance, something hidden beneath the surface.

"Bridge man," Noah said clearly, pointing at Ethan. "Like in Mommy's dreams."

A heavy silence fell over the room. Janice looked at her nephew in confusion, then back at Ethan. "I'm sorry, he's just a baby. He doesn't know what he's saying."

But Ethan wasn't so sure. The pressure behind his eyes had become a persistent throb, and those strange images flickered at the edges of his awareness—the chamber, the symbols, the woman with amber eyes. Now joined by a new image: his own great-grandfather in a police uniform, standing on Daybridge Bridge on a winter night, staring into the water below.

"It's alright," he managed, forcing a reassuring smile. "Kids say the darndest things."

As they prepared to leave, thanking Janice for her time and promising to keep her informed of any developments, Ethan noticed Blackwood watching from the hallway, that same expression of scientific curiosity on his face. The man had clearly overheard Noah's comment, and judging by his satisfied smile, had found it significant.

Outside in the parking lot, away from prying ears, Alice grabbed Ethan's arm. "What the hell was that about? The kid pointed at you and said, 'bridge man.' And don't tell me it was nothing—I saw your face."

Ethan hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. His partnership with Alice was built on trust, but the strange visions he'd been experiencing, the pressure behind his eyes, the inexplicable sense of connection to a bridge he'd crossed hundreds of times without incident until this case—it all sounded like the beginning of a psychological breakdown, not a legitimate investigative lead.

"I don't know," he finally admitted. "But I think Blackwood does. He's been watching me since we met, asking about my family history, seeming almost... expectant. Like he's waiting for me to realize something."

"Realize what?"

Ethan shook his head. "I'm not sure. But it's connected to my great-grandfather's disappearance in 1915, and to these murders, and to that symbol on the bridge." He met her gaze directly. "I think I need to visit the Old Harbor Bookshop, see if I can find this mysterious 'M' who was feeding Jessica information about the bridge."

"We need to visit the bookshop," Alice corrected firmly. "We're partners, remember? Whatever this is, we face it together."

The simple declaration steadied him, a reminder that he wasn't alone in this increasingly bizarre investigation. "Together," he agreed.

As they walked to their cars, Ethan cast one last glance toward Jessica's apartment building. Blackwood stood at the window, watching them leave, his expression unreadable at this distance. But even without seeing the man's face clearly, Ethan could feel his focus, his interest—not in the case, but in Ethan himself.

The pressure behind his eyes pulsed once more, and in that moment, Ethan knew with sudden certainty that he was at the center of something far larger and more dangerous than a serial murder investigation. The bridge, the symbols, his family history, Blackwood's interest—all pieces of a puzzle whose full picture remained frustratingly obscured.

But one thing was becoming increasingly clear: the answers he sought wouldn't be found in police reports or witness statements. They waited beneath Daybridge Bridge, in that chamber he'd glimpsed in visions that felt disturbingly like memories not his own. And sooner or later, he would have to descend into that darkness to face whatever had been waiting for him all along.

As midnight approached, Ethan rubbed his temples, feeling the familiar tension that preceded the lunar cycle's peak. The moon was waxing, not yet full but growing stronger each night, making his skin feel too tight over his bones and his senses occasionally spike to overwhelming levels. He'd need to request time off soon—his usual 'fishing trip' excuse that gave him three days of isolation during the full moon—but with victims appearing at seasonal turning points, he couldn't afford to step away from the case now.

* * *

CHAPTERTHREE

SECRETS IN SHADOW

The harsh banks of fluorescent lighting seemed to leach all warmth from the precinct's utilitarian interrogation room. A battered metal table and set of mismatched chairs created the room's sole points of interest, their scarred surfaces mute testaments to the innumerable procedural inquisitions that had played out within these drab confines over the decades.

Detective Ethan Reeves settled into one of the creaking seats with a weary sigh, allowing the battered case file's damning contents to splay open before him. The photographs from Jessica Mercer's crime scene had been joined by older files—the three previous victims Alice had connected through her research, each one bearing the same distinctive wound patterns, each one found progressively closer to Daybridge Bridge.

He studied the timeline Alice had constructed, noting the precise alignment with seasonal turning points. If the pattern held, they had months before the next killing—the winter solstice in December. But something told Ethan the rules were changing. The killer had escalated from nearby locations to the bridge itself, from relative anonymity to deliberately carved symbols. Whatever game was being played, it was accelerating toward some unknown conclusion.

Glancing up as the room's reinforced door hissed open, Ethan straightened his posture as Michael Mercer was ushered inside by a pair of uniformed officers. Jessica Mercer's boyfriend wasn't officially a suspect—he had a solid alibi for the night of the murder—but as the last person known to have seen her alive, his statement was crucial to establishing a timeline.

Michael shuffled forward with the air of a marionette guided by unseen, fraying strings. His shoulders were slumped in a rictus of infinite despair, eyes swollen and rimmed in anguished crimson as if he'd rent his very soul weeping over some unimaginable horror. Despite his evident distress, Ethan noted the man's physique—muscular and well-maintained, suggesting regular gym visits and possibly martial arts training.

"I'll take it from here, officers," Ethan murmured in a tone of measured neutrality, gesturing for the uniforms to withdraw. As the door closed once more, he turned his full attention toward the emotionally flensed figure slumped across the pitted tabletop's far end. "Mr. Mercer... Michael. I know there are no words sufficient to ease your anguish right now. But we need to discuss what happened the last time you saw Jessica."

The man's head lifted, revealing eyes swollen into purple crevasses beneath a mask of pure, fleshly torment. When he spoke, it was with a raw, phlegm-streaked rasp devoid of anything even approximating human warmth or lucidity.

"You have no conceivable inkling of the abyss yawning before me, Detective," he snarled, trembling hands knotting into bone-pale fists atop the scarred steel surface. "Jessica... oh merciful god, what weapon of the damned could permit such profane... such mutilations?!" The final query fractured on the cusp of a muted shriek, his whole body convulsing with the force of freshly lacerated bereavement.

Ethan opened his mouth to offer what hollow platitudes he could, but the wellspring of agony detonated with renewed vigor, cutting off any condolences before they could form.

"They ravaged her... butchered my perfect angel like some grotesque blood sacrifice!" Michael's haggard voice scaled upwards into a banshee's keening cry of utter desolation that brought actual discomfort to the seasoned detective. "Everything we were, our future, all sluiced away amidst that ever-expanding obscenity of blasphemy smearing the Bridge's stones!"

Fists hammered against the cheap fiberboard desktop in a staccato fusillade of dull, percussive impacts that matched each disjointed shriek torn from Michael's ravaged larynx. Ethan instinctively drew back as flecks of spittle arced through the air between them, eternally honed cop instincts warring with a deeper, more instinctual response to the display of raw emotion.

That strange pressure behind Ethan's eyes returned with sudden force, accompanied by a flash of insight that felt more like memory than deduction: Michael Mercer was lying. Not about his grief—that seemed genuine enough—but about something fundamental. The relationship with Jessica hadn't been what he was portraying. There was deception beneath the performance of devastation.

Just as Ethan felt the emotional helices spooling toward a terminal singularity, Michael's vocalizations petered out as rapidly as they'd ignited. After such soulful abandon, his hulking, muscular frame seemed to almost deflate, vital energies spent and leaving a husk of bruised, despairing self-loathing adrift amidst the calm eye of its own personal cyclone. Tears leaked in silent rivulets down his stubbled, hollowed cheeks, yet his swollen eyes remained as implacably vacant as a profane idol's obsidian visage.