The quiet streets of Lagooncrest is even more suffocating now. The kind of silence that didn't feel restful but rather ominous—like the air itself held its breath, waiting for something to go wrong.
Brendon stood outside Zoe's house, the warm glow from the window now behind him. The cool wind brushed past his trench coat, and he fished out another cigarette with shaking fingers. His lighter clicked, flame dancing against the paper end until the tip glowed red.
He took a long drag.
No more pretending.
No more passive probing.
No more waiting for things to happen.
If he had to get his hands dirty, so be it.
Time is running out.
As the smoke coiled around him, Brendon leaned back against a street lamp and closed his eyes, letting his thoughts roll in like waves, each one colliding into the other.
Everything he had learned—it was scattered, but somewhere in the fragments, there was a pattern.
The cult. There were whispered tales, odd gatherings reported near the western cliffs. Symbols etched in forgotten graveyards and old ruins in the forest, matching those seen in that god-forsaken Sovenieur Villa.
The folklore. Every town had myths, but Lagooncrest's are soaked in eeriness. Children taken by the "a witch"—never seen again. Disappearances that mirrored the old tales too well to be coincidence.
The missing teenagers. All around the same age, all vanished in the last five years. No proper documentation. No alerts. No progress.
Sovenieur Villa's tiles. Brendon had noticed it before—odd symmetrical markings embedded in the mosaic, a language not just ornamental but ceremonial. Like a ward… or a gate.
He took another drag and muttered, "There's something beneath this island. Something no one wants to talk about."
Then his phone rang.
The screen lit up: Liam Brackett.
Brendon answered immediately. "About time."
The voice on the other end sounded breathless. "Brendon—I'm so sorry, man. I've been away at the outpost station. No signal for hours. Heard from some colleagues Zoe was here looking for me. And then you got kicked out of the station?"
Brendon exhaled smoke from his nose. "Yeah, Vinn doesn't like being called out. He's protecting something—maybe out of fear, maybe complicity. I don't know."
"I figured. That's why I'm calling. I'm back now. And… I'm in. Whatever this is."
There was a pause.
Brendon straightened up, walking away from the lamppost. "Then I've got something for you. How do you feel about the Duckinghum Caves?"
Liam's tone immediately tensed. "Brendon… you sure? That place gives locals nightmares. Especially at night. Rumors say people go missing there too."
"I don't care what the locals say," Brendon replied firmly. "It's the only lead we haven't followed through. Something's underground. I can feel it. Maybe a passage… maybe a hideout. Either way, we've got three days left before I have to leave. And I'm done playing games."
There was another long pause.
Then Liam's voice, quieter: "Alright. I'll meet you at the Sovenieur Villa parking lot in ten."
"Bring a flashlight," Brendon said. "And a weapon."
---
Back in Ridgecliff – Law Enforcement HQ
The fluorescent bulbs overhead flickered with stress, casting uneven bands of light across the bustling interior of Ridgecliff Police Headquarters. It was as if the very building was on edge, the hum of tension vibrating in the walls.
Desks were cluttered with half-eaten meals, scattered reports, and open files. Phones screamed off the hook. Officers, detectives, analysts—all moved like panicked animals caught in a flood. Even the seasoned ones, usually composed in the face of chaos, now looked rattled.
In the middle of it all stood Chief Tyson
SLAM!
His hand crashed down on his desk, rattling the pens and knocking over a mug of cold, stale coffee that spilled like blood over a stack of unfinished reports.
"I want every unit looking!" he roared, his voice cutting through the noise like a whipcrack. The room fell momentarily still, startled eyes turning toward him. "I want dogs in the air and drones underground, if that's what it takes! That woman is still out there, and if we don't find her soon, we'll be answering to the Parliament, the Interpol, and hell—maybe even France!"
He didn't yell the last word as much as he spit it, the weight of the political mess bearing down on him.
A junior officer tripped over a power cord in his rush to hand over a tablet, nearly colliding with a glass door. Another stumbled back from a desk, fumbling a headset onto his ears.
"Sir," one of the lieutenants stammered, "we've set up checkpoints along the highway and the north rail—no sightings yet. But she couldn't have gone far."
Chief Tyson gave him a glare that could peel paint. "You're assuming she wants to leave. Maybe she's still here. Watching us scramble like IDIOTS."
An uneasy silence swept the room.
From the corner, a surveillance analyst muttered, "It's like she vanished into thin air. We've got gaps in the feed—only a few seconds, but—"
"Then patch those gaps!" Tyson thundered. "Don't give me excuses. I. WANT. RESULTS."
Somewhere in the back, a printer jammed, beeping endlessly. An officer smacked it with the side of his fist. Across the floor, a group of forensic analysts tried to decipher partial footprints found outside the safehouse, but none of them matched any known suspect in their registry.
The walls of the situation room were plastered with digital boards and photos of Lord Alaric Trenshaw, along with CCTV stills from the hours before and after the abduction. A map of Ridgecliff glowed with marked zones, yet no location yielded anything useful.
"Is this woman even in our system?" another officer asked aloud. "We don't have prints, facial ID, or a real name."
"She's a ghost," someone muttered.
"She's a professional," another corrected grimly.
Tyson rubbed his forehead with his palm, the weight of the moment pressing harder than ever. "We're not dealing with some street thug. This is precision. A planned operation with escape routes, disguises, and god knows what kind of backup. Someone helped her."
He turned to the ops commander. "I want her profile sent to every outpost, checkpoint, and border gate in the country. Lock Ridgecliff down if you have to."
The ops commander hesitated. "Sir, you know that'll trigger alerts—"
"I DON'T CARE!"
The outburst made even the hardened officers flinch.
Tyson's voice dropped an octave, seething. "I won't be the police chief who lost an envoy on my turf. Not under my watch."
Just then, the glass door swung open, and in walked Scott Wright, forensic lead of the district—a tall, reptilian anthro with dark scales and amber eyes, cool as ever even in the middle of a storm. He carried a sleek black tablet in one hand and a silver USB drive in the other.
"Chief," Scott said, calm but firm.
Tyson looked up, exasperated. "Wright, you better have something good."
Scott nodded once. "We've got medical clearance from our end. Trenshaw wasn't drugged beyond a minor sedative. No surgical implants. No signs of trauma or interrogation. The woman knew exactly how long she needed him down and nothing more."
Tyson frowned. "She left him alive on purpose?"
"That's what it looks like."
There was a pause.
Scott added quietly, "She wasn't trying to kill him. She was searching for something. Or someone."
Tyson scowled deeper, connecting dots he didn't want to believe. "And what was she asking?"
Scott shrugged. "That's classified. Lord Trenshaw won't talk."
Tyson turned away, hands on his hips. "Damn it all…"
As if on cue, the doors opened again.
Lord Alaric Trenshaw entered, still dressed in fresh formal wear, his posture regal but eyes cold. The gag marks on his cheeks had faded, but the bruises from the zip-tie cuffs on his wrists remained faintly visible.
He stormed straight toward the Chief.
"You incompetent, useless, ill-prepared mutt!" he spat. "What kind of security do you run here? An envoy—an envoy of the Parliament—gets kidnapped in your territory, and you stand there shouting like a fishmonger?"
"Lord Trenshaw—" Tyson tried, but the man cut him off.
"No excuses! I want the full report of everything that's happened. I'm returning to London tonight, and the Prime Minister will hear of this. Mark my words."
Trenshaw turned, coat swaying, and stormed out of the station.
Scott didn't say a word.
Chief Tyson clenched his fists and muttered, "I'll find her… even if it's the last thing I do."
---
Back in Lagooncrest – Night's Edge
The parking lot of the Sovenieur Villa was quiet, just one flickering lamp over the archway entrance. The building behind it loomed like a sleeping beast, empty and eerie.
Brendon leaned against a column, his flashlight and dagger at the ready. His cigarette burned low as he waited.
Then footsteps.
Liam emerged from the other end of the lot—tall, slightly wiry, with a scarf around his neck and a military flashlight in one hand. A small crossbow was strapped to his back.
"You're actually here," Brendon said, flicking away the last bit of ash.
"You're surprisingly persuasive," Liam replied. "And stubborn."
"I try."
Liam adjusted his scarf. "So… we heading there now?"
Brendon nodded. "Yeah. Before we lose our nerve."
They crossed through the villa ruins. The once-grand hallways now echoed with broken tiles and mossy corridors. And that symbol, the strange one embedded in the mosaic tiles—Brendon stopped to glance at it one more time.
It pulsed faintly, like it was humming with history.
Liam noticed. "Still gives me the creeps."
"It should."
They passed through a half-open gate at the villa's rear and followed an overgrown path toward the forested cliffs. As the trees thickened, the moonlight faded, leaving only their flashlights to carve through the dark.
Finally, they reached the mouth of Duckinghum Caves.
A jagged opening like a mouth ready to swallow them whole.
Wind howled softly from within. It smelled of salt, mold, and something older. Something rotten.
Liam tightened his grip on the flashlight.
"You sure you're ready for this?" Brendon asked, stepping forward.
Liam forced a grin. "Not in the slightest."
And together, they descended into the dark.