The parking lot looked like an anthill someone had taken a boot to. Patrol cars sat crooked in half-spilled rows, doors hanging open as officers climbed out in mismatched pieces of riot gear. Some wore full hard plates. Some had helmets only half-secured. Some had forgotten their gloves or visors entirely. A few carried shields tucked awkwardly under one arm while they tried to strap their batons to their belts at the same time. Every person in sight had the tight, frantic movements of someone pretending they were prepared while a quiet voice in their mind whispered that nothing they had trained for covered whatever was happening out there.

  The air felt thick enough to chew. Sweat hung in heavy layers, mixing with the sharp, familiar bite of gun oil. That scent always lived somewhere in the background of a police department, but today it overpowered everything. It smelled like a building bracing for an impact no one had seen coming.

  Kira stayed close to my side, moving with a rigid awareness that told me her nerves were pulling at her thoughts. Her fingers brushed mine once as we walked, a fleeting contact that sent a quiet spark down my arm. It grounded me. Reminded me that fear was normal, even when I had already seen far worse than the others out here.

  A few familiar faces moved through the chaos. Officers I had known for years, some since the academy. They gave me quick nods as we passed. Their expressions all carried the same unspoken question. How are you still alive? Their eyes flicked over the grime coating my uniform, the streaks of dried blood on my arms, the smudges of green that had no business being on any normal crime scene. They did not ask what any of it was, likely because they were afraid the answer would be something they could no longer pretend to understand.

  I returned the nods with a quiet acknowledgment of my own. I recognized the mix in their expressions. Relief that I was still breathing. A silent wish that I had some kind of explanation for the hell unfolding around us. And buried beneath all of it, a heavier emotion. A kind of dread that had begun nestling itself into the bones of the city.

  Inside the detachment, the noise shifted from frantic clatter to tense order. The main foyer felt crowded in a different way. Officers gathered in clusters, heads bent together as they discussed rumors, half-truths, and whatever scraps of information they had pieced together. The scent of stale coffee drifted from the break room, unable to mask the metallic hint of adrenaline that saturated the air. Industrial cleaner lingered beneath it all, a reminder of the mundane routine that no longer existed.

  Kira inhaled slowly as we passed a group of officers arguing over whether the things attacking people were animals, rabid strays, or something else they could not bring themselves to say aloud. One of them mentioned the corpse in the garage, the one Chief Dobson had refused to hide. Another leaned in, lowering his voice, and asked if the rumors were true. If the dead thing had scales. If its teeth were long enough to bite through bone.

  The conversation cut off as soon as they spotted me. Their eyes widened. For a moment I felt like a walking warning sign. Evidence of what waited outside.

  No radio crackled. No dispatcher voice filled the air. The silence left behind by those dead systems made everything feel heavier. It was strange how much background noise could trick the mind into believing everything was normal. Without it, the building felt stripped bare. Vulnerable.

  We headed toward the stairwell. The climb to the second floor felt longer than usual. My legs were not tired, not truly. The System kept my muscles firm and ready, kept my breathing steady even though my clothes were sticking to me with dried sweat and blood. But mentally, there was a pressure building behind my eyes. The kind that came from knowing too much too quickly. The kind that came from remembering the look in Jonathan eyes as he pulled the trigger, the way Martha was lying across Michael in an effort to shield him, of the single bullet hole in Michael's forehead.

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  I pushed the memory aside before it could take shape again.

  At the top of the stairs, a young officer stood guarding the briefing room. He was barely older than twenty-one. His uniform was crisp, his posture tense, and his hand hovered near his holster like he was unsure whether he was supposed to draw it or pretend he was not afraid. His name tag read PETERS in shiny letters that looked newly polished.

  He moved between us and the door when he noticed my state. His eyes widened slightly, flicking across the blood and grit coating my clothes. “Chief’s in a meeting,” he said, his voice trembling. “I cannot let anyone inside.”

  Kira glanced at me, knowing I did not have time for protocol. I had already seen the world that waited outside. The Chief needed to know. The brass in that room needed to stop pretending this was something they could manage with riot shields and arrest forms.

  I stepped forward. “Move, Peters.”

  He tried to lift his hand, as if he wanted to stop me, but the fear in his eyes made it clear he had no conviction behind the gesture.

  “I cannot let anyone in,” he repeated, but the words sounded like something he was reciting instead of something he believed.

  I pushed past him and opened the door.

  A sudden silence rolled through the briefing room as every head turned toward me. The room was filled with senior officers, supervisors, and the kind of brass that usually only appeared during city reviews or political events. Their uniforms were spotless. Perfect creases. Polished boots. Each one stood around a long table with maps of the city spread across it.

  Their expressions shifted from annoyance to confusion as they took in my appearance. A few officers wrinkled their noses. It probably had not occurred to them that someone could walk into their meeting covered in blood that did not belong to them.

  In the center of the room, bent over the map, stood Chief Dobson. He was a massive presence, shoulders broad and posture steady. He looked like he belonged on a battlefield instead of a briefing room. His eyes rose slowly, taking in every detail of me.

  Recognition. Concern. Calculation.

  He straightened. “Holy hell, Elias,” he said, his voice full of authority but softened by something real. “You look like you walked through a grinder.”

  Kira stepped in behind me, and the Chief’s eyes moved between us, noting her pale, shaken expression and the flecks of dried blood on her sleeves. His jaw tightened.

  Before the Chief could speak further, another voice cut through the room. Thin, sharp, and full of irritation.

  “Who do you think you are, barging into a command briefing?”

  I kept my gaze on the Chief. I knew the voice already. Captain Howard had a way of speaking that made you feel like someone was scraping a fork against steel. I refused to look at him.

  He stepped closer, planting himself in my field of vision. “You look like something dragged you across concrete,” he said. “Go suit up and get cleaned before you track whatever that is across the carpet.”

  The room murmured with quiet amusement.

  I still did not look at him.

  My attention stayed fixed on the Chief. “Monsters,” I said. My voice was calm, almost quiet, but the word carried the weight of everything we had seen.

  Howard barked a laugh and turned theatrically toward the table. “You hear that, Chief? Stormson here thinks the rioters have turned into monsters.”

  Rioters. The image of the creature that had torn its way out of the autobody shop flashed through my mind. I pictured one of the looters from earlier lifting his stolen television like a shield and bracing against the thing that had nearly gutted me. The comparison was absurd to the point of insult.

  A few of the brass chuckled, eager to side with Howard. They did not know any better. They did not have the context. They had not seen the things that prowled in the shadows and sunlight alike.

  Howard waited, expecting the Chief to commend him for speaking up.

  Chief Dobson’s face did not shift. Not even slightly. He stared at Howard with a stillness that cut through the fake bravado coating the room. He did not need to raise his voice for the temperature to drop.

  He stepped forward, placing both hands on the edge of the table. “Everyone out,” he said.

  The tone in his voice left no room for argument. It was not loud, but the authority behind it settled like iron in the air.

  For a moment no one moved. Then the realization hit them. Chairs scraped back. Papers shuffled. People moved toward the door with stiff, uneasy motions.

  Howard remained where he stood, his eyes wide at first, then narrowing as he tried to gather his dignity. “Sir, we need to continue planning our response to the disturbances in the downtown core. This briefing is critical.”

  Chief Dobson looked up at him slowly. “Out, Howard.”

  A flush crept up Howard’s neck as he stepped backward. His gaze swung toward me with a silent promise that he would remember this. Then he walked past us, following the others out of the room. The door shut behind them, leaving a quiet that felt like a held breath.

  Chief Dobson folded his arms across his chest and studied us with the intense focus of someone preparing to hear the kind of truth that could not be unspoken.

  “Explain,” he said.