The Watering Hole, a dive bar known for its cheap drinks and rough clientele, sits on the outskirts of Hellen. A neon sign flickers above the entrance, casting an unsteady, sickly green light onto the gravel parking lot. Country music spills out from within, a familiar soundtrack to the anxieties that simmer beneath the surface of this small town. Declan pushes through the heavy wooden door, the music momentarily swallowed by the sound of the old hinges protesting. Inside, the air hangs thick with cigarette smoke and the sour scent of spilled beer. The dim lighting obscures the faces of the patrons, casting them in a perpetual twilight, their features blurred and indistinct.

Declan scans the room, his gaze settling on a figure hunched over a drink at the back. James Maddison, a Hellen police officer and one of the few openly preternatural citizens in town, sits alone, nursing a glass of amber liquid. His muscular frame is barely contained by a plain black t-shirt, the scars from his encounter with a rogue lycanthrope peeking out from beneath the short sleeves. Even in this dimly lit space, the hard lines of his face, the intensity of his gaze, are apparent. He’s a man who carries the weight of prejudice and suspicion on his shoulders, his very existence a challenge to the ingrained beliefs of this rural community.

Declan navigates the maze of tables, his footsteps muffled by the worn carpet, and slides into the booth across from Maddison. The vinyl creaks in protest, a sound that echoes the unease that settles in Declan’s stomach. The silence between them stretches, punctuated only by the clinking of ice as Maddison takes a long swallow of his drink.

"You said you had something," Declan begins, his voice barely a whisper, a testament to the fear and mistrust that pervades their conversation. He knows that in this town, walls have ears, and speaking openly about the preternatural community, especially in relation to the Kings Horn, is a dangerous game.

Maddison sets his glass down, the amber liquid swirling within its confines. "I did some digging. About Wann." His voice is low, gravelly, each word weighted with a significance that hangs heavy in the stagnant air.

“What did you find?” Declan leans forward, his heart pounding in his chest, a drumbeat against the silence of their booth.

Maddison takes another drink, the ice clinking against the glass like a warning. “It’s worse than we thought. Wann wasn’t just fired. He was set up. Framed.” His words fall into the space between them, detonating like a carefully placed explosive.

Declan's mind races. The Kings Horn, a shadowy organization known for its violent acts against preternatural citizens, has been operating with impunity, its members emboldened by the prejudice that permeates their society. To think that they could reach into the upper echelons of law enforcement, manipulating the system to silence those who dare to investigate them, is a chilling thought.

“Framed?” Declan echoes, his brow furrowed in disbelief. “By who? Why?”

Maddison’s jaw tightens, his gaze hardening as he surveys the bar once more, ensuring their conversation remains private. “Someone high up. Someone who wants to keep the Kings Horn's activities under wraps.”

The weight of Maddison’s words settles heavily upon Declan. The Kings Horn thrives in the shadows, fueled by fear and ignorance. They exploit the deep-seated prejudice against the preternatural community, using it as a shield to deflect scrutiny and justify their violence. This revelation suggests a rot that runs deep, a complicity that extends beyond the fanatics who carry out the attacks.

"What makes you think he was framed?" Declan presses, needing confirmation, needing something solid to grasp in this swirling vortex of suspicion.

"Evidence," Maddison replies, his tone clipped, a stark contrast to the languid atmosphere of the bar. “Evidence that was planted. Witnesses who were coerced.”

"What kind of evidence?" Declan asks, his voice barely audible above the murmur of the bar.

Maddison hesitates, glancing around the bar once more, his movements betraying his unease. The fear is palpable, a tangible thing that hangs in the air between them. “I can’t tell you everything here. It’s not safe.” He leans closer, his breath warm against Declan’s ear, his words carrying the weight of a shared secret. “Meet me tomorrow. Same time, same place. I’ll bring what I have.”

Declan nods, his mind reeling, trying to process the implications of Maddison’s revelations. He’s stepping into a dangerous world, a world where prejudice has teeth and the shadows hold secrets that some would kill to protect.

"What about the creature?" Declan asks, his voice a mere tremor in the heavy air, remembering the harrowing encounter at the veterans hospital, the feeling of being hunted, the primal fear that had seized him in the darkness. "The one at the hospital. Do you know anything about that?"

Maddison’s eyes narrow, a flicker of recognition passing over his face, followed by a hardening of his expression. "Hospital? What hospital?"

Declan recounts his visit to the veterans hospital, describing the abandoned wing, the decaying rooms, the oppressive atmosphere that clung to the building like a shroud. He details the creature he encountered in the mortuary, the pale, emaciated form, the glint of malice in its eyes, the entrails clutched in its hand, a gruesome trophy. As he speaks, he notices a change in Maddison. The lycanthrope officer's body stiffens, his gaze becoming distant, as if he's wrestling with memories he'd rather leave buried.

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"There's something you're not telling me," Maddison says, his voice low and dangerous, a growl rumbling beneath his words. "Something about that hospital."

A chill runs down Declan's spine, but he holds Maddison's gaze, his fear momentarily eclipsed by a burgeoning determination. "What are you talking about?"

Maddison takes a deep breath, his eyes boring into Declan's, his words measured, each one carrying the weight of years of unspoken truths. "That hospital… it has a history. A dark history." He pauses, his jaw clenching, his expression a mask of conflicting emotions. "A history that the Kings Horn would be very interested in."

The silence descends once more, heavier now, pregnant with unspoken truths and lurking dangers. Declan finishes his drink, the ice clinking against the glass, a hollow sound that echoes the emptiness in his stomach. He knows he’s only scratched the surface of something terrible, something that threatens to consume him, to drag him into a world where fear and prejudice reign supreme.

Maddison leans back in the booth, the dim light casting harsh shadows across his face, his expression unreadable. He takes another sip of his drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass, the sound a stark counterpoint to the tension that thickens the air between them. "That hospital," he finally says, his voice low and gravelly, "it used to be a… holding facility."

"A holding facility?" Declan echoes, his brow furrowing, the phrase sending a shiver down his spine. "What do you mean?"

Maddison sighs, running a hand through his short, dark hair. "Before The Inclusive Citizens Act," he explains, referring to the landmark legislation that had granted legal recognition and protection to preternatural citizens, "things were… different." He pauses, his gaze drifting to the other patrons in the bar, as if making sure they weren't being overheard. "The government, they didn't exactly acknowledge our existence. Not publicly, anyway."

"But they knew," Declan says, the realization dawning on him. "They knew about preternatural citizens."

Maddison nods, his eyes hardening. "They knew. And they were afraid." He takes another swig of his drink, the amber liquid disappearing down his throat. "They rounded us up. Those they could find, anyway. The ones who couldn't blend in, the ones who were… different." His voice drops to a whisper. "They took them to places like that hospital. Locked them away. Experimented on them."

Declan stares at Maddison, the words hitting him like a physical blow. The image of the creature he had seen in the mortuary flashes through his mind, the pale, emaciated form, the feral hunger in its eyes. Was it one of them? A victim of the government's fear and prejudice?

"What kind of experiments?" Declan asks, his voice barely a whisper, the question forming a knot in his throat.

Maddison hesitates, his jaw clenching, as if the memories are painful to recall. "I don't know the details," he finally says. "Most of that information is still classified. But there were rumors. Stories about attempts to weaponize our abilities, to control us." He shakes his head. "It was a dark time. A time we'd all rather forget."

"But the Kings Horn," Declan says, the pieces starting to fall into place. "They wouldn't forget. They'd see it as… justification."

Maddison nods grimly. "They'd use it to fuel their hatred. To recruit more followers. To justify their violence." He looks at Declan, his gaze intense. "That's why they're interested in that hospital. It's a reminder of what we were, of what they believe we still are. Monsters."

"But why target Wann?" Declan asks. "What does framing him accomplish?"

"He was getting too close," Maddison replies. "He was starting to uncover the truth about the Kings Horn. About their connections, their funding." He leans closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "They couldn't let that happen. They had to silence him."

Declan sits back, digesting the information. The Kings Horn was more than just a group of fanatics. They were organized, powerful, and ruthless. And they were willing to do whatever it took to protect their secrets.

"So what do we do?" Declan asks, feeling a sense of urgency building within him. He had stumbled onto something bigger than he had ever imagined. Something that could have far-reaching consequences.

Maddison looks at him, a glint of steel in his eyes. "We fight back," he says, his voice firm, resolute. "We expose them. We bring them down." He pauses, a flicker of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "And we make damn sure they never forget what they did to us."

A heavy silence settled over the booth, punctuated only by the clinking of glasses and the murmur of other conversations. Declan stared at Maddison, the weight of the revelation pressing down on him. The government, experimenting on preternatural citizens, locking them away in secret facilities. It was a horrifying thought, and it explained so much about the fear and distrust that still lingered in the community.

"But why?" Declan finally asked, his voice hoarse. "Why would they do that?"

Maddison took another sip of his drink, his gaze distant. "Fear," he said simply. "They didn't understand us. They saw us as a threat." He shrugged, a gesture that spoke volumes about the ingrained prejudice that still existed. "It's always easier to demonize what you don't understand."

"But The Inclusive Citizens Act," Declan began, then stopped. The Act, while a significant step forward, hadn't erased centuries of fear and discrimination. It had brought preternatural citizens out of the shadows, but it hadn't changed the hearts and minds of everyone.

"The Act changed the laws," Maddison said, his voice low. "But it didn't change people's beliefs. There are still those who see us as abominations, as something to be feared and controlled." His eyes narrowed. "The Kings Horn, they feed on that fear. They exploit it for their own twisted purposes."

"And Wann," Declan said, the pieces clicking into place. "He was trying to expose them. To stop them."

Maddison nodded. "He was a threat to them. He knew too much." He looked at Declan, his gaze intense. "And now you're a threat too."

Declan felt a chill run down his spine. He had been so focused on the story, on uncovering the truth, that he hadn't considered the danger he was putting himself in. He was playing with fire, and he knew it.

"What do I do?" Declan asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Maddison leaned closer, his voice low and urgent. "Be careful," he said. "Trust no one. And keep digging. The truth is out there, Declan. You just have to find it."