Detective Mitsuki's cursor hovered over the 'export' button. Fifteen hours of surveillance footage, compressed into a three-minute highlight reel of dead ends. She'd started marking timestamps with band names instead of numbers. The 6AM segment was now labeled "Grateful Dead," which felt appropriate.
Sullivan cleared his throat from her doorway. His tie had a coffee stain shaped like Florida, and he kept touching it like he thought no one would notice.
"Got a minute?"
"Not really." Her fingers drummed against her mouse pad. "Still reviewing the St. Michael's incident. And would you believe it—Lance Lawthorn was there. Again."
"The captain wants you at Memorial Heights."
Mitsuki worked her tongue into her cheek. "I've got three active cases, plus whatever happened at the cathedral. Why—"
"Girl came in yesterday. Captain thinks it might connect to Erik's cases."
Her hand stilled on the mouse. "The missing girls?"
"Yeah."
Mitsuki's shoulders slumped as she glanced at the case files spread across her desk. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, evidence of too many late nights. "How long has she been there?"
"Brought in around midnight. Doctor says she's stable enough to talk now."
"And Erik can't handle this because...?"
"Stress leave, remember? Look, I know you're swamped, but captain specifically asked for you on this one."
A sigh escaped her as she reached for her jacket. The fabric felt heavier than usual as she shrugged it on. "Text me the room number. I'll head over now."
"Already did."
Mitsuki gathered her notepad and pen, movements slow, but precise despite her exhaustion. "Sullivan?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time lead with 'missing girls case' instead of 'got a minute.'"
She stepped out of the precinct and immediately threw up her hand to shield her eyes. The December sun blazed with unexpected intensity, flooding the parking lot with a brightness that felt like a personal attack on her sleep-deprived brain. She squinted at the cloudless sky, grumbled “Someone needs to remind the weather it's supposed to be winter,” and fumbled for her sunglasses in her jacket pocket. She fished through an old receipt, a paper clip, and finally found the hard plastic frame.
Priorities, she reminded herself. The Lawthorn case could wait. A living, breathing victim took precedence over her obsession with connecting the dots.
Delivery trucks dotted the main thoroughfare, surprisingly numerous for midday. Mitsuki opted for the side streets, her fingers tapping an impatient rhythm on the steering wheel. The car's AC sputtered weakly, barely cutting through the humidity. A grocery store's parking lot sat half-empty as she passed, a reminder of how things had changed.
The cathedral footage kept playing behind her eyes. Lance had been easy to spot, standing dead center in the nave like he owned the place. But that other one, the younger man—she couldn't deny what she'd seen: his arms had stretched, actually stretched, like rubber bands snapping forward. A year ago, she would've blamed it on tampered footage. Now she just added it to her growing list of things that shouldn't be possible but were.
She flipped on the radio, hoping for a distraction. Instead, she got another reminder of the world's descent into chaos.
"...and in other news, scientists are still baffled by the sudden appearance of individuals with superhuman abilities. Experts warn..."
‘Click’
Silence.
Memorial Heights General Hospital was past the next light.
She pulled into its parking lot, circling twice before finding a spot.
Halfway through the lobby, she realized she'd forgotten to lock her car. She stopped, then kept walking—her gun was in her shoulder holster anyway, and she wasn't planning to be here long.
The receptionist didn't look up from her computer when Mitsuki approached the desk. "I'm Detective Yamada. Here about the Jane Doe from last night."
"Of course, Detective. Room 218." She typed something quickly. "Just need you to sign in here," she said, sliding a visitor badge across the counter.
Mitsuki spotted the coffee machine next to the gift shop and veered toward it. She brought her phone up to the scanner, waited for the beep, then jabbed at the touchscreen:
ESPRESSO > DOUBLE SHOT > QUANTITY: 2.
The display blinked cheerfully:
"YOUR BARISTA BOT IS BREWING!"
She watched both cups fill, thinking about how she'd been awake since yesterday afternoon because Captain Longley had been ready to shelve the arma user investigation. But then another body had landed on their desk and now they were up to fifteen victims plus the priest from the cathedral which made sixteen except he hadn't burned like the others while the security tapes kept showing impossible things until her eyes felt like they were full of sand. And now here she was getting hospital coffee since there was a Jane Doe who might have answers for a different case.
She downed the first cup in three gulps, barely tasting it, then crushed the paper cup and tossed it in a nearby bin. The second one she'd save for later.
Keeping the coffee from spilling while pinning her leather notebook between arm and ribs, Mitsuki climbed to the second floor, her purse bumping against the case file until photos of missing girls started sliding free.
218 was halfway down the hallway, past a cleaning cart and an empty wheelchair. Mitsuki knocked, getting coffee on her knuckles as she tried to keep more photos from slipping out.
Erik's missing persons cases - she'd only skimmed through them ten minutes ago, sitting in her car in the hospital parking lot. Nine women in two weeks, most of them regulars at the downtown shelters and soup kitchens. The outreach workers had been the first to notice the pattern: familiar faces vanishing from their usual spots. Then three college students disappeared, and suddenly the captain was talking about task forces and joint operations. But they had nothing solid - no bodies, no witnesses, just a growing stack of photos and descriptions. And now a Jane Doe shows up, alive, matching… well, maybe matching one of those descriptions.
Since there was no answer after her standard twelve-second wait, she opened the door to 218.
The room was dim, curtains drawn to block the cheerful day outside. A small figure huddled beneath starched white sheets, looking impossibly fragile.
"Hello," she said, keeping her voice gentle. "I'm Detective Mitsuki Yamada. Is it alright if I ask you a few questions?"
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The girl turned her head slowly. Dark eyes met Mitsuki's. Group therapy. Back corner. Never speaking. “Wren?” The name came out as a question.
“Wren Adler?” She lowered her coffee cup to the bedside table. "I'm not sure if you remember me from—"
Detective.
Mitsuki jerked back, turning toward the door.
"Hello?" The hallway was empty. Had the nurse followed her in?
I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. The thought wasn’t Mitsuki’s. The voice had come from... inside her head? She grabbed the edge of the bed to steady herself.
"Did you just—"
Yes. I'm sorry. Speaking is... hard these days.
Mitsuki counted her breaths, palm pressed flat against the bedrail. Twenty-one days of impossible things, and now this… "Okay. Okay. This is... new. But we can work with this."
Wren's eyes darted to the window, then back. He makes the noise stop. All the voices. But then there's only his voice left.
"Who makes the noise stop, Wren?"
The Manager.
The Manager? Mitsuki echoed. The girl's digits twisted in the sheets. Her breathing quickened. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Mitsuki needed to change the subject. "Take your time."
Mother helped me get away. From the dream. But he'll find me again.
Mitsuki pulled the visitor's chair closer, moving slowly. "Can you tell me about the dream?"
Wren's whole body went rigid. The water glass on her bedside table rattled.
"We don't have to talk about that right now."
You don't understand. He's collecting us. The ones who can hear. The ones who can... do things.
The missing persons file suddenly felt very heavy in Mitsuki's lap. "These other girls... they're like you, aren't they?"
Yes.
"Where are they being kept, Wren?"
Wren pulled her knees to her chest. I can't go back there.
"You won't have to. I promise. But they might need help, like you did."
I want to help them.
"Can you tell me where to find them?"
Wren's fingers twisted in the sheets. I can show you.
Streets flooded Mitsuki's brain—concrete and glass rising up from nothing. Numbers and signs blurred past faster than she could process. More images came rushing: door numbers, exit signs, pipe markings, each lasting just long enough to burn itself into her memory before the next one took its place.
Her skull pounded with each new image: a towering building, service entrances, stairwells leading down, underground passages stretching beneath it, corridors branching like veins under the city. Her head felt like it would split open.
"Stop!"
The images vanished. Mitsuki blinked, realizing she'd risen halfway out of her chair.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I forget that it's... different for people who aren't used to it.
"It's okay." Mitsuki's voice came out hoarse. "I know where that is. We'll find them."
Please help Mother.
Mother? Mitsuki thought.
Yes. Please save her.
Questions would have to wait. Right now, she needed to move before the mental map dissolved completely.
Her shoes squeaked against the hospital linoleum. A nurse pushing an empty wheelchair sidled along the wall to let her pass. Her phone was already in her hand as she pushed through the exit doors.
"Pick up, pick up." Captain Longley's phone went straight to voicemail.
She tried Sullivan next while starting her car. Same result. Her knee bounced on the pedal as she waited for a family to cross the parking lot.
The borrowed images were already starting to fade like a dream. Street names slipped away with each passing minute. She needed to move. Now.
"This is Detective Mitsuki. Get a message to Captain Longley. Possible location of missing girls. Sending coordinates." She rattled off cross streets to the station receptionist while merging into traffic, cutting off a silver hatchback.
Red light. Another red light. Wren's directions blurred more with each delay. She took three wrong turns before the right street names clicked.
Ten minutes felt like hours. The building's glass facade caught the winter sun, twelve stories of reflecting windows. She left her car between two delivery trucks in the back alley, keeping it in ready mode for a quick exit. Her feet remembered the route before her mind did. Past the maintenance vehicles, down the service stairwell marked "Authorized Personnel Only."
The service door wasn't locked. That detail nagged at her. Protocol said wait for backup, but Wren's directions weren't like normal memories—a dream becoming harder to remember with each second.
Mitsuki drew her gun, holding her phone's flashlight in her other hand. The beam caught pipes running along concrete walls, their shadows dancing as she moved. Water dripped somewhere ahead. The tunnel split three ways.
She checked each corner with her flashlight—doors, ceiling, floor drains—marking ways out if she needed them.
Left it was. Something in her gut—or maybe an echo of Wren's vision—told her that was the way.
Her breath echoed off the damp walls as she crept forward. Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the steady drip of water from somewhere ahead.
Left. Right. Another left. The tunnels twisted like a labyrinth, each turn indistinguishable from the last. Doubt gnawed at her. Had she made a wrong choice?
She tried Sullivan one more time. One bar of service. No answer—
A faint sound stopped her in her tracks.
Whimpering.
She killed her flashlight, plunging the tunnel into darkness. Her eyes strained against the inky black as she listened. There it was again. Barely audible, but unmistakably human.
Mitsuki inched forward, one hand on the wall to steady herself. The rough concrete scraped her palm raw as she felt her way along. The whimpering grew louder, punctuated by hushed whispers.
She whipped around the corner and jerked to a halt.
A sliver of light spilled from beneath a rusted metal door. Mitsuki's fingers tightened around her gun as she approached. The whispers ceased.
Silence.
She took a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever lay beyond. With her free hand, she grasped the handle and pulled.
The hinges groaned in protest.
Light flooded the tunnel, momentarily blinding her. As her vision adjusted, three figures came into focus. Huddled in the far corner of a small, bare room, they stared at her with wide, terrified eyes.
Her police training couldn't stop her hands from shaking. She recognized them instantly from the case files. Lydia Falk. Imogen Rook. Nia Langston.
She scanned the room first—all corners, all doors—before lowering her weapon.
"Police," she said softly, holstering her gun. "More officers are coming. Stay quiet and do exactly what I tell you when they get here."
The girls didn't move. Their gaunt faces and hollow cheeks spoke of days without proper food. Dirty, torn clothes hung loosely on their emaciated frames.
Mitsuki's mental grid expanded square by square as she catalogued the scene. No beds. No bathroom. Just cold concrete and a single, flickering bulb dangling from the ceiling.
Monsters. She'd seen murder scenes gentler than this.
She pushed the anger down, focusing on police procedure. "I'm Detective Yamada. We've been looking for you."
Nia, the youngest at barely seventeen, spoke first. "Is... is he gone?" Each word came out small and careful, like Nia was testing if it was safe to speak.
"Who?" Mitsuki asked, kneeling to appear less threatening.
"The one who burns people," Lydia answered, her words laced with fear. "The Manager won’t want you here."
The Manager again. Mitsuki had reviewed every recent case file. Not once had that title appeared in any of the reports.
Imogen sat against the wall, hands restlessly traveling from her knees to her arms to her face and back again.
There, on the far wall. The same symbols she'd stared at for weeks in the Oakwood maintenance room photos. Arrows pointing north, crosses inside circles, those strange rippling lines. Her pulse quickened. The one who burns people. Could this be her arsonist? Fifteen victims in three weeks, all burned beyond recognition. And now these girls, these symbols...
"He's not here," Mitsuki assured them. "You're safe now. We're going to get you to safety."
She reached for her radio, only to find dead air. The concrete walls must be blocking the signal. She'd have to get them to the surface before calling for backup.
She checked her phone again. [8:19 AM]. A text lit up her screen.
Sullivan: At gym scene. Total chaos here. Will send backup when cleared. Watch yourself.
"Can you walk?" she asked.
Nia and Lydia nodded hesitantly. Imogen remained motionless, her eyes now fixed on a point beyond Mitsuki's shoulder. “We belong here. We belong here. We can’t leave.”
It suddenly got cold and Mitsuki's hand moved to her gun before she consciously registered the threat.
Footsteps.