Chapter 34
Roscoe sprawled across his worn-out couch, the soft leather creaking beneath him as the low hum of the TV filled the room. A boxing match flickered on the screen, the sharp thud of punches landing echoed in the small, cluttered space. It was the kind of noise that brought him comfort, reminding him of his own years in the ring, the way the crowd’s cheers and the sting of leather gloves on skin once felt like home. He grinned slightly as one fighter landed a solid hit, sending his opponent stumbling into the ropes. The apartment was in its usual state of chaos—clothes draped over chairs, takeout containers littering the floor, and case files scattered across the coffee table in no particular order. He didn’t care about the mess. He lived in it, breathed in it, and for now, it kept his mind off the frustrations of the day.
Roscoe’s eyes drifted from the fight back to the mess on the table, where stacks of Zorro case files lay scattered like pieces of a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. He reached for a folder, flipping it open with the same frustration he felt every time he dug into the reports. Zorro’s a ghost, he thought, scanning through blurry surveillance photos, half-legible witness statements, and vague descriptions that all seemed to blur together after weeks of chasing the vigilante’s shadow. His fingers drummed against the pages, restless. Shows up outta nowhere, disappears just as fast. He shook his head, annoyed at how close they always got, only for Zorro to slip through their fingers like smoke. The whiskey was starting to settle in his chest, warm and heavy, dulling the edges of his frustration.
He took the last sip of whiskey, the ice long melted, and set the glass down with a soft clink. The fighters on the TV were still trading blows, but the match was no longer holding his attention. Roscoe leaned back, letting out a long sigh as he reached for the cigar he’d been working on. He took one last drag, savoring the bitter smoke, before stubbing it out in the overflowing ashtray. His eyes scanned the scattered papers one more time, his mind already half-asleep. Then his gaze fell on a single surveillance photo lying at the edge of the table—a blurry shot of Zorro mid-leap, cape flowing behind him, frozen in motion. Roscoe squinted, something about the way the figure moved nagging at him. Where the hell have I seen this before? he muttered to himself, picking up the photo. The weight of exhaustion tugged at him, but he couldn’t shake the feeling. The image stuck with him, like a half-remembered dream just out of reach.
As Roscoe’s head sank deeper into the couch, the edges of the room began to blur. The boxing match on the TV became distant, the sounds stretching and warping, the fighters’ movements slowing unnaturally. His eyelids grew heavier with each passing second, the photo of Zorro still clutched in his hand as his grip slackened. Then, without realizing it, he slipped into a dream. The familiar apartment faded away, and in its place, Roscoe found himself standing in the de la Vega backyard. But something was off—the ground beneath him felt strange, soft and bouncy, as though it would give way under his weight. The sky above was an unnatural shade of purple, the air shimmering like heat waves off pavement. Everything around him was both familiar and wrong, like a memory that didn’t fit quite right. He knew this place, but now it felt like he was walking through it for the first time.
The yard wasn’t quite right. Roscoe knew that, but it didn’t stop his feet from sinking into the soft, spongy ground as he moved across the grass. The sky overhead was a deep purple, almost bruised, with a low-hanging moon casting sharp, unnatural light over everything. The backyard stretched longer than it should have, twisting away from him, but he spotted Grayson standing by the porch railing, his back turned, posture too stiff. Grayson? Roscoe’s mind flickered in confusion—it was Diego who had been his partner back then, not Grayson. But the dream didn’t care. Grayson stood motionless, an unnatural stillness to him, his face hidden in shadow.
Off to the side, a massive, wolf-like dog sat near the back fence, its fur shimmering under the eerie moonlight. The animal had a doghouse—a detail that made no sense to Roscoe, as it had never been there before. The dog’s eyes glowed silver, sharp and unblinking, watching him with a steady, unnerving gaze. Its breath was low and measured, a predator’s patience, and though it remained still, Roscoe could feel its presence heavy on him, following his every movement. A chill crawled down his spine, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the creature had been there all along, waiting for him.
Ahead of him, Andreas darted across the yard, his Zorro costume trailing behind like a shadow, but something about his movement wasn’t right. Every leap hung in the air too long, as if gravity had forgotten him, and each step seemed to barely touch the ground. Roscoe watched as the boy twirled and ran, his cape swirling around him in slow motion. The yard felt too large, stretching out into the darkness, and the more Andreas moved, the further away he seemed. Zorro to the rescue! Andreas shouted, but his voice echoed strangely, bouncing off invisible walls, the words twisting in the air like they didn’t belong.
Roscoe blinked, his mind struggling to catch up with what he was seeing. Andreas turned to look at him, just for a second, his face caught in the moonlight, but something was off. The boy’s eyes shimmered like the dog’s—silver, reflecting the same eerie glow. It was only for a moment, then Andreas turned back to his game, leaping into the air once more, hanging in that perfect, impossible Zorro pose. Roscoe's breath hitched. Is this even real? he wondered, but the thought felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. The scene was familiar, but twisted, like a memory that didn’t quite fit.
Roscoe raised his hands, instinctively forming a frame with his fingers, trying to lock the image of Andreas in place, but even that felt off. His hands moved too slowly, the space between his fingers stretched wider than they should have, like he was trying to grasp something slippery. Andreas was still hanging mid-leap, his cape frozen in a perfect arc behind him, sword raised. The moment felt just out of reach, as if Roscoe had almost captured something important—but the harder he tried to hold onto it, the more it slipped away, like sand between his fingers.
The yard itself seemed to stretch even farther, the edges of the scene blurring as if reality were unraveling. The moonlight flickered, casting strange, shifting shadows that moved without reason. Roscoe felt his heartbeat quicken, his mind spinning in the dream's grasp. The wolf-like dog hadn’t moved, but its silver eyes glowed brighter, fixed on him, unblinking. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Roscoe knew this wasn’t real—Grayson had never been here, that dog had never existed—but everything felt so vivid, so sharp. Andreas floated, suspended in midair, the same Zorro pose he’d seen a hundred times in surveillance photos, but now it was right in front of him, as if the past and present were folding into each other.
Roscoe tried to call out, his voice catching in his throat, the words refusing to form. Andreas was still there, still hanging in the air, but now the cape swirled slower, as though the boy were trapped in water. The moonlight intensified, shining down like a spotlight, casting long, sharp shadows that stretched unnaturally across the ground. The wolf-like dog shifted its weight, its silver eyes narrowing, but it didn’t move from its spot by the fence. Roscoe’s pulse quickened. He was on the edge of understanding, right on the verge of piecing it all together, but no matter how hard he tried to focus, the truth danced just beyond his grasp.
Roscoe felt a weight pressing down on him, like the air itself had thickened. The harder he tried to concentrate on Andreas, the more the scene warped around him. The cape fluttered in slow motion, the boy’s figure bending, distorting, his leap stretching impossibly long. Roscoe’s hands trembled as he tried to hold that frozen moment in place with his fingers, but everything was slipping away, melting like a photograph left out in the sun. The dog’s silver eyes flashed in the moonlight, its gaze fixed on Andreas now, its stillness suddenly unnerving. It’s right there, Roscoe thought, the realization almost within reach. Why can’t I hold onto it?
Roscoe’s breath grew shallow, the weight in the air pressing harder against his chest. The dog’s silver eyes gleamed brighter, almost pulsating with each beat of his heart. Andreas, still frozen in mid-leap, seemed impossibly far away now, though Roscoe hadn’t moved. The cape fluttered like a tattered flag in the breeze, and for a moment, everything seemed to slow. I’ve seen this before, Roscoe thought. He was so close to the truth, he could feel it, like a whisper on the edge of his consciousness. He stretched his hands again, trying to frame the boy in the perfect Zorro pose, but the moment flickered, distorting just as it came into focus. Why can’t I hold it? His mind throbbed with the weight of the memory, slipping further out of reach as the dream twisted away from him.
The yard stretched even farther now, like it was pulling away from him, leaving Roscoe stranded in the center of an ever-expanding void. Andreas' figure flickered, disappearing for split seconds before reappearing in the same impossible leap, the cape still swirling around him in that perfect arc. The dog, now eerily still, lowered its head, its silver eyes narrowing as if it knew something Roscoe didn’t. The pressure in Roscoe’s chest grew unbearable, the pulse of the dream pushing him toward a realization that refused to settle. It’s right in front of me, he thought desperately, but just as he tried to grasp it, the entire scene began to melt. The yard, the sky, even Andreas, all blurred and dripped like wet paint, slipping away as Roscoe’s hands fell to his sides, empty.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
A loud cheer from the boxing match jolted Roscoe awake, his heart pounding, breath shallow. He blinked, disoriented, his fingers still raised in front of him as if he were trying to frame something that wasn’t there. The vivid, twisted images from the dream clung to him for a moment—the dog’s glowing eyes, Andreas frozen mid-leap, that swirling cape—but they were already slipping away, fading into the hazy edges of his memory. He rubbed his face, trying to shake off the heaviness that lingered in his chest, but the feeling of missing something important gnawed at him. What the hell was that...? he muttered, still unsettled, as the dream continued to slip further out of reach.
Roscoe sat up slowly, his muscles stiff as if the weight of the dream still clung to him. He stared at the coffee table, where the Zorro case files lay scattered, untouched. His gaze fell to the surveillance photo of Zorro mid-leap—the same pose he had seen in his dream, the same swirling cape, frozen in time. He reached for it, but his fingers hesitated just above the picture, the nagging feeling from the dream pulling at him. I’ve seen this before. The thought circled his mind, but every time he tried to grab hold of it, it slipped away, just like the dream. His memory of the pose, the strange yard, and the glowing eyes of the dog already fading, but the uneasy weight it left behind still pressed on his chest.
Roscoe’s fingers finally brushed the edge of the photo, and as he picked it up, the memory clicked. Andreas. The dream had been about him. He couldn’t explain it, not fully—not with the way the details of the dream were slipping through his grasp like smoke—but he knew, without a doubt, that Andreas had been at the center of it all. The image of the boy frozen mid-leap in his Zorro costume flashed in his mind again, overlapping with the blurred photo in his hand. Roscoe rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shake the fog of sleep from his mind, but the realization wouldn’t leave him. Why Andreas? The details of the dream were already fading, but the connection lingered, gnawing at him.
Roscoe leaned back, still holding the photo, his thoughts drifting to Andreas. What had his old partner’s kid been up to for the better part of two decades? After Diego’s death, Roscoe had kept his distance from the de la Vega family, out of respect more than anything. He’d heard bits and pieces—Andreas had gone into the military, done his time, made a name for himself—but beyond that, Roscoe hadn’t stayed close. Now, though, the dream left him wondering if there was more to the story. Andreas had always been a bold kid, fearless in a way that reminded Roscoe of Diego, but what had that boy grown into after all these years? The thought tugged at him, a puzzle he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve.
Roscoe set the photo down, his mind buzzing with questions. Maybe I ought to take a look, he thought, his curiosity sharpening. Andreas hadn’t just been some aimless kid—he’d gone into the military, seen combat, and earned his stripes. Roscoe knew that much. But beyond the headlines and the casual mentions in conversation, what did Andreas really do during those years? A kid like him didn’t just sit still. If he’d picked up even half the skills Roscoe suspected, Andreas could’ve turned into something else entirely—someone with the ability to move like a ghost through this city, someone capable of being... Zorro. The idea was ridiculous, but it lingered, like an itch Roscoe couldn’t ignore.
The thought gnawed at him, absurd but persistent. Could Andreas really be Zorro? Roscoe shook his head, trying to laugh it off, but the pieces were starting to align in ways he couldn’t ignore. The kid had always been a daredevil, bold enough to do things most people wouldn’t even think of. And with military training under his belt, who knew what kind of skills Andreas had honed in those years? Roscoe rubbed his chin, the suspicion settling deeper. It was a long shot—too crazy to be true, maybe—but it kept coming back, nagging at him. If I don’t look into it, who will? The idea of digging into Andreas’ past felt wrong, almost like betrayal, but the question wouldn’t leave him.
Roscoe leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at the photo as if it might somehow reveal more than it had. His loyalty to the de la Vegas tugged at him—Hell, I watched that kid grow up. It felt wrong, like crossing a line, to even consider Andreas might be mixed up in something like this. But then again, it was his job to dig into the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it made him. And if it’s not him, then no harm done, right? He could almost hear Diego’s voice in his head, warning him to tread carefully. But Diego wasn’t here anymore. Roscoe let out a long breath. He knew he couldn’t just leave it alone—not with everything he’d seen, and not after the way the dream had shaken him. Looks like I’m gonna have to dig.
Roscoe grabbed his laptop from the edge of the table and flipped it open, the glow of the screen casting a cold light over the dark room. His fingers hesitated for a moment over the keys—this wasn’t just any random suspect; this was Andreas de la Vega, Diego’s son. But the curiosity, the need to know, overrode his reservations. He typed Andreas’ name into the FBI database, watching the results load slowly, as if the computer itself knew what he was about to uncover. The moment felt heavier than he’d expected. Roscoe leaned back, waiting for the file to open, that gnawing question about Andreas—and what he might have become—sitting heavy in his gut.
The file opened with a soft chime, and Roscoe’s eyes scanned the first few lines. Andreas de la Vega. Military service—no surprises there. He’d heard the stories, the decorated heroics during the war. But as he scrolled deeper, more details started jumping out at him. Combat tours, advanced hand-to-hand combat certifications, and special forces training—all things Roscoe expected. But then he saw it: Tournament-level competition in 14 different martial arts and 6 forms of swordfighting, gained through wartime events for allied troops. Impressive, no doubt. Andreas had turned into one hell of a fighter. But Roscoe frowned, knowing what he’d seen Zorro do. The leaps, the precision, the way he moved—it was far beyond what any tournament fighter could pull off. Still… the kid’s got the foundation for it, he muttered to himself, the unease growing. It wasn’t just about skills—it was the question of what Andreas had done with them in the years since.
Roscoe leaned in, scrolling further through the file. The more he read, the more the timeline began to click into place, and that gnawing feeling in his gut grew heavier. Then he saw it—Roberto de la Vega’s death, just under a year before Zorro first appeared. Roscoe paused, his finger hovering over the touchpad. He knew Roberto’s death had been hard on the de la Vega family, but seeing it here, in black and white, alongside Andreas’ records, made it feel like more than coincidence. The loss of a brother, followed by a vigilante appearing out of nowhere? That’s no accident, Roscoe muttered, rubbing his jaw. Grief could drive people to do things, change them in ways no one saw coming. Maybe Zorro wasn’t just about justice. Maybe it was about something deeper, something personal.
Roscoe leaned back, the weight of the pieces falling into place pressing down on him. Andreas had the skills, the timing, and the motive—everything pointed in the same direction. But even as the evidence piled up, part of him resisted the idea. Could it really be him? The thought nagged at him, conflicting with the image of the boy he used to know. Andreas had been a good kid, tough as nails but with a heart of gold, like his father. But people changed. War changed people. And losing a brother like Roberto? Roscoe couldn’t begin to imagine the toll that must’ve taken on Andreas. It all fit too well, but accepting it meant acknowledging that the kid he’d known had become something else entirely—something dangerous.
Roscoe’s thoughts spun, the puzzle pieces clicking into place in a way that felt undeniable. Everything fit—too perfectly. He rubbed his temple, the tension building as he weighed it all. It’s gotta be him, he thought, the certainty creeping in. But then, just as the idea began to solidify in his mind, something stopped him. Maria. His breath caught, and he shook his head, the skepticism rushing back. If Andreas really was Zorro, Maria would’ve known. No way she wouldn’t have noticed something, no way she would’ve let her son run around in a mask, risking his life every night. She’d have dragged him in herself, Roscoe muttered under his breath, smirking at the thought. She’s too sharp for that. The certainty wavered, slipping away just as quickly as it had come.
Roscoe let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned back into the couch. Maria would’ve had his ass by now, he thought, the image of her stern, no-nonsense face popping into his mind. Andreas might’ve been able to pull something over on the rest of the world, but not on her. She would’ve seen right through it. The kid had always been close to his mother, and Maria was too sharp, too protective to let something like this slide. It’s crazy. Roscoe told himself again, trying to shrug off the suspicion. But as he stared at the scattered files, a small seed of doubt remained, burrowing deeper in the back of his mind, refusing to disappear completely.
Roscoe sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he closed the laptop with a soft click. Leave it alone, he told himself. It’s just a crazy idea, nothing more. But the files, the timing, Andreas’ training—it all nagged at him, lingering at the edges of his thoughts like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. He glanced back at the photo of Zorro, still sitting on the table, the blurred figure frozen in that impossible leap. For now, he’d put the idea aside—no point in chasing a hunch when there was no real proof. But even as he tried to push it from his mind, the suspicion remained, quiet but persistent, waiting for the next piece to fall into place.
Roscoe stood up from the couch, stretching his stiff muscles as he tried to shake off the weight of his thoughts. The room was still dim, the low flicker of the TV casting shadows across the cluttered table, but the boxing match had long faded into background noise. He stared down at the files one last time, the Zorro case still staring back at him, daring him to dig deeper. Not tonight, he muttered, turning away from the mess. He walked over to the window and looked out into the dark streets below, the city stretching out in front of him like an endless maze. Just a coincidence, he thought, but even as he tried to let it go, the nagging feeling stayed, like a shadow that refused to leave him.
Roscoe rubbed his eyes and turned away from the window, the weight of the day—and the dream—settling heavy on his shoulders. He could hear the city buzzing outside, the distant hum of traffic, but it felt far away, like something separate from him. He knew he should drop it, forget about the wild idea that had wormed its way into his head. But as he switched off the TV and headed for the bedroom, that same thought crept back, persistent and quiet. Maybe I’m wrong. He paused in the doorway, glancing once more at the files scattered across the coffee table, the photo of Zorro lying on top. But what if I’m not?