The crowd had gathered like moths to a flame.
The plaza outside Moonstone's Civic Centre was bathed in orange light, the blood-red sun bleeding into the marble steps and casting long shadows across the stage erected for the emergency address. Media vans with spinning satellites lined the perimeter, reporters with bright eyes and urgent voices narrated the unfolding scene into handheld mics. There was tension in the air. Anticipation. Like a storm waiting to break.
Lucia Sutton stood at the podium, a tall dark skinned and elegant woman, commanding in her presence. Her tailored navy coat swayed slightly in the wind, the golden pins of her District Attorney badge gleaming under the setting sun. To her right stood Joe Hawkings, rigid in posture, hands at his sides, his body tense beneath the dark coat Sutton had insisted he wear. He looked the part: detective, savior, symbol. But his eyes darted subtly across the crowd, clearly unused to the weight of so many gazes.
Sutton leaned into the microphone, and the murmuring crowd fell into a hush.
"Citizens of Moonstone," she began, her voice smooth, practiced, and charged with righteous indignation. "Today, I speak not as your District Attorney... but as a mother. As a citizen. As someone who has lived in this town long enough to know when something is very, very wrong."
The crowd shifted uneasily. Her tone drew them in like a story unfolding.
"A few nights ago, we were told a family was killed in a tragic animal attack. That was a lie. The truth? That family was the target of an organized assault. A werewolf attack." A pause. Gasps erupted from the front row and cascaded outward.
Joe's heart pounded in his chest. Even though he'd read her draft, hearing the words spoken aloud, to hundreds of people, sent a chill through him.
"This town," Sutton continued, "has been manipulated. Protected not by justice, but by cover-ups. By a system too afraid, or too complicit, to reveal the monsters among us."
The crowd was quiet now, drinking every word.
"This is why I have been running for mayor. Not to wear a new crown, but to fix what is broken. To protect our children. Our future. Our truth."
Murmurs of agreement, then applause. She let it wash over her.
"And to prove that this is not just another speech," she turned and gestured to Joe, "I am assigning this man, Detective Joseph Hawkings, to lead an independent investigation into the murder that took place at the bungalow last week."
More gasps. Some clapped. Others turned to each other with wide eyes.
Joe stepped up to the podium, swallowing hard.
"Detective Hawkings," Sutton said, turning to him with a graceful nod, "has saved countless lives. And now, he will help us uncover the truth we've been denied."
The applause rose to a thunder, echoing through the plaza.
Joe stood stiff, then leaned into the microphone. "I... appreciate the opportunity. My promise to you all is simple: no stone will be left unturned. I will find out who did this, and why. We all deserve justice."
The crowd roared again.
But Joe's thoughts drifted.
He was back at the entrance of Lucia Sutton's mansion, standing beneath the towering gate, unsure if he'd even be allowed in. The housekeeper had almost turned him away, until Sutton herself had come down, half-dressed for a gala, glass of wine in hand. Her disinterest had been palpable... until she read the letter.
Suddenly, her eyes had sparkled with calculation. Not empathy. Not shock. Calculation.
Still, she agreed to meet.
She'd listened, nodded, and then carefully slid the letter into a velvet folder before turning to him with a decision already made. She would help. But not because she cared about the victims.
She cared about the optics.
And Joe? He didn't care. Not anymore. If she could get him closer to the truth, closer to justice, she could wear her mask and spin her speeches all she wanted.
The present returned with a rush of cheers.
He smiled tightly and stepped back, letting Sutton reclaim the stage.
"Let this be the dawn of a new era for Moonstone," she declared, lifting a clenched fist to the crowd. "An era where we are no longer afraid."
The masses exploded in applause. Cameras flashed. The chant began slowly, then grew:
"Sutton! Sutton! Sutton!"
The roaring applause from the television faded into a low hum as the screen displayed District Attorney Lucia Sutton, radiant and commanding beside Joe Hawkings. She had just finished her stirring speech, her words burning with purpose, exposing dark truths hidden from the public.
Elizabeth Thorne sat alone in a grand velvet armchair, her posture regal, legs crossed with effortless grace. In one hand, she held a delicate crystal glass filled with deep red wine, the other resting lightly on the armrest. The flickering glow of the TV cast shifting shadows across her sharp features, high cheekbones, perfectly arched brows, and lips painted a fierce crimson. Her eyes, cold and calculating, never wavered from the screen.
As the crowd cheered on the broadcast, Elizabeth slowly raised her glass to her lips and took a slow sip, savoring the taste as if tasting victory itself. When she finally set the glass down, a faint, satisfied smile curved her mouth.
She reached for the remote and switched off the television, plunging the room into silence. The only light remaining was the blood-red sun sinking behind the jagged mountains beyond the manor's towering windows, casting a fiery glow across the room.
Standing, Elizabeth moved to the window and stared out into the horizon. The crimson sun seemed to drip like molten fire, bleeding into the darkening sky.
In that moment, she felt it, an unshakable certainty that every move, every whispered secret, every manipulated thread of power was now firmly in her grasp.
She breathed deeply, a quiet exultation filling her chest.
The world was hers to command.
And this was only the beginning.
***
The cool night air buzzed with electric energy, alive with the roar of an eager crowd packed into the bleachers around Moonstone Academy's soccer field. Bright stadium lights cut through the deepening twilight, casting long shadows on the grass where the final match was unfolding, a game that had brought the entire school and families out in full force. Flags waved, chants rose and fell like waves, and the sharp scent of fresh-cut grass mixed with the faint smell of popcorn and sweat.
Adam weaved his way through the sea of faces, the crunch of gravel beneath his sneakers drowned out by the cacophony of cheers. His pulse quickened with every step as the tension on the field mounted. Bryce, waiting near the edge of the stands, caught sight of him and beckoned him over with a grin.
"Got you a seat," Bryce said, nodding toward a spot beside him. Adam accepted the offer and handed over the snacks he'd grabbed, settling in as the game unfolded before them.
The home team, the Moonstone Assassins women's division, were locked in a fierce battle against their rivals. The match was an intricate dance of skill and stamina, passes threaded through tight defenses, players darting with sharp precision, and the crowd gasping with every near miss. Amber Thorne, the star midfielder, was everywhere at once, her movements graceful, almost feline, as she chased the ball with fierce determination.
With the clock ticking down, the score was tied. The bleachers vibrated with tension. Amber's breath grew shallow as she scanned the field, searching for an opening, a teammate to trust with the ball, the one chance to push the team ahead. Then her eyes locked onto Adam, sitting close by with Bryce, his hands clapping, eyes shining with encouragement.
A flicker of warmth crossed Amber's face, a silent reminder of the promise he had made days ago to be here. She felt a surge of honor in his presence, a quiet motivation that steadied her nerves. "I can't let him down," her thoughts whispered fiercely.
Suddenly, she broke free, dribbling past defenders with fluid elegance. Every step was precise; every feint, calculated. The stadium seemed to hold its breath. She carved a path toward the goal, heart hammering in her chest. With one final powerful strike, the ball flew past the goalkeeper's desperate dive and into the net.
The crowd erupted.
Cheers shattered the night as the referee blew the final whistle. A wave of jubilant noise crashed over the field. Fireworks exploded in the distance, casting flickering light across the faces of the ecstatic students and families. Amber's teammates rushed toward her, engulfing her in a sea of hugs and high-fives.
Breathless but triumphant, Amber turned toward the stands and made her way directly to Adam. The sweat glistening on her skin, she threw her arms around him in a tight, grateful hug. Adam blinked, stunned by the sudden affection, but embraced her in return, sharing a rare, genuine smile.
"Gross!" Anissa's voice cut through the moment as she appeared beside them, arms crossed and a teasing smirk playing on her lips. "Do you two have to be so disgusting in public?"
Adam laughed softly, brushing off the comment. "Hey, I'm just glad we won."
Anissa rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the grin tugging at her lips. The lighthearted banter melted some of the tension.
Behind them, a cluster of boys watched with narrowed eyes, their expressions tight and jealous as they glanced between Amber and Adam. The subtle glare was unmistakable, the territorial frustration of admirers who didn't appreciate Adam's easy access to Amber's attention.
The brief moment of camaraderie between Adam, Amber, and Anissa simmered into quiet conversation as Adam's curiosity got the better of him.
"So, where's Abigail?" he asked.
The sisters exchanged a quick look before answering almost in unison.
"She's a bookworm," Amber said with a small smile. "Probably holed up in class, studying like always."
"Calm and collected," Anissa added. "Very different from us."
Adam nodded, considering. His thoughts drifted to Abigail, the quieter, more reserved sibling who seemed to exist on a different wavelength from the rest of them.
As the crowd began to disperse and the floodlights dimmed ever so slightly, Adam felt a subtle shift inside himself, a growing distance from Luna, a quiet resignation that things between them might never quite work out.
His gaze lingered on the empty spaces where Abigail might be, a question forming but left unspoken.
The night air hummed softly with the echoes of victory and the unspoken possibilities of what might come next.