Rain brushed against the windshield and the dead road.
Chief Holt lit a cigarette with a shaky hand. He rarely smoked anymore, but nights like this dragged things back out.
"Y'know," Holt muttered, staring into the wet black trees beyond the road, "if we don't figure this out… if we don't stop this thing… then what was the point of everything? All the cases we solved? All the people we lost?"
He took a long drag.
"Every damn thing we did," he exhaled, "it'll all mean nothing. We'll die, and it'll still be out there. Hunting. Feasting. And nobody will remember we even tried."
Lane sat quietly for a moment, then looked over at Holt. "I've been thinking about the Willow Creek case," he said.
Holt didn't respond — but he didn't need to.
Lane continued, voice low. "Three years ago. Four kids. Found in pieces. No leads. No fingerprints. Just… silence. You remember?"
"Hard to forget," Holt muttered.
"I never caught the one who did it," Lane said. "I told the families we would. I promised justice. I lied to them, Warren."
His throat tightened. "And I still have dreams about those kids. Still see the crime scene. Every time I close my eyes, I wonder if he's still out there. Watching. Laughing. Killing."
Lane tighted his fist, knuckles pale. "What if this is the same thing? Or worse? What if I already failed, and this is just the aftermath?"
Holt flicked his cigarette out, rain hammered against the ground.
"No," he said. "We're not failing again. Not this time."
He turned, locking eyes with Lane.
"I don't care if it's some cult, some lunatic, or some goddamn thing from another world — I'm gonna find it. And I'm gonna put it down. If I have to die doing it, so be it."
Lane nodded slowly. "Then I'm with you."
A moment of silence passed between them.
Then Holt's phone buzzed.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
He answered.
A static-filled voice crackled through:
"Another one's gone. Northfield Lake. Female, early thirties. No struggle. Vanished from her home in the middle of the night."
Holt's jaw clenched.
"Alright," he said. "We're coming."
He hung up, and called a taxi.
Lane looked at him. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Yeah," Holt muttered. "It's starting again."
The van rolled smoothly down a long, dimly lit driveway.The sound of heavy generators filled the air, drowning out even the soft rattle of tires.
Inside the back, Simon sat quietly, flanked by two guards whose eyes scanned the shadows outside the small armored windows. The air was stale, carrying the faint scent of antiseptic and metal.
After a few more turns, the vehicle finally came to a halt with a quiet hiss.
The guards opened the rear doors, motioning Simon to step out.
He blinked as bright fluorescent lights flooded the corridor ahead. The place smelled like a hospital crossed with a high-security bunker.
Simon's escort led him down a sterile hallway, past locked doors and security checkpoints, until they reached a reinforced steel door.
With a loud clunk, it slid open.
Inside was a room unlike any room Simon had seen before.
It was furnished like a living room.
Soft couches lined one wall, a small bookshelf filled with worn books and puzzles stood near a windowless wall, and a low table held a steaming cup of coffee — untouched.
The lighting was warm and dimmable, designed for comfort rather than clinical efficiency.
One guard gestured toward the room.
"This is where you'll be staying," he said gruffly. "Everything you need, but secure. Cameras monitor the room 24/7. You're safe here."
Simon looked around, settling onto a plush chair by the windowless wall, hands trembling slightly.