Rain hit the station windows hard, wind shaking the glass. Two black sedans stopped quickly at the road's edge, tyres hissing on wet ground. A young man got out of the first, splashing through puddles, and opened the back door. "Father..."
Carwyn Owain climbed out slow, his right leg a wooden stump, thudding down as thunder rolled low. From the second car, Jack got out, pulling up his shirt collar against the spray.
They headed inside, boots tracking mud across the lobby floor, the door banging shut behind them. Lights buzzed overhead, mixing with the smell of wet coats.
In Harlan's office, rain tapped steadily on the glass, shadows moving from the blinds. Harlan stood by his desk, arms crossed, eyes going wide at Carwyn. He rubbed his jaw, like shaking off old memories.
"Why are you here? Don't tell me that this is related to those things."
Carwyn leaned on his wooden leg, knuckles white. "Related or not? I don't know. But those guns are not going to hurt it. I know that."
Harlan met his gaze, breath catching short, hand pausing in the air like he saw ghosts. "Then what do you suggest?"
"Open the vault."
Harlan's fist hit the desk light, papers rustling. "No, no way. You are in no shape for it."
Carwyn looked down at his leg, boot scraping wood with a dull clunk. "Is it because of this?"
Harlan snorted softly, shaking his head, eyes flicking away. "Hah, no way. I know you are strong even if you lost your leg. But you are alone and old."
Carwyn's jaw set firm. "Then how are you going to kill it?"
Harlan straightened up, pointing out the window at flashing patrol lights. "We have weapons far better than that time. Don't worry."
Jack waited by the door, shifting foot to foot, then stepped in. "Sir, I am back reporting."
Harlan turned quickly. "Jack? You were on leave, right?"
"Yes, sir, but..."
"Anyway. I was going to call you."
Carwyn sat restless, chair creaking, his eyes catching on Jack. He stood up fast and grabbed Jack's shoulder hard, fingers digging in. A grin split his face. "Jack? Jack Dafydd?"
"Yes, Jack Dafydd."
Carwyn's grip lingered, squeezing harder, as if testing strength. "Inspector Harlan, whatever you are planning, be careful. Playing with fire."
Jack stood stiff, blinking, his free hand hovering near his side.
Harlan smirked, lighting a cigarette with a flick, smoke curling up slowly. "Look who is talking about fire."
Carwyn let go with a firm pat, turning for the door, his wooden leg echoing. "Come, boy. Let's find that monster."
Jack rubbed his shoulder, brow wrinkling. "Sir, what does he mean? And who is he?"
Harlan waved smoke away, voice steady. "That's nothing. I need you to investigate this monster in deep."
Jack balled his fists tight, chin lifting. "Yes, sir."
He walked out, the door clicking shut.
Outside, the young man stood by the sedan, rain dripping off the roof. Carwyn limped down the steps. "Dad, who is he?"
Carwyn grabbed the iron bar on the gate of the police station, squeezed it hard—metal creaking, a dent pressing in deep.
The young man grabbed his father's hand, eyes wide at the swollen finger, and the joint popped out. "Father, your hand—the finger is dislocated. Why grab the iron bar that hard?"
Carwyn popped the joint back with a quick snap, smirking one-sided. "It was not these iron bars. It was His shoulder."
"What?"
Carwyn chuckled low and slid into the car. The engine turned over, lights cutting through the downpour as they pulled away.
Meanwhile, patrol cars rolled slowly through wet streets, rifles ready in their laps, radios crackling with warnings. Helicopters thumped overhead, beams sweeping the dark.
At the station, Jack sat at a desk piled with files, lamp buzzing dim, rain blurring the window. He scanned missing persons lists—names and photos under his finger—gut saying the monster was human once. Keys clicked as he checked online complaints.
"Got one."
He dialled Antony. "Hey, a young man is missing on the day before the killing started. And a man is missing—a cyclist who was riding by there on the day of all of this and is missing. We have to try to get the relatives of those two."
Antony's voice came back, wind whipping in the background. "Inspector Harlan has told me. I am coming to you. Let's check it out."
They met the missing guy's friend in his room, rain pattering the tin roof.
Jack pulled out his notebook. "Can you tell me about him and that night?"
"He had gone to a place for a drink. We—where five of us—he left early that night. Then in the morning, when we were getting back, we found his bike's fuel empty near the forest."
Jack nodded, pen scratching. "Had he been taking any drugs? Or going to the biology lab or something?"
"No. Nothing."
Antony leaned back, boot tapping the floor. "I checked that guy's room. Nothing. But he was the one who punctured the police car. This fucker."
The friend's mug shook, spilling a drop; he wiped it fast, shoulders slumping. "Sir, that was an accident. There was an air gun—we were playing around. It busted your tyre. We were afraid, so we ran. I am sorry."
Antony stood, chair scraping. "What's done is done. Jack, let's go. We have no time."
Jack's phone buzzed sharply; he answered. "How is this?"
A voice rasped over the line, lab hum faint behind it. "I am Prof. Jon Hook. I have something to tell you about that monster you are looking for."