The police station smelled of coffee gone cold and paper that had sat too long in dusty cabinets. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, pale and unforgiving, spilling across rows of mismatched desks piled with files, case notes, and cheap monitors flickering with lagging feeds. Phones rang in the distance, muffled by the chatter of sergeants trading gossip, suspects shouting behind interview-room glass, and the mechanical clack of keyboards echoing through the open floor.
Lieutenant Caleb Saye sat at his desk, a half-empty cup of bitter black coffee in front of him. He hadn't touched it for over an hour. His fingers drummed restlessly on the wooden surface. The weight in his chest pressed down harder than the stale air in the room.
He hadn't been able to face her. Aubrey. His daughter. The word still felt foreign when he said it in his head, though the truth had been staring him down for months. The argument they'd had—the sharp words, the crack in her voice when she accused him of never being there, never stepping up—burned like hot iron inside him.
He could have gone to see her. He could have found the courage. But instead he had retreated into the safety of his work, burying himself in reports, interrogations, and evidence. A coward's excuse for love.
The noise of the station dimmed around him as regret gnawed at the edges of his concentration. He wondered if he had already lost her completely.
"Caleb."
The voice snapped him back. He looked up to see Detective Nia Torres striding toward him, a thin file in her hand, her expression grim. Her braids were pulled back tight, uniform sleeves rolled to her elbows. She moved like someone who hadn't slept but refused to let fatigue win.
"Things just got a whole lot more complicated," she said flatly.
Caleb straightened in his chair, jaw tightening. "What do you mean, complicated?"
Instead of answering directly, Nia gestured to one of the uniformed officers across the room. "Hey, Morales. Turn that screen around."
The officer swiveled the monitor on his desk so that it faced them. A still image filled the display: a man's ID photo, sharp features, short cropped hair, neatly pressed shirt.
Caleb frowned. "What am I looking at?"
"Karan Mehra," Nia said quietly. "One of Azaqor's victims." She let that sink in for a beat before continuing. "But here's where it gets tangled: his younger brother, Arjun Desai, is currently missing. Vanished without a trace."
Caleb blinked, the name striking him with unexpected weight.
"And here's the kicker," Nia added, her voice dropping lower. "Arjun wasn't just anyone. He was the manager of Maison Salon. You know—the luxury salon owned by Marlene Wynter. Another Azaqor victim."
Before Caleb could fully process it, a familiar voice cut across the station like a mocking trumpet.
"Well, well. Isn't that fascinating?"
Owen Kessler entered the space with his usual self-satisfied air, trench coat collar popped, his smirk glued to his face as if it were part of his anatomy. He carried the kind of energy that filled the air with static, feeding on others' discomfort.
Caleb's jaw tightened again, this time with irritation. His entire demeanor shifted—the set of his shoulders stiff, the narrowing of his eyes. His dislike for Owen was palpable.
Nia noticed it immediately. Her gaze flicked between the two men, taking in the storm brewing beneath Caleb's silence.
Caleb forced his voice steady. "Is that intel true? Arjun Desai was managing Marlene Wynter's salon? Where'd you get that from?"
A new voice entered then, smooth and commanding.
"I'm afraid it came from me, Lieutenant Saye."
The room seemed to pause as a tall African American man stepped forward from the far side of the bullpen. He cut a striking figure: a dark navy suit, perfectly tailored, glinting cufflinks at his wrists. His tie was understated, charcoal silk, knotted with precision. He had the bearing of someone who walked into every room already in control.
His physique was lean, muscles trained but not bulky, the kind of build that suggested years of conditioning. His hair was clipped short, the clean professional cut that spies in films always wore—practical, sharp, unobtrusive.
He pulled a badge from his breast pocket and flipped it open with practiced ease.
"Anthony Stroud, Office of Special Investigations." His voice was steady, deliberate, carrying authority without needing to raise its volume. "I was sent here by federal higher-ups to ensure the Azaqor case receives the attention it requires. Along with several… other discrepancies that your department seems unable—or unwilling—to address."
The station quieted a little. Even the sergeants at nearby desks leaned closer to listen.
"Discrepancies?" Caleb asked, suspicion in his voice.
Anthony's expression remained unreadable. "The victims. Several of them, as it turns out, weren't innocent civilians at all. They were criminals themselves. Victoria Lockridge. Karan Mehra."
Caleb's stomach tightened. "What do you mean by Karan Mehra?"
Anthony's eyes flicked to him, catching the unease in Caleb's tone. "Our office received an anonymous tip. Footage—taken about nine months ago—showing suspicious cargo being shipped into Karan Mehra's luxury watch shop. The Malhotra Horology."
The words hit Caleb harder than he wanted to admit. His hands curled slowly into fists on the desk. Nia glanced at him, her brow furrowed, clearly registering the strain in his face.
Owen, however, was staring at Caleb with a predator's amusement. For a split second, a smirk tugged his lips, subtle but unmistakable—a small Easter egg of satisfaction.
Anthony nodded at Morales, who tapped the keyboard. The screen shifted to grainy surveillance footage. A transport truck backed into the rear entrance of a shop. Shadows of men moved as they unloaded crates, setting them down with mechanical efficiency.
Anthony pointed at one. "Here." He tapped the glass. "Zoom."
The feed magnified until the print on one of the boxes was visible: Effexaine.
"What you're looking at," Anthony said, voice steady, "is an illegal drug. Effexaine. A designer hallucinogen. Gives users stress relief, false euphoria, an escape from reality. But prolonged use? It rots the flesh. It kills. Dozens of youths across the country dead from overdoses. Hundreds more lost to psychosis or suicide after their money ran dry."
As he spoke, the screen displayed slides: chemical breakdowns, digital recreations of how Effexaine attacked brain tissue, photographs of addicts—sunken eyes, decaying skin, corpses marked by its toll.
Caleb shifted in his chair, his face hardening.
"Fascinating," Owen drawled, leaning against a nearby desk, arms crossed. He angled his taunting grin directly at Caleb. "You know who makes Effexaine? The Halvern Consortium. Owned by the Halverns themselves. Oh, and you'll love this part—same Halverns who also poured money into Graham Lockridge's 'online goods' company. Remember that one? All above-board on paper. Until, of course, it wasn't. Until it was exposed as a sex trafficking operation."
The room fell silent at Owen's words. Caleb shot him a warning look, but Owen plowed on.
"And Graham? Vanished. Just like that. Daughter murdered by Azaqor. Funny how the dots keep connecting." His tone turned sharper, eyes still drilling into Caleb. "The more I see, the more I think this Azaqor killer is doing your jobs for you—cleaning the filth out of society."
The other officers shifted uncomfortably. Nia's lips tightened, uncertain. Caleb's brow furrowed, caught between irritation and thought.
From the corner of the bullpen, a younger uniformed officer—Danny "Chatterbox" Riggs, as he was known around the precinct—started shifting in his seat. His mouth opened slightly, then closed. His hands fidgeted on the armrests of his chair. He leaned forward, then back again, his eyes darting between Owen and Anthony like a kid in class desperate to answer a question but too nervous to raise his hand.
Anthony noticed. His sharp gaze cut toward Riggs. "Officer. Do you have something you'd like to contribute?"
Danny swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. His fingers tapped rapidly against his thigh, a nervous tick. "I—yeah. I mean, maybe. It's just… I heard something. A while back. From my uncle, actually. He's big into folklore, you know? Stories passed down through generations, that kind of stuff."
Owen arched an eyebrow, amused. "Folklore?"
Danny nodded quickly, words tumbling out faster now. "Yeah. He used to tell me about these… things. Parasitic beings. Not like regular parasites, but something worse. Something that can take over a person entirely."
The room had gone quieter. A few officers exchanged skeptical glances.
Danny's voice dropped, tension threading through every syllable. "He said they'd possess humans. Turn them into vessels. The person's still walking around, still talking, but inside? They're being controlled. The parasite alters their thoughts, their beliefs, their emotions. Twists them. Makes them feel only the basest things—fear, hunger, desire. The need to control. To feed."
His hands were trembling slightly now, knuckles white as he gripped the edge of his desk.
"Feed on what?" Nia asked, her tone cautious.
"Vitality," Danny whispered. "Life force. Energy. Whatever you want to call it. They drain it from others to survive."
---
The vision unfolded in Danny's mind like a reel of film he couldn't stop.
A man stood alone in a cornfield at dusk. The stalks rose high around him, rustling in the breeze. The sky above was bruised purple and orange, the sun sinking below the horizon.
The man—middle-aged, wearing a worn flannel shirt and mud-streaked jeans—paused. He crouched down, inspecting something near the base of a corn stalk.
Then he saw it.
A mass of translucent protoplasm, shimmering faintly in the dying light. It pulsed, gelatinous and wrong, like something that shouldn't exist in this world. The edges rippled as it moved forward, sliding across the dirt with unnatural fluidity.
The man took a step back, but it was too late.
The thing sank into the ground, disappearing beneath the soil. The man exhaled, relief flooding his features for just a moment.
Then it erupted from the earth at his feet.
It slithered across his boot. Cold. Wet. He gasped, stumbling backward, but it moved faster. It climbed his leg, sliding up his thigh, across his stomach, wrapping around his torso like a living vine.
"No—no, get off—"
It reached his neck. His hands clawed at it, but his fingers passed through the semi-solid mass as if it were smoke. It pressed against his face, pushing into his nostrils.
He screamed.
His body convulsed. He fell to his knees, hands clutching his head, nails digging into his scalp. Pain exploded behind his eyes, white-hot and blinding. His vision swam. His thoughts scattered like startled birds.
And then it settled.
A spectrum of color rippled around his body—a sickly aura that pulsed outward from his skin. Deep crimson shot through with streaks of oily black. The color of hunger. Of insatiable need.
His eyes snapped open.
They were red. Completely red. No whites. No irises. Just burning, blood-soaked crimson.
He laughed.
It started low, a chuckle that bubbled up from deep in his chest, then grew louder, wilder, until it echoed across the empty field.
"Feed," he rasped, voice distorted, layered with something inhuman beneath the surface. "Feed. Feed."
---
The man stumbled back toward his house, movements jerky and unnatural, like a puppet on tangled strings.
Inside, the lights were warm. His wife stood at the stove, stirring a pot. His two grown children—a son and daughter—sat at the kitchen table, laughing about something trivial.
The door slammed open.
They all turned.
"Dad?" his daughter asked, concern flickering across her face. "Are you okay? You look—"
He lunged.
His son barely had time to stand before the man's hand clamped around his throat. Nails—long, sharp, impossibly sharp—dug into flesh. The son's scream choked off into a gurgle.
The wife shrieked, dropping the spoon. The daughter scrambled backward, knocking her chair over.
The man grinned. Wide. Too wide. His teeth gleamed in the overhead light.
His nails pierced deeper. Blood welled up, dark and thick, but it didn't drip. It flowed toward him. Into him. Threads of crimson essence spiraled through the air, drawn into his body like water into a drain.
The son's eyes rolled back. His skin paled, turning ashen gray. His body withered, muscles shrinking, bones pressing against skin.
The man's grin widened further. His eyes blazed brighter.
A reddish hue surrounded him now, glowing faintly, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. The essence flooded into him, filling him with warmth, with power, with more.
His wife charged at him with a knife. He turned, faster than any human should move, and grabbed her wrist. Twisted. Bone snapped. She screamed.
His nails found her throat.
More essence. More life. More hunger.
His daughter tried to run. He caught her at the doorway. Her pleas meant nothing. Her tears meant nothing.
Only the hunger mattered.
When it was over, the kitchen was silent. Three bodies lay crumpled on the floor, drained husks of what they once were.
The man stood in the center of the room, bathed in that eerie red glow. His chest heaved. His eyes burned.
"I need more," he whispered.
---
"That's what my uncle told me," Danny finished, his voice barely audible. His hands were still shaking. "He said the possessed… they're not human anymore. They're just vessels. Slaves to the hunger."
The station was dead silent.
One of the older cops snorted. "That's a hell of a bedtime story, Riggs."
Another muttered, "Sounds like something to scare kids into staying indoors."
Owen laughed, the sound sharp and dismissive. "Parasitic beings? Come on. That's folklore. Tales meant to keep children from wandering into the woods at night. You don't actually believe in that crap, do you?"
Danny flushed, but his jaw set stubbornly. "I'm just saying what I heard."
Nia frowned, her expression caught between discomfort and curiosity. "Riggs… why are you even telling us this?"
Danny's hands fidgeted in his lap, fingers twisting together, rubbing his palms in slow, nervous circles. "Because… I think maybe this Azaqor guy… maybe he's not just a guy. Maybe he's someone—something—inhabited by one of those parasitic beings."
Owen laughed harder. "Oh, please. Don't tell me you actually believe in that nonsense."
But Anthony Stroud's expression had shifted. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "There's truth to what Officer Riggs is saying."
Everyone turned to look at him.
Anthony's voice was measured, clinical. "The descriptions he's giving match certain fabled entities documented in various cultural mythologies. Specifically, beings referred to as Narvans and Gralns."
Caleb's gaze sharpened. He leaned forward slightly, his face tense, mouth pressed into a thin line. When he spoke, his voice carried a note of barely controlled unease. "Nia. Check it out. Pull it up on the monitor."
Nia blinked, then nodded. She pulled out her DataPad—a sleek tablet device used by the department for records and research—and synced it to the overhead screen. Her fingers moved quickly across the surface, typing into the search bar.
NARVANS.
The screen flickered. Text and images began to populate.
Nia read aloud, her voice steady but tinged with disbelief. "Narvans. According to documented folklore and certain religious texts, Narvans are entities that dwell in lower realms. They're described as beings of suffering and torment, manifestations of the hell realms in Buddhist cosmology. They feed on pain, fear, and despair. Some accounts claim they can possess the living, using human bodies as anchors to the physical world."
She scrolled further.
"Gralns. Beings trapped in a state of eternal hunger. They consume endlessly but are never satisfied. Some legends say they can inhabit human hosts, driving them to devour—spiritually, emotionally, or physically."
Caleb was silent. His eyes fixed on the screen, but his expression had gone distant, lost in thought. His fingers drummed once against the desk, then stopped.
Anthony watched him carefully. So did Owen.
Caleb turned his gaze toward Danny. He stared at the younger officer for a long moment, saying nothing. His face was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something heavy.
Anthony's gaze lingered on Caleb's profile. His posture shifted subtly, shoulders straightening, chin tilting down just a fraction. His hands clasped loosely behind his back, fingers laced together in a way that seemed casual but wasn't. His expression remained neutral, but there was a glint in his eyes—something sharp, knowing.
He looked like a man pretending not to see a card hidden up someone's sleeve.
Owen caught it too. His smirk returned, smaller this time, almost thoughtful.
A shadow of awareness passed between them, unspoken but present.
Anthony turned his attention back to the screen, his voice smooth. "Regardless of the mythology, we need to focus on facts. The evidence we have. The connections between victims."
"Right," Nia agreed, though her voice lacked conviction.
Caleb's jaw tightened. Without another word, he rose from his chair and walked away, his footsteps heavy against the tile floor.
Owen watched him go, eyes glittering with dark amusement.
"Interesting," Owen murmured under his breath.
---
That night, far from the sterile glow of the station, in a quiet apartment bathed in dim lamplight, Aubrey Wynter lay curled beneath a blanket. The sheets tangled around her bare legs. Her head rested on Tiana's shoulder, her breath slow, heavy.
Tiana stroked her hair, playing with the strands gently, her touch soft and deliberate. The room was silent except for their breathing, but the weight between them carried unspoken tension.
"Are you sure you need to do this?" Tiana whispered, voice edged with worry. "If you go through with it… it could cost you your life. That psychopath isn't just a killer, Aubrey. He's—"
She stopped herself, squeezing Aubrey's hand.
Aubrey lifted her gaze, eyes wet with unfallen tears. Her voice was hoarse, fragile, but unwavering. "I have to. No matter what."
Tiana's grip tightened, fingers intertwining with hers. "Then whatever happens… I'll always be here for you. Always."
Aubrey's composure cracked. A single tear slid down her cheek, followed by another, until she pressed her forehead against Tiana's shoulder and let the grief escape. Gratitude mixed with fear.
They kissed, desperate and tender, lips meeting with the weight of promises that words could never hold.
The night swallowed their silence.