The cursor blinked accusingly at Detective Mitsuki Yamada, its steady rhythm matching her heartbeat as she stared at the half-finished report on her screen. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, the next sentence trapped somewhere between her mind and her hands.

  Missing. Missing. Always missing something.

  She touched her blue streak reflexively, lost in thought. The precinct buzzed around her like an overturned beehive—phones ringing, printers humming, voices rising and falling in a chaotic symphony of bureaucracy. But here at her desk, time seemed to slow, each blink of the cursor stretching into infinity as she searched for the right words.

  “...theatrical elements consistent with suspect’s background in drama...” she typed, then immediately deleted it. Too clinical. Too detached. As if Rick’s “theatrical elements” hadn’t left real victims in their wake.

  Her tongue pressed against her cheek as she caught movement in her peripheral vision—Agent Garvin from the Enhanced Development Agency striding through the bullpen like she owned it. The federal agent’s presence had become a constant reminder of how quickly the world was changing. Even the FBI seemed caught off guard by the emergence of arma users, scrambling to establish new protocols and jurisdictions.

  Mitsuki shifted to the balls of her feet instinctively as Garvin approached, but the agent merely nodded and continued past. Small mercies.

  The report still needed finishing. Mitsuki’s digits returned to the keyboard:

  “Suspect Maverick ‘Rick’ Munson used the group therapy sessions to spot and prey on vulnerable enhanced individuals. His theater background helped...”

  “She stopped again. How had they missed it? The fires had marked a perimeter around the community center, and the victims were always male arma users. Stevie’s instincts had been right—if he hadn’t pulled off the case, if he’d attended those support group sessions himself, he would have seen the connection sooner. The pattern was so obvious now—each murder orchestrated around massive infernos, with theater blocking markers scattered around the victims. Rick hadn’t just been killing people; he’d been directing his own twisted performance art.”

  “Here’s the prelim from the hotel basement.” Officer Sullivan dropped another manila folder onto her already crowded desk. “Fair warning—it’s rough.”

  Mitsuki nodded her thanks, though ‘rough’ was laughably inadequate. She’d lived that basement’s definition of ‘rough.’ Everything about this case had been rough, from the moment she’d first sensed something wrong at Lance Lawthorn’s apartment to the final confrontation in the tunnels beneath the Durview Hotel.

  She opened the folder, then immediately closed it again as images of that concrete room flooded her mind. The single bulb casting shadows. Those hollow-eyed girls huddled in the corner…

  No. She forced herself to reopen it. This was her job. This was what she’d trained for. The fact that she could still feel phantom tendrils of Rick’s mental influence trying to worm their way into her mind was irrelevant.

  “Detective Yamada?” A voice pulled her from her thoughts. “Line two—another insurance adjuster about the gym fire.”

  “Take a message.” The words came out sharper than intended, but she couldn’t deal with more questions about “enhanced involvement” right now. Not when she was still trying to piece together her own involvement.

  Her gaze drifted to the murder board still standing in the corner of the bullpen. Someone—probably Mateo from Violent Crimes—had labeled it “The Superhero Board” in what they probably thought was clever irony. But there was nothing heroic about the photos pinned there.

  The burned bodies from the first victims, their flesh twisted by uncontrolled power.

  The cathedral crime scene, the priest crushed beneath tons of the fallen bronze angel.

  Photos from Titan’s Den showing the blackened ruins of the gym, the entire lobby melted into twisted shapes.

  And at the center of it all was Rick’s photo with that benign smile aimed at the camera, a headshot dug up from his brief stint teaching drama at Ridgemont Valley High since it was the only picture they’d managed to find of him after everything went down, while red string connected him to each incident like a spider in the center of its web.

  “Nice work on the trafficking case.”

  Detective Morris appeared beside her desk, coffee cup in hand. “The commissioner’s particularly pleased we wrapped it up before the feds could take over.”

  “Thank you, Morris.” The words tasted like ash in her mouth. They hadn’t “wrapped up” anything—they’d stumbled onto Rick’s operation purely by chance, following Wren’s psychic breadcrumbs into that basement. If she’d been better at her job, if she’d seen the signs sooner...

  “You’re being too hard on yourself,” Morris said, as if reading her thoughts. “No one could have predicted this.”

  But we should have, she wanted to say. I should have.

  Instead, she simply nodded and turned back to her report. The cursor continued its relentless blinking.

  “Suspect demonstrated advanced mental manipulation abilities, using them to...”

  To what? To control? To dominate? To defile in ways that defied traditional criminal classification? How did you document mental invasion in a system designed for physical evidence?

  Her phone buzzed again. One more insurance company, probably. They’d been calling non-stop since the gym incident, desperate to understand their liability in a world where “acts of God” now included people who could bend reality with their minds.

  She started to ignore it, then paused. There was something there, tickling the edges of her detective’s instincts. The insurance companies weren’t just asking questions—they were creating precedent. Every report they filed, every claim they processed, was helping to define how society would handle enhanced incidents going forward.

  But they couldn’t retroactively deny existing claims. Which meant...

  Mitsuki pulled up the gym’s insurance policy, scanning quickly until she found what she was looking for. The policy had been written before the NARS pandemic, before anyone knew the arma phenomenon would emerge. There was no exclusion for power-related damage.

  She made a note to tell the owner. At least something positive would come from this mess.

  The afternoon light slanted through the precinct windows, casting long shadows across her desk. She’d been here since dawn, trying to impose order on chaos through the power of proper documentation. But some things resisted documentation. Some horrors couldn’t be contained in standard police reports and evidence logs.

  Like the moment she’d felt Rick’s power take hold of her mind, twisting her thoughts until she couldn’t trust her own perceptions. Or the look in those women’s eyes when she finally found them, huddled in that basement cell. Or the way Lance Lawthorn had—

  She stopped that line of thinking. Lawthorn was a separate issue. A separate case. A separate set of red strings on the murder board.

  Focus on what you can prove, she told herself. Focus on the facts.

  “Suspect’s enhanced abilities manifested following experimental NARS treatment...”

  The words flowed easier now, generic, clinical detachment providing a shield against the memories. She documented Rick’s known victims, his methodology, his eventual confrontation with law enforcement. Each paragraph brought order to chaos, transformed nightmares into evidence.

  But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something. Some crucial detail that would bring clarity to it all.

  The device lit up with a new message. This time it was Dr. Rodriguez, asking about enhanced trauma counseling for the victims. Mitsuki added it to her growing to-do list, right below “interview surviving victims” and “coordinate with EDA task force.”

  A new case file landed on her desk—another enhanced-related incident across town. She set it aside for now. One monster at a time.

  The cursor continued its steady rhythm as she typed:

  “Suspect showed advanced planning and premeditation in target selection...”

  The words felt hollow, inadequate to capture the full scope of Rick’s crimes. How do you document the systematic destruction of trust? How do you quantify the damage done to a support group meant to help people cope with their newfound abilities?

  Officer Sullivan appeared again, this time with coffee. “Thought you could use this.”

  Mitsuki accepted it gratefully, noting the shadows surrounding Sullivan’s eyes that probably matched her own. The entire precinct had been running on caffeine and adrenaline since the enhanced cases started piling up. Since NARS hit.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  “Any progress on the reports?” Sullivan asked.

  “Getting there.” Mitsuki gestured at her screen. “Just trying to make sense of it all.”

  Sullivan nodded sympathetically. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  The coffee was terrible—precinct coffee always was—but it helped clear her head. She returned to the report with renewed focus:

  “Suspect utilized community center support group to identify potential victims...”

  Another claims adjuster on the line. Another federal agent strutting through the bullpen. Another case file landing on her desk.

  The cursor blinked. The phones rang. The printers hummed.

  And somewhere in the city, other arma users were out there, their powers growing, their stories unfolding. Some would become victims. Some would become villains. And some...

  Some would become something else entirely.

  But that was tomorrow’s problem. Today, she had a report to finish. Today, she could impose order through documentation, even if it was just an illusion of control.

  Her fingers moved across the keyboard with new purpose:

  “This investigation has revealed systematic targeting of enhanced individuals through exploitation of support systems meant to protect them. Recommend immediate review of all similar support groups and implementation of enhanced screening protocols...”

  The cursor blinked. The world changed. And Detective Mitsuki Yamada continued typing, determined to get it right this time. To see what she had missed before. To document every detail, every connection, every red string on the evidence wall.

  Because somewhere in those details, hidden in the spaces between official statements and case records, was the truth she needed to find. The pattern she needed to recognize before the next Maverick Munson emerged from the chaos of this brave new world.

  Her screen flashed with an incoming call. This time, it wasn’t an insurance rep.

  A calendar notification popped up on her screen:

  Meeting with Captain Longly - 5 minutes.

  Location: Captain’s office.

  Mitsuki stared at her phone, then at the incomplete report on her screen, then at the wall of evidence with its web of connections.

  Her mantra played on repeat: Missing. Always missing something.

  The cursor blinked one final time before she saved her work and reached for her coat. The report would wait. Her boss wouldn’t.

  As she headed for the door, Agent Garvin called out, “Detective Yamada? A moment of your time?”

  But Mitsuki was already gone, leaving only the echo of her footsteps in the busy precinct. The murder board watched her go, its red strings swaying slightly in the air conditioning breeze, as if reaching for connections just beyond their grasp.

  She jabbed the elevator button hard enough to chip her nail. Like sharks circling a life raft. Everyone wanted a piece of her time, her attention, her nonexistent insights into the enhanced cases.

  She stood before the door with Captain Longly printed on its frosted glass, chest tight with everything she’d have to recount. Then she pushed it open.

  The captain studied something on his monitor, light from the screen reflecting off his wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Have a seat, Detective.”

  She settled into the familiar vinyl chair, already anticipating the conversation. A muscle in her jaw twitched.

  “I’ve been reviewing your report on the Durview Hotel incident.”

  Her heart skipped. The ticking of his desk clock felt deafening.

  “You did good work finding those girls.”

  “Thank you sir.”

  “You could have died down there.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Mental manipulation. Like something out of a movie.”

  “That’s what the victims reported.”

  His eyes remained on the folder. “Walk me through it.”

  “Several enhanced individuals located in the hotel basement. Two of interest: Richard Munson wielding some form of psychic control. Lawthorn...” She paused, choosing her words. “Present at the scene.”

  Captain Longly finally looked up. “You’ve only been with us for a few weeks, Detective. But I know you. You don’t do vague.”

  “Sir?”

  “The medical examiner flagged some... irregularities with Munson’s injuries.” He removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’ve never seen trauma like that. Almost like his face was... crushed from the front. What exactly happened down there?”

  She gulped. The clock ticked four times.

  “I had it wrong. About Lawthorn.”

  “You were thorough. Professional.”

  “And wrong.”

  “Yet he was there. At every scene.”

  Her knee bounced like a dying engine, until she forced it still. “Everything happened very quickly, sir. The suspect was neutralized while attempting to assault an officer.”

  “By whom?”

  Keep it vague, she told herself. Stick to the facts. “The situation escalated rapidly. Multiple enhanced individuals were present.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Right. Two weeks of suspecting Lance, building a case against him, only to discover Rick was the real monster. The guilt settled deep in her body, making even breathing feel like work.

  “Detective?”

  “The basement was poorly lit. The women were screaming.” Each word felt like pulling teeth.

  “Yamada.” His voice softened. “This isn’t a formal inquiry. I need to understand what we’re dealing with. These enhanced cases don’t fit our usual playbook.”

  She studied the wall behind him, where his commendation certificates hung in neat rows. “You read my earlier reports. About Lance Lawthorn.”

  “Your primary suspect, yes. Before we found Munson’s operation.”

  “I was wrong about him.”

  The captain leaned back, waiting.

  “I had tunnel vision. Saw connections that weren’t there. Meanwhile, Rick was...” Her hands clenched in her lap. “He was in my head, sir. All of us. Like puppets.”

  “And Lawthorn stopped him.”

  It wasn’t a question. Mitsuki’s chest stopped.

  Her hand found her blue streak, then dropped deliberately. “He terminated Munson.”

  The clock ticked louder. Her words might as well have destroyed Lance’s life. But procedure was procedure.

  The captain was silent for a long moment. “You left that detail out of your report.”

  “I know.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he saved my life. The girls too.”

  “By crushing a man’s face with his bare hands.”

  “No. Because he did what we couldn’t.” The sentence spilled out before she could stop it. “We had no defense against Rick’s abilities. No containment protocols. No way to—” She forced herself to stop.

  “To what, Detective?”

  “To protect people from someone who could control minds.”

  Captain Longly studied her, his expression unreadable. “The Enhanced Development Agency is pushing for mandatory registration. They’ll want Lawthorn brought in.”

  “For defending himself? For saving the missing girls? For protecting an officer?”

  “For killing a man with superhuman strength. They’ll classify him as a potential threat.”

  The unfairness of it burned in her chest. “He’s not the threat. He was an asset. “

  “Maybe not. But after this...” He gestured to the report on his screen. “The FBI’s Enhanced Crime Unit will take jurisdiction. Standard procedure won’t apply.”

  She stared at her hands in her lap. She’d tried to protect Lance by omitting details in her report, but when directly questioned, her instinct for truth-telling had won out. And now that honesty would cost him. She needed time—to reconcile her duty as a detective with the reality of this new world, where sometimes the right thing and the legal thing weren’t the same.

  She looked up to find the precinct captain studying her, almost as if he were reading her mi—

  The very thought of being read so easily made it hard to breathe.

  “Detective Yamada, Dr. Robertson has evening hours. She’s been helping a lot of officers process… well, these times. The enhanced cases—they don’t come with a playbook.”

  “I need to take a leave of absence.”

  “Not you too—” But Mitsuki had already stood up, her movements calm and precise. She closed the door behind her with a soft click, leaving the captain’s words hanging in the empty air.

  The insurance companies could wait. The federal agents could wait. Everything could wait.

  Because somewhere in this city of superpowered individuals and broken trust, of power and corruption, of heroes and monsters, there was peace to be found. And Mitsuki Yamada intended to find it, one quiet moment at a time.

  She rolled her shoulders as she stepped outside, noticing how heavy they’d become. Behind her, the precinct continued its chaotic dance of phones and printers and voices.”

  But ahead of her...

  Ahead of her lay stillness. Or clarity. Or both.

  The city stretched before her, its shadows growing longer as the day waned. When was the last time she’d walked these streets without searching for evidence? Without analyzing every shadow for threats? Without seeing monsters in every corner?

  Mitsuki let her badge swing at her hip one last time, then turned toward home, leaving the blinking cursor and the damning content on her monitor behind. Her mind wouldn’t quiet itself.

  But maybe that was okay.

  And this time, she would listen to what it needed.

  This time, she would let it rest.

  The city embraced her as she walked away from the precinct, its streets alive with the simple rhythms of ordinary life. Above her, the sky burned orange with the setting sun, painting everything in gentle warmth that seemed to wash away the darkness of recent days.

  Or perhaps they were just moments of grace, waiting to be appreciated in their own time.

  Either way, Mitsuki Yamada was ready.

  This time, she would take a break.

  This time, she would find the calm hiding in plain sight.

  This time...

  This time would be different.

  The station vanished around a corner, its chaos fading into the gentle hum of the city. But she carried its weight with her—the half-written report, what Mateo had dubbed their ‘superhero’ corkboard, the faces of those caught in this new reality.

  They would wait for her, these ghosts in the machine. These tangled threads. These questions that had no easy answers.

  Because sometimes healing wasn’t in what you could force.

  Sometimes it was in what you allowed yourself to feel.

  And Mitsuki Yamada was tired of forcing things.

  The sun sank lower, painting the city in shades of amber and gold. Her apartment waited with its promises of silence.

  Or perhaps just more thoughts.

  Either way, she was ready.

  The cursor could blink all it wanted.

  Peace wouldn’t wait. Not any more.