Chapter Twenty-Five

  "Suspended pending investigation."

  The words hung heavy in the air as Chelsea sat across from Chief Wallace, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. The chief's expression remained a stoic mask, but there was a glint in his eyes that betrayed satisfaction. He sat behind an imposing mahogany desk, the office walls adorned with awards and commendations that seemed to mock her current position.

  "This is bullshit," Chelsea muttered, her voice low but firm. "You know it wasn't my fault."

  "What I know," Wallace replied, leaning forward slightly, "is that twelve officers are dead, including your partner. What I know is that you let a suspect escape after he decapitated Corey right in front of you. And what I know is that the mayor is breathing down my neck for answers."

  "So, I'm the scapegoat," Chelsea said bitterly. The leather chair beneath her felt suddenly uncomfortable, too soft and yielding compared to the hard reality of her situation.

  "You're the one who brought him in. You're the one who insisted on handling it without SpecOps. This is on you, Smith."

  Chelsea caught the deliberate omission of "Detective." She was already being erased from the department. The realization stung more than she expected.

  "Badge and gun," Wallace said, extending his hand, palm up. "And your credentials."

  The words hit harder than she expected. Chelsea's jaw tightened as she unhooked her badge from her belt and set it on the desk. Her service weapon followed, and then her ID. Each piece felt like a fragment of her identity being stripped away. The badge, symbol of her oath to protect and serve, made a soft clink as it hit the polished wood.

  "All case files related to this suspect will be transferred to SpecOps," Wallace continued. "You are not to discuss the matter with anyone, inside or outside the department. Understood?"

  "Crystal clear," Chelsea said, her voice icy. She fought to keep her expression neutral, refusing to give Wallace the satisfaction of seeing her pain.

  "Good." Wallace's tone was clipped and final. "You can clean out your desk. I want you out of the building in thirty minutes."

  Chelsea stood slowly, her movements measured. She didn't trust herself to speak further without saying something she couldn't take back. After eight years in the Virion Police Department, this was how it ended—not with respect or understanding, but with quiet humiliation.

  As she turned to leave, Wallace called out again.

  "One more thing, Smith."

  She paused, but didn't turn around. The office felt suddenly colder, the air conditioner humming softly in the background.

  "Consider yourself lucky. There were calls to bring charges against you for negligence. I talked them down."

  Chelsea turned her head slightly, fixing him with a cold glare. "How generous of you."

  Wallace smiled thinly. "Yes, it was. Don't make me regret it."

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  She left the office, closing the door firmly behind her. She wanted to slam it, to feel the satisfying crash reverberate through the walls, but that would only give Wallace more ammunition to justify this farce.

  Out in the bullpen, the atmosphere was tense. Officers stole furtive glances at her as she walked to her desk, their conversations dipping into awkward silences. The room, usually buzzing with activity, seemed to hold its breath as she passed through.

  Chelsea kept her head high, refusing to let them see the anger simmering beneath the surface. Her desk was plain, practical—a reflection of how she worked. There wasn't much to pack. A few files, a spare jacket, and a mug Corey had given her last Christmas.

  "World's Okayest Detective," it read in bold letters. Chelsea smiled faintly, running her thumb over the worn surface. Corey had laughed so hard when she'd unwrapped it. The memory of his booming laugh echoed in her mind, making his absence even more pronounced.

  "Going somewhere, Smith?"

  The voice was smarmy, mocking. She looked up to see Richards leaning against a nearby desk, his smirk practically radiating smugness. His immaculate uniform and perfectly styled hair were a stark contrast to Chelsea's disheveled appearance.

  "Back off, Richards," she said coolly, returning to her task. She placed the mug carefully in her box, wrapping it in her spare jacket for protection.

  "Hey, no offense," Richards said, spreading his hands. "Just wondering what your plans are now. Private security? I hear the Red Hand is hiring."

  A few nearby officers chuckled. Chelsea ignored them, continuing to gather the few personal items from her desk. A photo of her graduating the academy, a small potted plant Corey had insisted would "liven up the place."

  "Or maybe not," Richards continued, his tone growing more malicious. "Word is, Vorshawn Red isn't too happy with you either. Bringing in the guy who's tearing apart his operation? That's bad for business."

  Chelsea froze, her fingers tightening around the edge of her desk. "What did you say?"

  Richards shrugged. "Just repeating what I heard. Your boy in the fancy armor hit three more Red Hand locations last night. Made quite a mess."

  Chelsea frowned. The man was specifically targeting the Red Hand. But why? What connection did he have to them? The questions swirled in her mind, the detective in her refusing to let go even as she was being forced out.

  "Chelsea."

  She turned to see Liam Chen, one of the few officers she trusted, standing at the edge of her desk. His expression was grim. Unlike the others, his concern seemed genuine.

  "Walk you out?" he asked quietly.

  Chelsea nodded, picking up her box. As they moved through the bullpen, she felt the weight of eyes on her back. The whispers started as soon as she was out of earshot. Their words weren't audible, but their intent was clear, she was now an outsider, a cautionary tale.

  Once they reached the elevator, Liam spoke. "Don't listen to Richards. He's just enjoying the show."

  "Is it true?" Chelsea asked. "About the Red Hand?"

  Liam hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Witnesses described the same guy, red hair, black armor, some kind of axe. Over twenty confirmed dead across three locations."

  The elevator dinged, and they stepped inside. The confined space made their conversation feel more intimate, more honest.

  "Any idea why he's targeting them?" she pressed.

  "No. SpecOps is handling it now. They've locked everything down, files, witnesses, everything. Even I can't access anything."

  The elevator doors slid open, and they stepped into the lobby. The city outside bustled with its usual chaos, oblivious to the personal storm raging within Chelsea.

  "What are you going to do now?" Liam asked as they approached the exit.

  Chelsea shrugged. "I don't know yet." But even as she said it, a plan was beginning to form in her mind.

  "Be careful," he said. "This guy, whoever he is... he's dangerous."

  Chelsea nodded, managing a faint smile. "Thanks, Liam."

  He gave her a small wave before heading back inside. Chelsea stood on the steps for a moment, watching the ebb and flow of Virion's streets. The city didn't care about her fall from grace. It just kept moving.

  But she wasn't done yet.

  Setting her box down, she hailed a cab.

  ________

  Ambrose sat in the dim light of his safehouse, running a cloth over Akaroth's gleaming blade. The dragon axe emitted a low rumble, not unlike a purring beast. The weapon's edge caught what little light filtered through the blinds, reflecting it in sharp, dangerous glints.

  Your mind is elsewhere, hatchling.

  "No, it isn't," Ambrose replied, continuing his work. The rhythmic motion of the cloth against metal was soothing, almost meditative.

  You cannot lie to me. Your thoughts are as clear as the sky to me.

  Ambrose sighed, setting the cloth aside. "Fine. I'm thinking about the cop."

  The one whose head you removed?

  "Yes."

  He shouldn't be bothered by it. The man had attacked him, it was self-defense. And yet, the look in Smith's eyes afterward lingered in his mind. Not hatred, but something colder. Shock. Emptiness.

  He'd seen that look before, on civilians caught in crossfire, on soldiers who'd lost comrades. He'd seen it in his own reflection after Alice's death.

  You spared her, Akaroth wondered. Why?

  "She wasn't corrupt," Ambrose replied simply. His fingers traced the runes etched into Akaroth's handle, feeling the ancient power that pulsed within. "I don't kill without cause."

  Yet her partner was. Interesting that they worked together so closely.

  "It doesn't matter," Ambrose said finally, more to himself than Akaroth. "It's done."

  If you say so, the dragon axe rumbled, her tone laced with skepticism.

  Ambrose stood, strapping Akaroth to his back. The axe settled into place, a comfortable weight he had grown accustomed to. Through the window, he could see the sun setting over Virion, painting the city in hues of crimson and gold. The towering skyscrapers reflected the dying light, windows blazing like fire.

  Tonight we hunt bigger prey, Akaroth commented, anticipation in her voice. I look forward to tasting Vorshawn's blood.

  Tonight, he would go to the Crimson Eclipse. Vorshawn Red would answer for his crimes. And the Tree of Avalon would grow stronger.

  Nothing else mattered.