Chapter 1 ~ A Dark Past
Angus sat on his front porch, watching as the sun sank below the horizon, the last of its golden rays bled through the canopy, surrendering day to night. A creeping fog rolled in - an expected visitor, the previous owner said, born of the land's strange hollows. It settled over the earth in a thick blanket, heavy with the weight of silence, stirring the memories he fought to bury.
Today, like every year on this cursed date, shame, hatred, and grief clawed at his chest. Shame for the blood he'd spilled, hatred for the monster he became, and grief for his victims - beings as human as he, despite what he'd once believed - who'd died pleading.
Barely a year had passed since he was locked up in Oregon State Penitentiary, where he served six years. Six years since he fled the horrors of his former life, leaving his brothers and their merciless legacy behind. Yet the past clung to him, as stubborn as the fog, and tonight it felt closer than ever.
A low rumble pierced the stillness, followed by the crunch of tires on gravel. Angus's head snapped up, his pulse quickening as headlights sliced the dusk. A blue Dodge Charger rolled up the driveway, its searchlights pinning him like a criminal. Police, he thought, a familiar dread coiling in his gut. This can't be good.
"You Angus Johnson?" The Black detective stepped out, badge glinting on his belt. His partner, lean and twitchy followed, hand hovering near his holster.
"That'll be me. Who's asking?" Angus's voice rough, like he'd swallowed sand.
"Detective Griffins and This is Burkhardt," the first said, eyes hard. "We're here about a murder. Got a symbol you might know, a Sterbestunde G?"
Angus's stomach lurched. How did they find me already? His past as an Endezeichen Grimm, blood covered hands, Wesen shrieks echoing from his nightmares, clawing its way back. "Not sure what you're talking about." he said, posture shifting to further hide hidden tattoos.
"Where were you Friday night?" Burkhardt cut in with a tilt of his head, fingers brushing his holstered weapon.
"Here. Don't leave this place much." Angus said, his stance rigid, eyes flicking to the detective's hand.
"Anyone to back that up?" Griffins pressed, stepping closer. "That symbol's tied to your old crimes. Your arrest photos say you wore it proud too."
"I'm done with that life," Angus cut in, voice low and steady, but his heart hammered. I'm not going back. Not to that. The weight of what he'd done pressed against his ribs. "And I'm alone out here."
"So no one to corroborate. We'll have to take you in..", Burkhardt said, his body tense expecting a fight, "Got some questions for you."
Angus met his eyes, then nodded slowly. "Fine." He turned, knees sinking to the dirt, hands laced behind his head as gravel bit into his skin, a small sting compared to the ghosts haunting him.
Burkhardt exchanged a glance with Griffins, suspicion carved into his face as he approached
"That went easier than expected," Detective Burkhardt muttered.
His jaw tightened, head hung as he replied, "Told you. I ain't that man no more."
***
After arriving at Portland's south police precinct, Angus was shoved into an "interview" room , A sterile box with nothing more than a scarred metal table, three rickety chairs, the classic one-way mirror, and a door that locked from the outside.
They'd left him stewing in there for over an hour, the fluorescent buzz drilling into his skull.
Same as the first time.
Through the one-way mirror he could almost feel eyes locked to him, needles prickling his skin. The door clicked open, swinging inward with a deep groan. The same two detectives strode in, Griffins leaned against the wall, Burkhardt slapped a folder down.
"Take a look," Burkhardt said, voice flat and hard. "That's Adrian Zayne's body. Tortured before just before those - made to confess to the kidnapping of Donna Reynolds."
Angus flipped open the folder, the glossy photos spilling out like accusations. A blood-smeared wall, a corpse hanging from a ceiling. His gut untwisted as he saw it: the Sterbestunde G, painted on the wall in crimson, stylized like a grinning skull. More of them branded into Zayne's chest, raw and weeping. Not the them. A copycat. The most of his doubts evaporated - this reeked of his old life, but it had to just be a coincidence. The body's all wrong, too showy its amateurish.
"That symbol," Burkhardt continued, jabbing a finger at the photo, "is quite unique. I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about.", his knowing, probing eyes bored into Angus. Wait.. he knows. This could be bad. Is a he wesen or just a human who's been told?
"I'm not sure what you're getting at." Angus feigned ignorance, his voice gravelly.
Burkhardt's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. "You're not fooling anyone. You know exactly what I'm talking about.", he spat, tapping a finger to the symbol in the photos, "You're a Grimm." He paused, letting the words sink in, waiting for a reaction. "And so am I."
Angus stared, stunned. "You're.. a Grimm?", shit.
"Yeah," Burkhardt said, leaning in close enough for Angus to smell the coffee on his breath. "And I've got Wesen friends. I won't let you hurt them, or anyone else.", Angus was thrown for a loop, a Grimm with wesen friends? How is that possible? Surely he's lying, there must be an angle I'm not seeing.
"The fuck are you trying to get at?", Angus growled, his tone steely. "You think I'm stupid enough to believe a Grimm could have wesen friends?"
"I don't care what you believe, and the only thing I'm getting at", his tone turned soft, full or promise, "is that I know you did it." he paced, face scowling, "Hell, it's not like you even tried to hide it. God, you Endezeichen make me sick."
"I am not an Endezeichen!" Angus snapped, his fist crashing down, denting the metal table with a dull thud. Silence engulfed the room as pain shot through his knuckles, he barely felt it in the heat of his rapidly escaping anger. "Look," he huffed, deflating in the chair. "I'm not the same man I was before. I left that life behind." I changed, but I will never forget them.. their blood-curdling screams, the blood. His gaze fell upon his rough, calloused hands, and the dark blood that drenched them, seen only by him.
Griffins leaned away from the wall, steering the conversation. "You expect us to believe it's a coincidence? Someone gets carved up an Endezeichen Grimm, you just happened to move here not long ago?
His eyes flicked to the photos, the Sterbestunde G glaring back in crimson. Definitely not their work. Too weak-willed. "That wasn't done by an Endezeichen, that", an edge to his voice, he jabbed a finger at Adrian Zayne's mutilated corpse- "is an copy-cat at best."
The air turned heavy, fluorescent buzz sharpening, Griffins eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?"
"I mean it's a fake." Angus said, leaning forward, the chair creaking under him. "One of us- One of them didn't do that. You would know if it was, that you can trust me on. And this-", he pointed at the skull-shaped G branded on Zayne's chest. "That's slop. Everything about it screams amateur. The burns are uneven, and that one on the shoulder-", he tapped a faint-purplish mark, voice sharpening, "wasn't even close to hot enough. Some wannabe amateur playin' kiddy games.", Angus snarled, only just realising how heated he was.
Burkhardt's jaw clenched, his gaze flicking to Griffins, a doubtful-suspicion thick between them.
"I know Endezeichen work.", Angus muttered, his voice dropping, heavy with the weight of old sins. "Check the crime scene I was arrested for. You'll see the difference." His gaze fell to the table, memories clawing their way up. Wesen pleading, terrorised eyes saw through his soul, his blade wetted with their families, reflecting the horror it caused.
'I'm not that monster anymore.'
The detectives shared a hard, silent glance, then turned and left, the door's metallic click sealing Angus inside. Reminders still splayed before him, each brand a taunt from a past he couldn't seem to outrun.
***
"Jesus. The things this guy must've done.." Monroe muttered, upbeat attitude gone, replaced by a tundra of coldness as he glared through the window.
The air in the observation room hung thick with tension, through the window, fluorescent bulbs cast harsh shadows on Angus's slumped form.
"Sorry, Monroe. Had to drag you in to confirm he's a Grimm," Burkhardt said, his voice sombre, laced with the fatigue of a long, hard day. "You can head out if you want."
"Yeah, I think that's a good idea. I'll give Rosalee a call as well," Monroe replied, a flicker of his usual self returning at the thought. "Need some normal after that absolute vibe."
As Monroe slipped out, Burkhardt stepped closer to the glass, eyes locked on Angus. "You think he's telling the truth? About the copycat?"
Griffins rubbed his jaw, uncertainty writ across his face. "Not sure. Something's not adding up though, that's for sure. We should have been able to find something to connect to him by now."
Burkhardt nodded grimly. "We should dig into those old crime scenes again. Compare the murders, see if he is telling the truth."
Griffins grimaced, the photos' bloody details flashing in his mind. "Not thrilled about it, but yeah - it's a lead." He exhaled heavily, shoulders sagging as the three of them left the room.
"Enough for tonight though, lets go home, get some sleep and come at it fresh tomorrow.", eye's still honed to their target, Burkhardt decided, "Lets lock him in a cell - solo, he rot in there while we get some sleep. If he's lying, we can't let him near anyone… wesen or human."
The observation room door clicked shut behind them, glass reflecting only the flicker of the dying lights. Angus sat motionless in the connected room, his silhouette a dark smudge against the blood-streaked photos splayed on the table.
If he's lying, we cant let him anywhere near anyone… wesen or human. The words echoed in the empty room, a lingering warning for the wary.
Down the hall, a cell door groaned open, ready to swallow Angus within its depths.
***
An hour later, Angus lay slumped against the leaky-cell's cold, concrete wall, the damp chill seeping into his bones. The police station's holding block reeked of old sweat, the air heavy with distant shouts and the clanging of metal gates.
His knuckles, still aching, a dull reminder of his outburst. Not an Endezeichen. Not them. The thought gnawed at him, dragging up old demons that were better of hidden.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but the damned refused to stay buried. Something was coming - whether it was the copycat or the clan, he couldn't be sure. But he could feel it spread through the air, he wouldn't be able to hide forever.
For now though, he'd try to get some sleep. Maybe the dreams wouldn't be as bad tonight.
A hopeful thought.