Inside a crowded bar
The place pulsed with noise—music thudding through the floorboards, conversations overlapping into a warm, chaotic murmur. Vince slammed back the last of his beer and set the empty glass on the table with a triumphant sigh. His cheeks were already flushed, his grin loose and crooked from the alcohol.
"Ah, gotta love an open and shut case," he said, voice raised slightly over the din, words dragging at the edges.
Across from him, Vicky nursed a tall glass of ice water, beads of condensation slipping down the side. She glanced at her uncle, brows raised. "Uncle, pace yourself a little. If you keep going like this, you'll be under the table before they bring the bill."
Vince waved her off, sloshing the freshly-poured beer in his hand. "I can handle myself, niece! Your uncle can drink gallons!" he declared, his words slurring together as he tipped more into his glass.
Vicky exhaled a long, patient breath and turned to Marcus, who sat next to her, cradling a lowball of whisky in one hand. "How did you even find the suspect?" she asked, her voice clearer than the others. "Was it really just a guess?"
Marcus swirled the amber liquid in his glass lazily before taking a sip. "Honestly? Yeah," he lied, tone casual. "Just thought—what if the murderer never actually left the scene? What if he was still hiding somewhere?" He gave a slow shrug. "So I checked the roof. And boom—there he was."
Vicky tucked a pale strand of platinum hair behind her ear, frowning slightly. "Hmm. Well, it was a mess. Nearly decapitating his girlfriend with a machete…" she said, her voice lowering as she spoke. "That's beyond brutal."
Marcus nodded, keeping his face neutral. "Yeah. Vile."
But behind his eyes, the truth twisted like a splinter.
Reality had been warped. Alexa's ritual had twisted the narrative, stitching a new reality over the old one. To the world, Eric hadn't murdered his girlfriend in a mindless, supernatural frenzy. He'd killed her in cold blood, with a blade, methodical and sane. No bloodlust, no blackout, no claws or fangs. Just a planned, human murder. Multiple neighbors had called the cops this time, not just one. And Eric hadn't leapt out a window like a creature—he'd simply failed to flee. Everything monstrous had been scrubbed clean.
To Eric, nothing had changed.
To those in the know, nothing had changed.
But to the world? It was just another tragic crime.
"C'mon," Vince slurred, raising his glass in the air, "don't bring that shit up right now. We're off the clock, meanin' we're not cops right now, meanin'—no talkin' 'bout work."
Vicky lifted a hand in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. But I do have one last question."
Marcus tilted his head.
"How come the suits took the suspect?"
Marcus took a slow sip before answering. "I don't know," he said with a shrug. "Don't think anyone does. What they do is… kind of their business. And they never explain what that business is."
The Suits—Always in black. Always arriving just as the paperwork started piling up. To most, they were federal agents—FBI, maybe some obscure branch of Homeland Security. That assumption was intentional. It kept people from asking questions. The truth? They were something else entirely. Ordinary humans, yes, but ones who knew What Lies Beyond The Veil. Supernatural cleanup crews. They didn't like being called hunters, but that was basically what they were. If the police found something they couldn't explain—be it creature, artifact, or anomaly—the Suits showed up, flashed credentials no one could verify, and took it away.
Efficient. Quiet. Gone.
"Well, you talked to them, so I thought you would know something," Vicky said, leaning her head into her hand as she studied him from across the table. Her expression was calm, but there was a quiet curiosity in her eyes. "What did you even talk about?"
Marcus let out a low hum, swirling the whisky in his glass again. "Not much," he said with a shrug. "They just asked what happened when I found him—if he fought back, tried to run. Same thing you asked, really. Wanted to know how I figured out where he was. That's it. They didn't explain anything to me."
Another lie, smooth and practiced. He'd rehearsed these answers before ever stepping foot in the bar, already predicting the questions that would follow. It was second nature now—truth trimmed, reshaped, hidden beneath the surface.
Vicky sighed through her nose and took a slow drink from her glass, the ice clicking softly as she tipped it back. "I just wish we knew what they actually did. Just once."
What he hadn't said—what he wouldn't say—was what really went down. He'd told the Suits everything Eric had confessed: the loss of control, the hunger, the regret. That he hadn't meant to kill her. That he didn't even remember it happening until it was too late. That he still had his humanity. Marcus had stood by that story, like he promised he would.
And the Suits had listened.
They'd decided on a reduced sentence, though Marcus didn't know what that meant coming from them. Their justice system wasn't written in any law book. No trial, no appeal. Just... less. Whatever that was. However, that was the best he could hope for.
"Alright, alright," Vince cut in, waving a hand with sloppy cheer as he lifted his drink. "Enough about work. Let's just relax."
Vicky gave a small nod and straightened up, lifting her glass of water.
"To a better tomorrow," she said.
Marcus and Vince raised their drinks in return, clinking them against hers with a soft tap.
"To a better tomorrow."