The station felt hollow.
Not empty, not quite, but close enough that the silence carried weight. It lingered in the corners, stretched between desks, settled into the hum of flickering fluorescent lights overhead.
Most people had gone home.
It was Saturday.
The kind of day where the world outside kept moving, slow and easy, while inside the Moonstone Police Department things… paused. Calls dropped. Paperwork waited. Officers traded shifts or excuses, choosing rest over routine.
Joe Hawkings preferred it like this.
Usually.
Today, it just made the noise in his head louder.
He sat hunched over his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened enough to hang unevenly around his collar. His jacket was slung over the back of his chair, forgotten hours ago. The white vest beneath his shirt clung faintly to his skin, creased from long hours of sitting, shifting, leaning forward again and again.
A cup of coffee sat to his right.
Untouched and cold.
He didn't even remember when he'd gotten it.
His eyes burned.
Not the dramatic kind of burn, not sharp or sudden. This was slower. Deeper. The kind that came from staring too long, blinking too little, thinking too much. The edges of his vision blurred every now and then, forcing him to stop, rub his eyes, then dive back in anyway.
Because he didn't have time.
He flipped another page.
Then another.
The desk in front of him wasn't a desk anymore. To him, it was a battlefield. Papers layered over papers, folders half-open, notes scribbled in margins, names circled, arrows drawn between things that didn't want to connect but did anyway.
Patterns.
There were patterns.
There had to be.
Joe dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly as he leaned back for a second, eyes lifting toward the ceiling.
You're close.
The thought came uninvited but it stayed.
Closer than you've ever been.
His jaw tightened slightly.
And that was the problem.
Because if he was close…
Then they knew.
A faint pulse of tension ran through his chest, subtle but persistent.
Last night hadn't helped.
He could still see it if he let himself think about it.
The silhouettes.
The eyes.
Watching.
Waiting.
Joe leaned forward again, pushing the thought down, forcing it into the background where it couldn't slow him down.
Focus dammit.
His fingers moved, gathering a stack of documents and aligning them carefully before setting them down in front of him.
This was it.
Everything he had.
Everything he'd spent weeks, months digging through, chasing, piecing together like some kind of puzzle that didn't want to be solved.
And now it was all here.
Condensed refined and dangerous.
He glanced briefly to the side.
The computer screen reflected faintly in his eyes. Then, almost absently, he picked up his phone.
The screen lit up.
5:12 PM.
The numbers sat there for a second before his brain registered them properly.
Five in the evening.
Already.
His gaze lingered just a little longer—
Five missed calls.
All from Sydney.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
A flicker of something crossed his face.
What did you promise her?
The question hit harder than it should have.
Joe frowned slightly, trying to pull it out of the fog in his head.
Was there something today? A plan? Dinner?
Maybe Melanie… did she have something? A recital? A school thing?
His grip tightened slightly around the phone.
Nothing came.
Just more fog.
He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, before setting the phone back down.
Face down.
Not now.
He couldn't afford it.
Not when he was this close.
This is for them.
The justification came easy. Too easily at that.
Everything you're doing is for them.
If he stopped now…
If he lost momentum…
If he let himself get distracted…
All of this would end up meaning nothing.
Joe leaned forward again, pulling the main file closer. The header stared back at him.
He didn't need to read it.
He'd written it.
Rewritten it.
Edited it.
Over and over again.
But he read it anyway; Carefully and deliberately.
Each word mattered and each sentence had to hold.
Because once this left his hands… There was no taking it back.
His eyes moved across the page.
Three families.
Three pillars.
Not confirmed.
Not officially.
But everything pointed there.
The control wasn't loud. It wasn't obvious. It didn't need to be.
It was quiet and subtle. Influence present where it mattered.
Money, information, fear. All things they toyed with in their favour
The Gryphons.
His pen tapped lightly against the desk as he paused on that section.
They were gone, wiped out. Officially, it had been written off as something else. Something cleaner. Something easier to explain.
But Joe knew better.
From his investigation he concluded that their genocidal eradication was done by the Vanes.
An old name. Older than most people in Moonstone even realized. They were werewolf hunters, of course illegal now since the coexistence act was passed.
But regardless of that they had been and still were relentless.
And thorough.
Too thorough.
His jaw tightened.
He should've had more...
More details. Records. Something concrete tying it all together.
But the Gryphons were gone. And with them, whatever secrets they had buried.
Joe flipped the page.
The Riveras.
At first glance they two appeared clean.
Almost too clean.
No obvious ties. No direct involvement in anything that stood out.
Which, in Joe's experience, usually meant one of two things.
They were either genuinely uninvolved…
Or very, very good at hiding it.
He circled a note in the margin, pressing a little harder than necessary.
Then—
The Thornes.
His hand stilled for just a second before continuing.
Everything circled back to them.
Not directly.
Never directly.
But always… close.
The bungalow case.
The murder of Matteus and his whole family.
The way it had been dismissed. Brushed aside. Buried under paperwork and excuses that didn't quite add up.
Joe's pen tapped again, faster this time.
The sheriff...
Nolan, he suspected he was a puppet. Or at least… that's what it looked like.
Too many coincidences.
Too many moments where procedure had been ignored, bent, reshaped to fit something else.
Joe leaned back slightly, exhaling as he rubbed his temples.
You sound crazy.
The thought crept in quietly.
You know how this looks, right?
He did.
A detective claiming three powerful families secretly controlled the city through corruption and coercion.
Accusing the sheriff of being involved.
Suggesting an underground war between werewolves and hunters.
It sounded insane.
It looked insane.
And yet—
The evidence sat right in front of him.
Not enough to prove everything beyond doubt.
But enough to point in one direction.
One very dangerous direction.
Joe straightened slightly, pulling the final pages closer.
His statement.
Clear.
Direct.
Confidential.
Addressed to the mayor.
He read through it again, slower this time.
Making sure.
Checking.
Refining.
'The people of Moonstone deserve to know the truth.'
His eyes lingered on that line.
For a moment, something flickered there.
Doubt, Fear and resolve.
Then it was gone.
Replaced by something steadier.
Something harder.
He set the papers down.
Satisfied.
Not comfortable.
Not safe.
But satisfied.
Tomorrow.
He'd go to the mayor tomorrow.
Joe leaned back in his chair, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Around him, the station remained quiet.
A couple of officers passed by in the distance, their voices low, casual.
One of them slowed slightly as he glanced toward Joe's desk.
"Man," the officer said, half-laughing, "you still here?"
Joe didn't look up.
"Yeah."
"It's Saturday," the guy added. "Go home. Your family's gonna forget what you look like."
A faint smirk ghosted across Joe's face.
"They'll manage."
The officer shook his head, chuckling as he walked off.
"Suit yourself, Hawkings."
The sound of his footsteps faded.
Silence returned.
Joe sat there for a second longer.
Then he reached forward, gathering the files into a neat stack.
Careful and precise.
He tapped them lightly against the desk, aligning the edges.
His eyes flicked toward the drawer.
That's where he usually kept things like this.
Locked and secure.
Routine.
His hand hovered over the handle.
Paused.
Something in his chest tightened slightly.
Not safe.
The thought came sharp.
Immediate.
He pulled his hand back slowly.
No.
Not there.
Not tonight.
Joe glanced around the office.
Still quiet.
Still empty.
Still—
Too exposed.
He stood up, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair, slipping it on without fully buttoning it. The fabric felt heavier than usual, like it carried more than just weight.
His phone buzzed faintly on the desk.
He didn't check it.
Not this time.
He placed the phone firmly in his pocket then picked up the files, holding them firmly against his side.
This didn't stay here.
Not anymore.
Joe turned toward the exit, footsteps echoing faintly against the floor as he moved through the dimly lit station.
Each step felt deliberate and measured.
Like crossing a line he couldn't uncross.
The doors loomed ahead. Glass transparent doors.
A little too transparent for his taste.
He slowed slightly as he approached, his reflection staring back at him. He looked tired and worn. But still standing.
Still moving.
Joe pushed the door open.
The evening air hit him immediately, cooler, sharper, carrying the faint sounds of a city winding down.
For a moment, he just stood there listening and watching.
Something about it felt…
Off.
He couldn't explain it.
Couldn't point to anything specific.
But the unease settled in anyway, quiet and persistent, like a whisper just out of reach.
Joe stepped forward.
And the door clicked shut behind him.