The witness

The director's office exuded an air of authority, a space designed for strategic decisions and confidential discussions. The walls, painted deep navy blue, were adorned with framed commendations, awards, and photographs capturing moments of triumph and unity. A large, polished oak desk dominated the room, meticulously organized with neat stacks of paperwork, a high-end laptop, and a secure phone line.

Behind the desk, a wall-to-wall window revealed a panoramic view of Grogan town below. The golden hues of the setting sun painted the cityscape, casting long shadows over the bustling streets. The director's leather chair creaked slightly as he leaned back, his eyes focused on the lady before him.

Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with reference materials, law texts, and classified files, their spines marked with years of expertise. The faint scent of aged paper and leather bindings lingered in the air, a testament to the wealth of knowledge contained within.

A single potted plant sat on the windowsill, its leaves stretching towards the fading light. The director's personal touch in an otherwise formal environment, a reminder of life and growth amid the weight of the responsibilities that came with the job.

The room exuded an aura of quiet intensity, an atmosphere where decisions were made, and actions were taken. It was a place where the complexities of law and order were distilled into strategies and plans, and where agents like Cassandra reported for duty, ready to face the challenges that awaited them.

A large, polished FBI emblem hung prominently behind the director's desk."Have a seat, Agent. How is your shoulder? Any progress?" The director's voice, though firm, carried a note of concern.

Cassandra gingerly approached the chair, her arm cradled in a brace and sling. Her face bore the marks of recent skirmishes, a testament to her dedication. She eased herself into the chair, the leather creaking slightly under her weight.

"It's healing, sir," she replied, her voice resolute. "The medical team says I'll be back in action soon."

The director nodded, his eyes assessing but appreciative. He knew Cassandra's reputation for tenacity and resolve, qualities that had seen her through countless missions. They were traits that defined her as one of the agency's best.

"Good to hear, Agent. Now, let's get down to business."

The director picked an envelope from a drawer labeled 'classified' and out of the envelope he produced photos. He handed them to Cassandra. "This is our guy. He claims he saw what you saw but explained it differently. He says he saw witches torching up a vampire in the forest."

Cassandra leaned in, studying the photos intently. "Who is he? And where did you get him?"

The director stood and fetched two glasses and a bottle of wine from across the room. He returned to the table, offering to pour a glass for Cassandra, who politely refused. "Thank you, water will do," she said.

The director nodded, filling his own glass with a deep red wine. He sat on the edge of the table, facing Cassandra. "Marcus... his name is Marcus, a cab driver in Wallace town. He was found in the woods by patrol police; they think he's insane. I called our friends at the CIA to do some digging."

Cassandra's disappointment was evident. "The CIA? You can't have them meddle with my case."

The director chuckled lightly. "Easy tiger," he said jokingly, "we have good working relations with the CIA. We share intelligence and logistics when needed."

He stood up, motioning for Cassandra to follow. They wove their way through the busy FBI workstation, agents engrossed in their tasks.

They reached the interrogation room, its window clear enough to observe the subject within. Marcus sat at the table, his hands cuffed to the surface. His eyes darted around, wild and desperate. He suddenly turned towards the security cameras, yelling, "Let me out! I'm telling the truth. The woman is real!" He clutched his head with both hands, as if tormented. "She took my friend Sofia. I need to know if Sofia is okay."

Cassandra's brow furrowed. "What woman is he talking about?"

The director's voice was low and somber. "He says he saw a woman, powerful, a manifestation of a witch..."

Cassandra couldn't wait any longer. She stormed into the room where Marcus was, her gaze piercing and determined.

She turned to the guard, her tone unwavering. "Give me a notebook and a pen."

The guard promptly retrieved a notebook and pen from his pockets, handing them over to Cassandra. She settled into a chair and began to sketch, her movements deliberate and focused. Marcus sat in silence, his eyes fixed on the woman before him.

When Cassandra completed the drawing, she extended it to Marcus. As he took the paper, his features contorted in shock and fear. The image seemed to evoke a visceral reaction from him.

Marcus pulled his chair back, eyes wide with awe and trepidation. "She is the witch I'm talking about. She has this... levitating magic," he stammered, attempting to mimic the mystical display. "Something I've never seen before."

Cassandra leaned in, her tone reassuring. "Easy, Marcus. I've encountered her too. She's killed some of my best agents. I want to bring her to justice."

The weight of the situation settled on Marcus, his eyes reflecting a mixture of fear and disbelief. "Impossible. With all the best you had, she ripped you to shreds. What makes you think you stand a chance?"

Cassandra's gaze was steady. "Strategy, Marcus. In a battle of strength, the lesser opts for strategy."

Marcus leaned back, his mind racing. "It's like there's a whole different world out there. I mean, I knew witches were real, but vampires? This changes everything," he mumbled to himself. "Are there werewolves? Demons, angels? Demigods? Oh, shit."

Cassandra met his eyes, her resolve unyielding. "That's what I'm about to find out, and I'll need your help, Marcus."

"Why me? I'm not an agent. I can't hold a gun. You must be joking," Marcus protested.

Cassandra's voice was steady. "Why you? Because you believe. You've seen it. Those fellow agents of mine," she motioned toward the door, "they look at me every day like I'm insane. You understand what it's like to be labeled insane when you're telling the truth."

Marcus weighed his options, deep in thought. Finally, he sighed, resigned. "I'm in."