Highway 47

The sky above New Belly bruised purple, like it had taken a hit. Rain drizzled sideways, carving thin lines into the mud-soaked forest floor. The road was cordoned off a mile in either direction. Yellow tape flapped in the breeze, a joke against the stench of blood and burnt hair.

Two black SUVs rolled up in formation, engines low and mean.

Doors opened in sync.

Police Commissioner Robert stepped out, coat flaring in the wind. He was flanked by four armored guards from the Metropolitan Response Division—the elite enforcement wing.

Robert took one look at the mess and pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling like a furnace.

"This place smells like a butcher shop in a septic tank," he muttered.

Detective Gopal approached, soaked to the collar, holding out a steaming cup.

"Sorry you had to come out, sir. We—uh—we weren't sure how to classify this one."

Robert took the coffee without asking, sipped, and immediately spat.