The Hunt Begins

The precinct buzzed with activity, a cacophony of ringing phones, urgent footsteps, and murmured conversations. Officers moved briskly through the hallways, files in hand, their faces set with determination—or exhaustion. The faint hum of fluorescent lights added to the undercurrent of tension that never truly left this place.

In the briefing room, Captain Dalton stood at the head of the table, his presence commanding despite the weariness etched into the lines around his eyes. Jack and Sarah sat across from him, notepads poised, though their expressions betrayed equal parts focus and frustration.

"Alright," Dalton began, sliding a folder across the table with a sigh that hinted at more than professional fatigue. "Here's what we've got so far on Greg Walters' murder."

Jack flipped the folder open. Stark photographs stared back at him: overturned furniture, an unlocked door, a single gunshot wound that ended it all. A life reduced to evidence, shadows, and bloodstains.

"No prints. No DNA. No witnesses," Dalton continued, his tone heavy with annoyance. "The crime scene was sanitized, as if the killer had all the time in the world. Walters was tied to Coyote, and you don't walk away from a network like that without consequences. Someone wanted him dead—cleanly, precisely."

Sarah leaned forward, her brow furrowed, her pen tapping absently against the notepad. "Coyote isn't just a group; it's a system. If this was a vendetta, the shooter wasn't some thug off the street. That shot through the skull? Precise. Calculated. Someone with skills wanted this to send a personal message."

Dalton nodded, his gaze flicking between the two detectives. "Exactly. Dig into Greg's connections. Turn over every rock. We're not just chasing ghosts here—we're hunting a predator."

Jack exchanged a glance with Sarah, something unspoken passing between them—a silent acknowledgment of the weight this case carried. "We're on it, Captain."

As the two left the room, Sarah's voice dropped to a whisper, her sharp instincts refusing to settle. "Something about this feels wrong. Whoever did this didn't want to be found, but it's almost like they wanted us to know they were here."

Jack's jaw tightened, his mind replaying the sterile crime scene, the almost-too-clean details. "Then we figure out what they're hiding—and why."

At home, the comforting aroma of roasted chicken filled the dining room, a stark contrast to the sterile crime scene images still lingering in Jack's mind. The soft glow of the overhead light cast gentle shadows across the table, where Jack sat across from Maya. The faint hum of their shared silence was broken only by the soft clink of utensils.

"How was work?" Maya asked, her voice even, but her fingers fidgeted with her napkin, twisting it into knots.

"Busy," Jack replied, his tone distracted as he absentmindedly pushed food around his plate. "Captain put me on a new case."

"Oh?" Maya's hand stilled, her grip tightening slightly on her glass. The tension was subtle, almost imperceptible, like a thread pulled too taut. "What case?"

"Greg Walters. Do you know that name?" Jack asked casually, his gaze warm and trusting, oblivious to the ripple of anxiety his words caused.

Maya's chest tightened, but she forced a puzzled frown, her fork pausing mid-air. "Greg Walters? No, doesn't ring a bell. Was he someone important?"

Jack shrugged, his focus drifting back to his plate. "Not exactly. Just a guy tied to trouble. Feels like we're chasing shadows. Clean crime scenes like that? It's not your average hit."

Maya forced a smile, though her throat felt dry. "Sounds... intense." She hesitated, her words carefully chosen, then rushed out in a breath. "Jack, I've been distant lately, and I've taken it out on you. I'm sorry. I've been stressed, but that's no excuse."

Jack looked up, startled by her sudden vulnerability. He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers gently. "Maya, it's okay. We've both had a lot on our plates. But I'm glad you said that."

The doorbell interrupted the fragile moment. Jack rose, opening the door to Sarah, who stood tapping her watch impatiently, her expression all business. "Come on, Jack. We've got work to do."

Jack shot Maya an apologetic look, leaning down to kiss her cheek before grabbing his jacket. "We'll talk more later."

Maya watched him leave, her composure crumbling the moment the door clicked shut. She sank into the couch, her hands trembling as they gripped her phone.

Her finger hovered over a number she hadn't dialed in years. Calling it meant opening a door she couldn't close. But Nash's return wasn't something she could face alone.

With a sharp inhale, she pressed call.

The voice on the other end was sharp, the tone impatient. "This better be important."

"It's Nash," Maya whispered, her voice trembling. "He's alive."

A pause hung in the air, thick and disbelieving. "Impossible. Nash was killed six years ago."

"I know what I saw," Maya hissed, her words tumbling out like fragile glass. "He's back—and he killed Greg Walters. I've seen him."

The voice softened slightly, though the edge of danger remained. "If that's true, we have a problem. Stay quiet. Don't let anyone know you've seen him. We'll take care of it."

Miles away, in a sleek, dimly lit office, four figures sat in silence around a glass table, the city lights flickering like distant stars beyond the towering windows.

The man with silver hair tapped his pen against the table, each tap measured, deliberate—a slow countdown of growing tension. "If Nash is alive, we can't wait. He's unpredictable—and lethal."

The woman across from him adjusted her glasses, her tone calm but firm, though a flicker of concern darkened her gaze. "Rushing in would be a mistake. Nash is too clever. He's not acting alone. There's something bigger here."

The silver-haired man slammed his fist on the table, the sharp sound slicing through the tension like a blade. "Greg wasn't just anyone. Nash didn't just kill him—he sent us a message. We can't ignore that."

The woman hesitated, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass before she nodded slowly. "Fine. But we send someone skilled—discreet enough to eliminate Nash but sharp enough to uncover the real threat."

The decision was made.

Night blanketed the city, streetlights casting long shadows that stretched like fingers across cracked pavement.

Nash stood across from the crime scene, his figure blending seamlessly into the darkness, the cold air biting against his skin like an old, familiar adversary. His eyes tracked Jack and Sarah as they exited the building, their conversation animated but muted by distance.

Jack felt a prickle of unease, his instincts sharpening like a blade honed over years on the force. He paused, his gaze sweeping the area until it landed—briefly—on Nash. A shadow. There, then gone.

"Something wrong?" Sarah asked, glancing at him, her hand resting casually on her hip, near her badge.

Jack shook his head, though the tension in his shoulders lingered. "No. Just thought I saw something."

In the shadows, Nash lingered, his lips curving into a faint, razor-thin smile.

They think they're hunting me, he thought. But they don't realize... I've already started the game.

The hunt was on. But who was hunting who?