Closing The Net

The weight of their presence was suffocating. CPG agents roamed Yuccavale like vultures circling carrion, their uniforms stark against the muted tones of the village. Every morning, I watched them from my office window, their boots pressing deep into the mud, their eyes scanning faces like they were peeling away layers of skin to see what lay beneath.

And I was the prize they hunted. The worst part wasn't their patrols or their interrogations—it was the waiting. The slow tightening of a noose I couldn't see but could feel with every breath.

Captain Stone moved through the village with methodical precision. She asked questions, listened too carefully to the wrong people, stood too long in places where she shouldn't. I caught her near Violet Chambers' inn, speaking with townsfolk who cast nervous glances my way. I saw her outside the church, standing still as if she could smell sin on the wind.

She was looking for me. And I was running out of places to hide. There are moments when silence is more dangerous than words.

The kind of silence where you can feel a man's heartbeat from across the room, where the air is so thick with unspoken tension that it clings to your skin, suffocating like a burial shroud. That's the silence between me and Samuel right now.

He's staring at me, arms crossed, his jaw tight, and I can feel the weight of his suspicion pressing against my chest like a loaded gun. He doesn't need to say it out loud—I already know what's running through his head. I've seen this before. It always starts like this.

"You're not yourself," Samuel finally says. His voice is even, but I catch the slight shake in it, the uncertainty. He's testing the waters, watching for a reaction.

I force a chuckle. "Well, I've been losing sleep if that's what you mean."

"That's not what I mean."

I keep my face still, unreadable.

"Ever since Captain Stone got here, you've been... off," he continues. He's choosing his words carefully, but I can hear the hesitation, the restraint. Like he's afraid of setting me off.

Good. He should be.

"You've been on edge, snapping at people, patrolling at weird hours, disappearing without a word." His eyes narrow. "You flinched when I touched your shoulder yesterday."

Damn it. I hadn't even realized.

"You're being paranoid," I say, trying to keep my tone level.

"Am I?"

He takes a step closer, and suddenly, I feel caged. The office is too small, the air too thick, and Samuel is standing too close. His heartbeat—steady, strong—fills my ears.

"You're hiding something, Barry."

The room shrinks. I can hear the blood rushing in my head. Smell the scent of sweat on his skin. Feel my nails press into my palms, the sharp pain grounding me.

I can't let this happen. Not again. My hand moves before I think. One second, Samuel is standing there, pushing, demanding, accusing—the next, he's shoved against the wooden wall, my fingers curled around his collar.

The sound of his back hitting the wall echoes like a gunshot in the small office. My breath is ragged. My vision tunnels. My muscles coil like they're waiting for the kill command.

Samuel freezes. His hand twitches toward his holster.

If he draws, I'll be faster.

If he shoots, I'll survive.

If he doesn't—

I let go.

Samuel stumbles forward, straightening his uniform. His fingers hover near his belt, not quite reaching for his gun, but close enough that I see the calculation in his eyes.

He's no longer just suspicious.

Now, he's certain.

And that's far, far worse.

I force my voice to steady. "Don't push me, Samuel."

He doesn't blink. "You don't need me to push, Sheriff. You're already falling."

Then he turns and walks out, the door shutting behind him with a finality that feels too much like a lock clicking into place.

I let out a breath. My hands are shaking.

This is bad.

This is really bad.

The fracture has started.

And it's only going to spread. It starts the way these things always do—too fast and too loud. Theb the scream cuts through the quiet like a knife to the throat. Sharp. Raw. Desperate.

My heart slams against my ribs. Before my mind catches up, my body is already moving. My boots crush the dirt beneath me as I sprint toward the sound. I don't hesitate. There's no time to think.

The scent of blood hits me first. Thick, coppery, fresh. It curls in my lungs, sets my teeth on edge. I swallow hard, but it doesn't leave. It never does. I round the corner and the scene erupts into view.

A man is on the ground near the village well, writhing in pain. His leg—God, his leg. Blood pours from a gash so deep I can see bone. His wife is screaming, hands trembling as she presses against the wound, but it's too much. Too fast.

And lying a few feet away, twisted and broken—a mutant. Not like me. Not controlled. This one is feral—or it was. Its body lies limp, ribs caved in, mouth still twisted in a snarl. The thing is barely recognizable as human anymore—its limbs too long, its teeth too jagged.

Someone killed it.

But that's not what makes my skin crawl.

It's him.

Fletcher.

He's standing at the edge of the crowd, half-hidden in shadow, but I see him. And worse—he knows I do.

He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just watches.

Waiting.

I grit my teeth, pushing the wolf down as hard as I can. Not now. Not here.

I kneel beside the man, hands hovering over the torn flesh. Too deep. Too much blood. He'll bleed out before the CPG even gets here.

If I do nothing—he dies.

But if I do something…

I risk everything.

And Fletcher knows it.

I press my hands against the wound. His blood is hot—too hot—and my hands are already trembling. The wolf stirs inside me, that cold, savage part that doesn't care about consequences. It only wants to tear and heal and survive.

I shouldn't do this. I can't. If someone sees

"Help him, Barry," the woman pleads, tears streaking down her face.

Damn it.

I let go.

Just a little.

The change is subtle at first—a ripple beneath my skin, a shift in my blood. My senses sharpen, muscles tense. The claws press at the edges of my fingertips, begging to surface.

I hold them back.

I can't let them see.

The blood beneath my palms slows. My pulse thunders in my ears as the torn flesh starts to close—too fast for human healing, but not fast enough to raise suspicion.

But Fletcher sees.

He tilts his head, lips curling into that same knowing, taunting smile.

He wanted this. He orchestrated this.

I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper. Stay in control.

I feel the last of the wound close beneath my fingers. The man's breathing steadies. He'll live.

But what have I just given away?

Then, a voice cuts through the noise. Cold. Commanding.

"Step aside."

Captain Helena Stone.

I freeze as she strides toward me, her face unreadable beneath the shadow of her hat. The CPG has arrived. Too late to save him—but maybe not too late to destroy me.

Her eyes flick to the mutant's corpse. "What happened here?"

The villagers clamor to speak at once. I force myself to stand, wiping my bloodied hands against my coat. I can feel her gaze flicking over me—too carefully.

"Mutant attack," I say, keeping my voice even. "He's stable now."

Stone narrows her eyes. "He should be dead from a wound that size."

I shrug. "Guess I got lucky."

A pause—too long. I swear I can hear the gears turning in her head. Behind her, Fletcher still lingers at the edge of the crowd. Watching.

I know what he's doing.

He's making me crack.

He wants me to lose control—to expose myself. And he's patient. He'll wait until I do.

Because monsters like him?

They're never in a rush.

Stone steps closer. Her voice drops just enough to twist the knife.

"You've seen this kind of wound before, haven't you, Sheriff?"

I keep my face still. Don't react. Don't let her see.

She's fishing. Hunting.

"I've seen a lot of things," I say, my throat tight. "Mutants tear people apart. That's not new, Captain."

Her mouth twitches—an almost-smile. "No. It's not."

She turns her attention to the body again, but I know this isn't over. Not by a long shot.

The crowd begins to thin as the CPG hauls the mutant's body away. I should leave. I need to leave. But my legs won't move.

Because Fletcher is still there.

And he isn't leaving.

I walk toward him slowly, the weight of the wolf pressing against my skin. "What do you want?" I growl under my breath.

His smile widens. "You already know."

I grit my teeth. "You set this up."

His laughter is soft, almost polite. "Of course I did. But you're the one who decided to play along."

My fists clench. It would be so easy—too easy—to rip his throat out here and now.

But that's what he wants.

"What's your game?" I demand.

He leans in just enough that only I can hear his next words.

"My game, Sheriff? This is no game." His voice drops to a whisper, cold as death. "I'm just reminding you who you really are."

His words crawl beneath my skin, deeper than any claw ever could.

Because I know the truth.

I can play the sheriff. I can try to hold it all together.

But Fletcher?

Fletcher sees what lies beneath. And he knows that no matter how hard I try. A beast can't stay caged forever.

There's a point where a man can take only so much. A moment when the weight of everything—the lies, the fear, the blood—becomes too damn much to carry alone. I think I reached that point tonight.

The sky is ink-dark above us, stars swallowed by the heavy clouds. The air smells like rain, thick with the promise of a storm that hasn't broken yet. The trees around us sway in the wind, whispering secrets in a language only they understand.

I don't want to be here.

I don't want to be anywhere.

But Lillian is here, and somehow, that makes it a little more bearable.

We sit on the porch of her cabin, the old wood creaking beneath us. She's nursing a bottle of whiskey between her hands, her fingers tracing the label like she's debating whether to drink or smash it against the railing.

"Y'know," she murmurs, voice low and tired, "I keep telling myself this village is safe."

I let out a dry laugh. "Yeah? How's that working out for you?"

She turns to me, her lips quirking into something that's not quite a smile. "About as well as you pretending you're okay."

I don't answer.

I can't.

Because she's right.

And I don't have the strength to lie to her tonight. Lillian doesn't push. She never does. She just tilts the bottle toward me in silent offer. I take it.

The whiskey burns its way down my throat, settling deep in my stomach. It's not enough to dull the weight pressing against my ribs, but for a moment, it warms the cold. For a moment, I let myself breathe.

"Samuel's watching me," I say finally, voice barely above a whisper. "Helena too."

Lillian hums, leaning back against the porch. "They'd be idiots if they weren't."

I glare at her, but she just shrugs. "C'mon, Barry. You're jumpy as hell. You're acting like a man with too much to hide."

I stiffen.

She doesn't know how right she is.

"You don't need to do this alone," she says, softer now. "You can trust me."

I close my eyes, feeling the exhaustion seep into my bones. "It's not that simple."

Lillian shifts closer, until our shoulders brush. It's a small thing, that little bit of contact, but it's enough to ground me. To remind me I'm still here.

Still human.

For now.

"You always do this," she murmurs. "You pull away when things get bad."

I exhale through my nose. "Maybe I don't want anyone too close when I finally break."

She scoffs. "That's bullshit, Leighton."

My eyes snap open, and she's staring at me—really staring. There's no pity there. No judgment. Just her. Just Lillian.

"I've seen you bleed for this town," she says, voice fierce. "I've seen you push yourself to the edge, and then keep going because you think it's your damn job to carry everything alone."

Her fingers brush against my hand, barely there, hesitant.

"Let me carry some of it."

My throat tightens.

I want to. God, I want to.

But I can't.

Because if she sees too much—if she knows what I really am—

She'll run.

And she should.

I turn my hand, letting my fingers curl over hers. It's the smallest thing, but she doesn't pull away.

Neither do I.

Maybe I'm selfish.

Maybe I just need this moment—just one. Because everything is unraveling, and I don't know how much longer I can keep the beast buried. But for now, I let myself sit in the quiet. With her.

Because it starts with a whisper. A thought. A crack in the foundation. Then it spreads. Like rot in the walls, like disease in the blood.

And before you even realize it's happening, everything you've built—every damn thing keeping you together—starts to crumble.

I can feel it. The cracks spreading inside me, beneath my skin. The way my hands shake when no one's looking. The way my breath comes too fast, too shallow, as if my own ribs are closing in, suffocating me from the inside out.

I tell myself it's fine. That I'm in control. That I still have time. But I know that's a lie. Because the CPG is still here. Because Samuel is watching me. Because Fletcher is out there, waiting.

Because the killings haven't stopped. And no matter how hard I try to escape it—The Calendar is still hunting me.

The news comes at dawn. A body, found in the river just outside town. Torn apart. Marked.

The way I used to mark them.

The way I used to kill.

The villagers murmur about animals. Some whisper about mutants. Others glance at me when they think I'm not looking.

They don't say it. Not yet.

But the fear is there, creeping in like a sickness.

By noon, Helena Stone and her CPG hounds are combing the area. I watch from a distance, hidden in the trees, heart hammering against my ribs.

It's not just the body that shakes me. It's not just the way they talk about the kill, the precision of it.

It's the fact that I recognize the pattern.

The cut of the blade. The depth of the wounds.

Someone's copying me.

Someone is wearing my sins like a second skin. And I have no idea who.

The walls are closing in. Lillian notices the shift. She sees it in the way I flinch when she touches my arm, in the way I answer questions a second too late, in the way my eyes flick over my shoulder one too many times.

"Barry," she says that night, her voice gentle but firm. "Talk to me."

I don't.

I can't.

Because how do I tell her the truth?

How do I tell her that someone is dragging my past into the present? That someone is painting my sins across Yuccavale in blood?

That I'm starting to question my own goddamn mind?

I haven't blacked out in years. Haven't lost time since I buried The Calendar deep inside me.

But what if I'm wrong?

What if I'm not in control?

What if—

No.

I shove the thought away.

Because if I start to believe it, if I start to doubt myself—

Then it's already too late.

The knock comes at midnight. Soft. Deliberate. I don't answer right away. I sit in the dark, staring at the door, heart pounding too fast, too loud.

Then—

A voice.

Low. Smooth. Familiar in a way that makes my stomach twist.

"Bad time, Sheriff?"

Fletcher.

I don't move.

I don't breathe.

But he knows I'm here.

He always knows.

Slowly, I rise to my feet. My fingers brush the revolver at my hip as I open the door.

And there he is.

Smiling.

Like he owns the night.

"Miss me?" Fletcher steps forward, his boots just barely touching the threshold. "I hear you've been having a rough time."

I don't answer.

His eyes gleam, sharp as broken glass. "People are starting to ask questions, Barry. People are starting to wonder."

He leans in, voice dropping to a whisper.

"And I wonder… do you still remember what it feels like?"

My grip tightens on the gun.

Fletcher's smile stretches wider. "That hunger, Sheriff. That itch beneath your skin. The way your body knows what it wants, even when your mind tells you to run."

I clench my jaw. "You need to leave."

"Or what?" He tilts his head. "You'll kill me?"

His laughter is soft, almost pitying.

"You won't. We both know that."

The shadows stretch behind him, thick and suffocating.

"Think carefully, Barry." His voice is almost playful now, a dagger wrapped in silk. "Because sooner or later… everyone sees the truth."

He steps back. And then—he's gone. But his words stay behind. Sinking into my skin. Burrowing into my mind. And I can't stop the spiral.