The Red Floor Incident (2)

The news had spread like wildfire. Every major news channel was broadcasting live from the scene, their cameras pointed at the warehouse wrapped in yellow police tape. Reporters scrambled around, trying to get statements from the officers standing guard at the perimeter. The banner on the screen read:

"BREAKING NEWS: THE RED FLOOR INCIDENT – POLICE INVESTIGATING MASSIVE CRIME SCENE."

The name had already caught on.

Crowds gathered outside the barricades, whispering among themselves, speculating about what had happened inside the warehouse. The sheer volume of blood had led some to believe it was the site of a mass murder, while others threw around wild theories—some even suggesting a cult ritual gone wrong.

Inside the crime scene, Darren adjusted his gloves as he stepped into the warehouse. The smell of blood was thick in the air, mixed with something fouler, something wrong. He had seen a lot of crime scenes in his career, but this one was different. The blood wasn't just pooled on the floor—it was everywhere. Smeared across the walls, dripping from the ceiling, and staining every inch of the room.

He exhaled sharply, trying to keep his stomach in check.

Calloway, standing beside him, looked around with his usual unreadable expression. Unlike Darren, he wasn't rattled.

"The press is all over this," Calloway muttered, clicking his pen before flipping open his notepad. "We need to wrap this up before they start spinning their own stories."

Darren wasn't listening. His eyes were locked on the patterns of blood across the floor. Something about it wasn't right. It wasn't just splatter from an attack—it was too much. It looked like something had burst in the middle of the room.

He turned to Calloway. "You ever seen anything like this before?"

Calloway shook his head. "No, but we've got a forensic team working on it. Could be some sicko playing around with explosives. If the body was rigged, it would explain the mess."

Darren frowned. "If it was an explosion, wouldn't there be something left? Burn marks, chemical residue?"

Calloway glanced around. "We'll let forensics handle that. Our job is to figure out who the hell was here before this happened."

Darren turned back to the blood-covered warehouse, his gut tightening. He still couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

And when Darren got a bad feeling about something, he knew better than to ignore it.

---

Outside the warehouse, the flashing red and blue lights reflected off the wet pavement, casting long shadows across the abandoned lot. Officers huddled together, exchanging hushed conversations, while forensic teams moved in and out of the crime scene.

A young officer jogged toward Detective Calloway and Darren, holding a clipboard. His face was tense.

"Sir, we ran the plates on that car parked outside." He adjusted his grip on the clipboard. "The registration is under a Maxwell Carter."

Calloway's brows furrowed. "Who's that?"

The officer flipped a page. "Twenty years old. No criminal record. Lives in an apartment not far from here. But here's where it gets interesting—he's the disciple of George Cross."

Darren's eyes narrowed slightly. He had heard of George Cross, a retired exorcist with a reputation. He wasn't just some fraud scamming desperate people—his name carried real weight.

"Wait, wait," Calloway rubbed his temple. "You're telling me this crime scene—the most bizarre, gruesome shit I've seen in years—just so happens to have a car parked outside belonging to an exorcist's disciple?"

The officer nodded. "We don't know if he's directly involved, but the fact that his car was here is suspicious enough. If he wasn't inside, he saw something."

Darren exhaled, staring at the crime scene tape fluttering in the wind. If Max Carter was here, then who else was?

"Do we have an address?" Calloway asked.

"Already sent officers to his apartment. If he's home, we'll bring him in for questioning."

Darren nodded, but a weird feeling settled in his stomach. Something about this case was off. The amount of blood. The brutality. The complete lack of a body. And now, a link to exorcists?

---

Meanwhile, inside the warehouse, a forensic investigator crouched near the center of the crimson-stained floor. With gloved hands, he picked up a small, partially burnt piece of cloth with strange symbols faintly visible.

An officer standing nearby frowned. "What is that?"

The forensic tech studied the fabric, then placed it into an evidence bag. "Looks like part of a robe… but not just any robe." He hesitated. "This isn't normal fabric—it's been treated with something. I'll need to run tests, but my guess? Ritualistic."

Darren, still standing at the entrance, overheard the conversation and clenched his jaw.

"First, an exorcist's disciple. Now, ritualistic clothing?"

This case was getting worse by the second.

The press had swarmed the perimeter of the crime scene, their cameras flashing like a relentless lightning storm. Reporters shoved microphones toward officers, shouting over each other.

"Detective Calloway! Can you confirm if this is a murder scene?"

"Is it true that there was no body found?"

"Some witnesses claim to have seen something... unnatural inside. Any comment?"

Calloway ignored them as he stepped back into the warehouse, Darren following close behind. The further in they went, the heavier the air felt. The scent of blood had thickened, mixing with the stale stench of dust and rust.

Near the far wall, forensic specialists were setting up their UV lights, scanning every surface for additional evidence. The entire floor was drenched in blood, but there were no signs of bones, flesh, or organs. Just a sea of deep red, as if someone had been completely erased from existence.

Darren crouched beside the mess, examining the patterns of the splatter. "No drag marks, no footprints leading away... No way someone just cleaned this up. Whatever happened here, it was instantaneous."

Calloway stood beside him, arms crossed. "You think our missing body evaporated into thin air?"

Darren didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked at the bloody scorch marks against the walls—charred black streaks that looked almost... unnatural.

Before he could say anything, another officer hurried over. "Sir, we got something."

"What now?" Calloway muttered.

The officer handed him a plastic evidence bag containing a burnt piece of paper. Even through the damage, strange symbols could still be made out, twisting and curving like some forbidden language.

Darren's stomach twisted at the sight of it. The symbols looked familiar. He'd seen something like this before—not in police records, but in old folklore cases.

Calloway scowled at the page. "The hell is this?"

One of the forensic specialists adjusted his gloves. "It's from some kind of ritual. We're running tests to figure out what was used in the ink. But from the way the edges are burnt, this wasn't a normal fire."

Darren felt the weight of the case settling deeper onto his shoulders. Blood everywhere. A missing body. Symbols and burnt remains. A parked car belonging to an exorcist's disciple.

What the hell were they dealing with?

---

(At Max's Apartment)

Two uniformed officers knocked firmly on the door.

"Maxwell Carter? This is the police. Open up."

Silence.

One officer glanced at his partner. "Doesn't seem like anyone's home."

His partner frowned and took out his radio. "This is Unit 14. Subject is not at the residence. Do we have any active locations on him?"

Static crackled before a voice responded. "Negative. No current locations. Car is still at the warehouse, though."

The officer sighed. "We'll wait here for a bit. If he doesn't show, we'll escalate."

---

(Warehouse - Continued)

Darren exhaled slowly as he and Calloway stepped outside. The cold air hit them instantly, a sharp contrast to the suffocating atmosphere inside.

Darren pulled out his phone, scrolling through old case files—he needed to be sure of something.

"Darren." Calloway's voice was serious.

Darren looked up. "Yeah?"

Calloway was staring at Max's car. "If this kid was here, he knows something."

Darren clenched his jaw. "Then we better find him before this gets any worse."

The crime scene was still buzzing with officers, forensics, and press swarming outside. But Calloway had seen enough. He slammed his notepad shut.

"We're not getting anything else here," he muttered.

Darren glanced up from where he was crouched near the footprints they found earlier. "So, what now? Keep chasing ghosts?"

Calloway smirked. "Nah. We chase an old man."

Darren raised an eyebrow. "George Cross?"

Calloway nodded, lighting another cigarette. "Maxwell Carter isn't home. He's officially our prime suspect, but those two other footprints tell me he's not alone in this shitstorm. We need to start asking the right people. And who better than the former exorcist who trained him?"

Darren leaned against the police cruiser. "You think he'll talk?"

Calloway exhaled smoke. "George Cross is a retired legend, but he ain't dumb. He knows something. The real question is, how much of it is he willing to share?"

Darren nodded. "Alright. Let's go have a chat with the old man."

The road stretched long ahead of them. Calloway drove in silence at first, fingers tapping against the wheel. The weight of the case hung between them like a fog.

Darren finally broke the silence. "You really believe this is just some gang shit gone wrong?"

Calloway chuckled dryly. "That's what we're supposed to believe. But you and I both know that ain't it."

Darren frowned. "Then what do you think it is?"

Calloway sighed, staring out the windshield. "I've been doing this job too long, kid. Every now and then, a case lands on your desk that just doesn't fit the script. No drugs, no gang tags, no known turf wars. Just a fuck-ton of blood and no goddamn body."

Darren leaned back in his seat. "And that's what bugs you?"

Calloway nodded. "Exactly. Either someone cleaned that place up fast, or whatever happened in there wasn't normal."

Darren hesitated before speaking. "And what if it really wasn't?"

Calloway shot him a look. "If you're about to start talking ghosts and demons, I swear to God—"

Darren smirked. "Relax, I ain't that far gone yet. Just saying—if this Maxwell Carter guy and his pals are into some occult bullshit, that could explain a lot."

Calloway took another drag from his cigarette. "Yeah, well, let's see what Grandpa Cross has to say about it first."

They pulled up outside the small, worn-down house. The place didn't scream "former exorcist", but something about it felt too still.

Calloway killed the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt. "Ready?"

Darren cracked his knuckles. "Always."

They stepped out of the car, boots crunching against gravel.

Knock. Knock.

The door to George Cross's house stood before them.