PTRD(Paranormal Threat Response Division)

A sharp knock echoed through the quiet neighborhood. It was firm and deliberate—police knocks were always easy to recognize.

Inside the house, Richard's grandmother paused in the middle of drying a plate. Her hands stiffened around the cloth, and an uneasy feeling settled in her chest. The evening had been peaceful so far, but that knock shattered any sense of comfort.

She set the plate down and made her way to the door, her worn slippers making soft thuds against the wooden floor. As she reached for the handle, a thousand thoughts ran through her mind.

Why would officers be here?

Her first thought was George. He had a sharp tongue and an even sharper temper, and if he had run his mouth at the wrong person again, it wouldn't be the first time officers had come knocking. But then, a darker thought crept in.

Richard…

Her breath hitched slightly, her fingers gripping the handle tighter. Slowly, she pulled the door open.

Two men stood outside.

The first was tall and broad-shouldered, his posture rigid. His face was hard, lined with exhaustion and irritation, like someone who had seen too much and was always a step away from losing patience. Officer Calloway.

Beside him stood a younger man, leaner, but just as serious. His slicked black hair was neat, and his sharp eyes held a quiet intelligence—Darren.

Richard's grandmother forced a polite, albeit hesitant, smile. "Good evening, officers. What brings you here?"

Calloway gave her a brief nod. "Ma'am. We're here to ask your husband a few questions."

Her stomach twisted. "Questions?"

Her voice wavered slightly. She knew how these things went—police didn't just show up for "questions." They came for answers, and more often than not, those answers led to problems.

Her mind immediately went to the worst.

Her lips parted, and before Calloway could clarify, she anxiously asked, "Why would officers be standing outside my home unless… unless George got into some trouble again?" Her throat tightened. "Or… is it Richard?"

Calloway sighed, as if already growing tired of the conversation. "There's nothing to worry about," he said, though his tone was anything but reassuring. "We just need to ask George about Maxwell Carter."

She blinked in confusion. "Maxwell?"

"Yes," Calloway continued, shifting his weight slightly. "His car was found at a crime scene. We went to his home to question him, but he wasn't there, so we thought George might know where he is."

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "A crime scene?" She hesitated. "What kind of crime scene?"

Darren, who had remained quiet until now, subtly glanced at Calloway, as if urging him to tread carefully. But Calloway had no patience for sugarcoating things.

"A violent one," he said bluntly.

Her face paled.

Before she could say anything, another voice cut through the tension.

"What's all this noise?"

The officers turned their heads as George stepped out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a rag. His sharp gaze flickered between the two men before settling on his wife, who looked far more distressed than she had been a moment ago.

His expression darkened slightly. "What's wrong?"

Calloway took a step forward. "We'd like to ask you some questions about Maxwell Carter."

George arched a brow but said nothing right away. Instead, he casually glanced past the officers, his gaze shifting toward the street.

And that's when he saw them.

Just across the road, tucked behind a stone wall, three figures crouched low.

Max. Richard. Amelia.

For a brief moment, George's fingers curled around the rag in his hands, squeezing it just a little tighter.

Damn kids.

He let out a slow breath through his nose before turning his focus back to the officers. His face remained unreadable, but inside, he knew exactly what this meant. If they were hiding, it meant they were involved. And if they were involved, it meant trouble—deep, serious trouble.

He stuffed the rag into his pocket and squared his shoulders. "I'm not in the mood for questioning," he said, his voice flat.

Calloway's brow twitched. "This is an important matter—"

"I know my rights," George cut in smoothly. "And I choose to remain silent."

A tense silence followed.

Calloway exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. "You're obstructing an investigation, old man."

George tilted his head slightly, his lips twitching into the ghost of a smirk. "Oh yeah? Then arrest me."

The challenge hung in the air, thick with unspoken tension.

Darren shifted slightly, sensing the rising hostility. He had seen this happen before—Calloway was the kind of officer who had little tolerance for defiance, and George… well, George was the kind of man who enjoyed pushing buttons just to see how far he could take things.

Calloway's fingers twitched at his side, his patience wearing dangerously thin.

"Look," he said, voice tight. "I don't have time for your stubborn old-man act. Just tell us what you know—"

George's expression darkened. His voice was low but firm.

"Get off my damn porch."

A muscle in Calloway's jaw twitched. His fists clenched at his sides, and for a second, Darren could see the fire in his eyes.

Darren reacted fast, stepping between them. He threw out an arm, blocking Calloway from moving forward. "That's enough," he said firmly.

Calloway's eyes snapped toward him. "Move."

"No." Darren's voice was quiet, but his stance was unwavering. He lowered his voice, just enough so only Calloway could hear. "Think for a second. If you take a swing at him now, you'll be suspended." His tone turned colder. "You're already on thin ice, officer Calloway."

Calloway didn't move for a moment. His breath came out in slow, heavy exhales as he tried to rein himself in.

Finally, he let out a sharp huff and stepped back.

"Fine."

Darren turned back toward George, giving him a brief but knowing look. It wasn't an apology, but it was an acknowledgment.

Calloway shot George a glare. "We'll be back," he muttered.

George merely lifted a hand and gave him a mock-friendly wave. "Looking forward to it."

Darren dragged Calloway back toward the patrol car.

George watched them drive off, hands slipping into his pockets. Only when their car disappeared down the road did he finally shift his gaze toward the stone wall again.

He raised his hand and motioned.

"Get your asses over here."

Max, Richard, and Amelia exchanged glances before quickly sprinting across the street toward the house.

As soon as they stepped inside, George shut the door behind them with a heavy thud.

And that's when all hell broke loose

The front door slammed shut with a heavy thud, the sound echoing through the small house like a war drum.

Max barely had time to take a breath before he felt a rough grip on his collar.

"The hell did you three do?"

George's voice was like gravel scraping against stone—low, rough, and filled with barely restrained fury. His grip was strong, yanking both Max and Richard closer, their collars twisted in his fists.

Richard's grandmother gasped. "George!"

"Not now," George growled, his sharp eyes locked onto the two troublemakers in front of him. "Spill it. Now."

Max, for once, wasn't his usual smug self. "Okay, okay, old man, relax—"

"Relax?!" George shook them slightly, his grip tightening. "I just had two damn cops on my doorstep threatening to arrest me, and you want me to relax?" His gaze flicked toward Amelia, who had wisely taken a step back, pressing herself against the wall. "And you—what the hell were you thinking, getting mixed up in whatever mess these two idiots dragged you into?"

Amelia stammered. "It—It's not like that—"

Richard raised his hands, his voice firm but not aggressive. "Grandpa, listen. We didn't have a choice."

"You always have a choice, dumbass," George snapped.

Max groaned. "Oh, for fuck's sake, can we just explain instead of getting choked out?"

George let out a sharp breath through his nose before shoving them away, releasing their collars. Max stumbled slightly, rubbing his neck. Richard, though steady, still looked tense.

George folded his arms. "Talk."

Max exhaled. "Alright. But don't freak out."

"I live in a constant state of freakout with you two around," George muttered. "Spit it out."

Max and Richard launched into the story, explaining everything from their investigation, Oliver's capture, the cult, and the summoning of a demon from the underworld. Amelia added details where she could, but for the most part, George's face remained unreadable.

Richard's grandmother, however, looked horrified. She clutched the end of her apron tightly, her knuckles turning white.

"How… how could a human do something like that to their own kind?" she murmured.

George didn't answer immediately. He simply exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair before finally speaking.

"They aren't human," he said grimly.

His wife turned to him, confusion etched in her features. "What?"

"These people—these cultists, whatever the hell you want to call them—" George shook his head. "They may look human. They may bleed like humans. But they're monsters." His voice was steady, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. "They stopped being human the second they decided to go down that path."

Silence settled over the room like a thick fog.

Richard swallowed hard. Even though he had fought spirits and seen horrors most people wouldn't believe, something about hearing George say that made it feel… heavier.

Like it was worse than he had even realized.

George exhaled, rubbing his temples. "You should've let me handle this."

Max scoffed. "Oh yeah? And what would you have done, Grandpa?"

George shot him a glare. "First, I would've not gotten my car caught at the crime scene like a dumbass."

Max opened his mouth to retort, then shut it. "...Okay, fair."

George sighed, rubbing his face. "Alright. I'll call my friend on the PTRD. But before we do anything else—"

He pointed at them, nose wrinkling.

"Wash yourselves. You fucking reek."

Max rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah."

Richard let out a tired breath, tension easing ever so slightly. They weren't out of trouble yet, but at least now, they had George on their side.

Richard let out a slow breath, the weight of everything settling in. They weren't out of trouble, not even close, but at least George was on their side now.

Max, however, was far less reflective. He stretched his arms behind his head and let out a loud sigh. "Alright, since Grandpa is handling things, I guess that means we can relax, yeah?"

George shot him a glare. "Relax? Boy, I should knock your damn teeth out."

Richard's grandmother, still visibly shaken, stepped in between them. "Enough," she said, rubbing her arms as if trying to ward off a chill. "This is serious, George." Her voice was quiet but firm. "These… these people… summoning spirits? Sacrifices?" She shook her head. "It's like something out of a nightmare."

George's expression softened just slightly. He walked over and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I know," he murmured. "But that's why I need to make this call."

She nodded, though the worry never left her face.

George turned back toward the trio, eyeing them up and down. "You three stink."

Max smirked. "Yeah, well, Richard set a dude on fire, and I spent half the night playing hostage negotiator. Hygiene wasn't a priority."

George pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just… go wash up. I don't want the house smelling like a goddamn battlefield."

Amelia, who had been relatively quiet, nodded. "I'll clean up first." Without waiting for permission, she turned and headed down the hall toward the bathroom.

Max clapped his hands together. "Great. Richard, you can scrub my back."

Richard shot him a disgusted look. "I'd rather let the cult sacrifice me."

"Suit yourself." Max shrugged, heading toward the sink to at least wash his face.

With the three of them momentarily distracted, George walked toward the kitchen, pulling out an old, dust-covered phone book from a drawer

George leaned against the counter, stretching out his stiff shoulders as he picked up the phone. His old, dust-covered phone book lay open on the counter, pages yellowed with time. He traced a finger down the list of numbers, stopping at a name he hadn't dialed in years.

He took a deep breath, then punched in the numbers.

The line rang.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Click.

A deep voice answered, smooth and composed. "Haven't heard from you in a long time, old man."

George let out a gruff chuckle. "Guess I've been enjoying retirement too much."

The voice on the other end snorted. "That's a damn lie."

George exhaled. "You been watching the news?"

A brief pause. "You mean the Red Floor Incident?"

"That's the one."

"Of course I've heard about it. Everyone has. The department's a mess over it. No bodies, no clear leads, just a blood-soaked warehouse that looks like something crawled through it." The voice lowered slightly. "And a whole lot of missing people."

George rubbed his temple. "Yeah, well… that's why I'm calling. I need a favor."

The voice on the line stayed quiet for a moment before replying. "Go on."

George's fingers tapped against the counter. "The Red Floor Incident wasn't just a murder scene. It was a curse."

The man on the other end sighed. "I was afraid you were going to say that."

"A bad one," George continued. "Someone set it on a kid named Oliver. The curse killed everyone in that damn warehouse. It wasn't a gang hit, wasn't some psycho with a knife—it was a spirit. And the guy behind it?" George's eyes darkened. "Called himself Raven."

Silence.

It stretched long enough that George thought the call had disconnected.

Then—

"...You said Raven?"

George's grip on the receiver tightened. "Yeah."

The man on the other end let out a slow breath. "That's a big name these days."

George's stomach twisted slightly. "Bigger than I want it to be?"

"Much bigger," the voice confirmed. "I don't know how deep you want to get into this, George, but if you're dealing with Raven, you're already in deeper than you should be."

George sighed. "Yeah, well, I don't have a choice."

A pause. Then, "What do you need?"

George glanced toward the living room, where Richard and Max were still bickering about something dumb. Amelia sat quietly, drying her hair, her face still pale from the night's events.

"I need you to clear my grandson and my disciples names."

A small chuckle from the other end. "They in trouble again?"

"This time, they didn't do shit," George muttered. "They were there, yeah. But they didn't cause the damn massacre—the ghost did."

The voice on the other end hummed in thought. "That's gonna be a tough one. The case is hot, and there are people in the department who are just itching to pin it on someone."

"Well, it ain't gonna be my kid or his dumbass disciple," George said firmly. "Look, just—get the heat off them. Make sure their names aren't anywhere near the final report."

There was a sigh on the other end. "I'll take care of it."

George let out a slow breath. "Appreciate it."

"Don't thank me yet," the voice muttered. "The real problem is still in front of you."

George rubbed his jaw. "Yeah… and that's where I need the second favor."

The voice on the other end sighed. "Figured as much."

"I need information on Raven."

A long silence.

Then—

"You're not gonna like what I find."

George let out a dry chuckle. "I already don't like what I know."

The voice lowered. "You really should've stayed retired, George."

George's expression darkened. "Yeah, well… retirement's overrated."

The man on the other end sighed. "Fine. I'll dig into it. But listen to me carefully—if Raven is really behind this, then you and your boys are standing at the edge of something a lot bigger than you realize."

"I know," George muttered.

"No. You don't." The voice was firm. "This isn't just some cult, George. It's a movement. And if you've already crossed paths with them…" A deep inhale. "Then they know about you too."

George's jaw tightened.

The voice continued. "I'll call you when I have something."

Click.

The line went dead.

George stayed still for a moment, staring down at the phone, his grip tightening around the receiver. He had been in this world long enough to know when things were about to spiral out of control.

And this? This was just the beginning.

He placed the phone back down, rubbing his temple before making his way back to the others.

Max raised an eyebrow. "You look even grumpier than usual. That's a bad sign."

George ignored him, instead walking over to Richard. He placed a firm hand on his grandson's shoulder, looking him straight in the eye.

"Listen to me, boy," he said, voice low and serious. "Whatever you thought this was before? Whatever mess you got yourself into?" His grip tightened slightly. "It's worse."

Richard's expression didn't waver. "I figured."

George sighed. "Then buckle up."

Max grinned. "Oh, so it is getting worse. Love that for us."

George rolled his eyes and smacked him upside the head.