Beanie

The old Maruti Suzuki pulled up outside the police station with a tired screech. The engine sputtered as Max shut it off, stepping out with the same casual energy as if he had just stopped by for a cup of tea.

He stretched, adjusting his jacket before stuffing his hands into his pockets and strolling inside.

The police station was buzzing with activity. Officers walked back and forth, phones rang constantly, and in the background, the muffled chaos of reporters shouting questions at anyone who walked past could be heard from outside.

Max, however, wasn't fazed. He walked up to the front desk receptionist, leaning slightly on the counter with a relaxed smile.

"Afternoon," he said smoothly. "I'm here to claim my car."

The receptionist, a woman in her late thirties, barely glanced up at him. "Name and car number?" she asked, fingers already on the keyboard.

"Maxwell Carter," he said. "Car number DL-4C 5873."

Her fingers stopped typing.

She looked up at him now, eyes narrowing slightly. The way her expression shifted told Max everything—his name had immediately flagged something.

"One moment," she said, her tone now completely different from a second ago. She turned, speaking quietly into a phone while occasionally glancing at him.

Max exhaled slowly. Alright. Here we go.

A few minutes later, Detective Calloway and Darren entered the room. Neither of them looked surprised to see him. If anything, Calloway looked irritated—like he had been waiting for this moment.

"Carter," Calloway said flatly.

Max gave him a lazy salute. "Detective."

Calloway didn't return the greeting. "You have a hell of a lot of nerve showing up here like this."

Max just shrugged. "I want my car back. Figured I'd do it the legal way."

Calloway's jaw clenched slightly, but he didn't lash out. Instead, he gestured for Max to follow.

"Let's talk," Calloway said.

Max sighed dramatically. "You know, usually when people say that to me, it doesn't end well."

Neither officer responded.

Max was led into the confrontation room, where he took a seat in front of Calloway. Darren stood off to the side, observing quietly.

The room was exactly what he expected: small, cold, and suffocatingly plain. There was only the one-way mirror, the metal table, and two chairs.

Calloway didn't waste time. He sat down, crossed his arms, and immediately got to the point.

"Why was your car parked outside the warehouse where someone was brutally murdered was slaughtered?"

Max exhaled through his nose, then leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table. He knew his answer needed to be airtight—no hesitations, no contradictions.

"I lent it to a friend," Max said.

Calloway's expression didn't change. "A friend?"

"Yeah," Max said smoothly. "His name's Jared Finn. He's been having car trouble lately, and he needed a ride to go meet someone. He asked if he could borrow my car, and I said yeah."

Calloway narrowed his eyes. "You just let someone borrow your car?"

Max shrugged. "I mean, yeah. I wasn't using it that night, and Jared's a friend. He said he'd bring it back the next morning."

Darren finally spoke. "Where were you during that time?"

"At home," Max answered immediately. "Watching TV. I didn't even know my car was near the crime scene until I saw the news the next morning."

Calloway tapped his fingers against the table. "You're saying you weren't anywhere near that warehouse?"

"Not even close."

Calloway let the room sit in silence for a moment before speaking again. "And Jared? Where's he now?"

Max tilted his head slightly. "That's the problem—I haven't been able to reach him. He hasn't answered my calls all day."

Darren and Calloway exchanged a glance.

Calloway leaned forward slightly. "Let me get this straight. You let your friend borrow your car. He just happened to park it outside a murder scene. And now he's missing?"

Max nodded. "Yeah. Starting to freak me out a little, honestly."

Calloway's stare was unreadable. He didn't believe a damn word of this. But before he could push further, Darren spoke up.

"If this is true," Darren said carefully, "then there should be proof."

Max nodded. "There is. Check the traffic cameras. You'll see Jared driving my car, not me."

That made Calloway's expression shift slightly. Traffic cameras wouldn't lie.

Darren, now intrigued, leaned forward. "Do you have any messages from him? Anything proving you spoke to him?"

Max nodded and pulled out his phone. He opened his call logs and showed the outgoing call history—showing multiple attempts to contact Jared Finn.

Calloway's eyes flickered to the screen, and for the first time, something in his demeanor changed.

The captain, watching from behind the one-way mirror, finally made his decision.

A moment later, there was a knock at the door. Another officer stepped inside and walked over to Calloway, whispering something in his ear.

Calloway exhaled sharply.

Then, after a long pause, he turned back to Max, his face unreadable. "You're lucky."

Max grinned. "I get that a lot."

Calloway ignored the remark. "The captain's decided to let you go. An officer will drop off your car, but don't think for a second that we're done here. I still don't trust you."

Max spread his hands innocently. "That's fair."

Calloway scowled, clearly irritated that this wasn't going the way he wanted.

Darren, meanwhile, studied Max closely. Something about the way Max handled this was… too smooth.

Calloway stood up, motioning toward the door. "Get out of here before I change my mind."

Max didn't hesitate. He got up, adjusted his jacket, and gave them a playful salute before heading for the door.

As he walked out, Darren kept his eyes on him, still deep in thought.

Something about Maxwell Carter didn't sit right with him.

And he was going to find out why

---

The afternoon sun hung high in the sky as the police cruiser rolled to a stop outside George's house.

Max sat in the passenger seat, spinning his keys on his finger, feeling pretty damn good about himself. No charges. No arrest. And best of all? His car was back.

The officer driving the cruiser didn't share his enthusiasm. The man simply put the car in park, turned to Max, and muttered, "We're here."

Max stretched his arms with an exaggerated sigh. "Gotta say, officer, for a department that wanted me in cuffs an hour ago, you guys sure are generous with the taxi service."

The officer just grunted, clearly done with his existence.

The second police car—the one carrying Max's car—pulled up behind them. A different officer stepped out, expression unreadable, before tossing Max his keys.

"Don't make me regret this," the officer muttered.

Max caught the keys midair with a cocky smirk. "Hey, I'm a law-abiding citizen."

The officer just gave him a look before getting back in the cruiser and driving off.

Max turned toward the house, flipping the keys into his pocket, finally ready to relax. He had just pulled off a damn miracle.

He had beaten the cops. Again.

But then—

He stopped.

His smirk faded.

Something was wrong.

The house was too quiet.

The kind of silence that wasn't natural.

Usually, by now, George would be yelling some insult at him from the kitchen. Richard would be complaining about something. Amelia would be somewhere, probably ignoring all of them.

But today?

Nothing.

The air felt heavy.

Max's fingers twitched slightly as he walked up to the door. His gut was telling him something was off.

He pushed it open.

Stepped inside.

And then he froze.

The living room was filled with strangers.

Max's brain processed everything at once.

First, George. Sitting on the couch, arms crossed, face unreadable—but his silence was telling.

Then, the man next to him.

Tall. Too tall.

Broad shoulders. A black suit, crisp and perfect. A PTRD badge pinned to his chest. His posture was impossibly straight, like he had never slouched a day in his life.

Behind him, two more agents. A man and a woman. Also in black suits, standing still as statues.

Max's breath hitched.

PTRD.

Not cops. Government exorcists.

They weren't here for a casual chat.

And that's when it happened.

A voice.

A voice Max knew.

A voice he hated.

"You're as pathetic as ever, Max."

It hit him like a bullet.

His body went rigid.

His fingers curled into fists.

No.

No. No. No. NO.

Max slowly turned toward the source of the voice.

And there he was.

Leaning against the far wall.

Watching him. Smiling. Like he had already won.

Daniel.

White-haired bastard.

His shoulder-length silver hair was tucked under a beanie, but it didn't do much to hide his sharp, perfectly sculpted features. His black suit was flawless, like it had been tailored for a runway model instead of a government exorcist.

And then, of course—his eyes.

Cold. Calculating. Amused.

Like he was already three steps ahead of Max before the idiot even walked into the room.

Max's blood boiled.

Of all the people in the world.

Why.

Why the hell did it have to be him?

Daniel pushed himself off the wall, walking forward with the same relaxed, overconfident swagger that Max despised.

He didn't stop until he was just close enough to invade Max's space—just enough to make sure Max knew who was in control here.

Max gritted his teeth.

Daniel smirked.

"You look worse than the last time I saw you," Daniel said, scanning him up and down like he was inspecting something cheap and disappointing.

Max forced a grin. "And you still look like you spend twenty minutes in the mirror before work."

Daniel chuckled, shaking his head. "Still talking out of your ass, I see."

Max rolled his shoulders back. "Still breathing my air, I see."

The tension in the room was suffocating.

Richard and Amelia weren't saying a word.

George was watching carefully.

The PTRD agents didn't even flinch.

And Daniel?

Daniel was loving this.

His eyes gleamed with pure amusement.

Max hated it.

He hated him.

And he had a feeling this was only the beginning.

Daniel waited for Max to say something.

But Max refused to give him the satisfaction.

So, of course, Daniel spoke first.

"What, no dumbass comment?" He tilted his head, mocking. "That's not like you, Max."

Max exhaled sharply. "Give me a second. I'm still processing the smell of unearned superiority."

Daniel laughed. A genuine, amused laugh.

Max hated it.

"You're still salty, huh?" Daniel grinned. "Gotta say, it's a little embarrassing that you're still losing to me."

Max bristled immediately. "We're not competing."

Daniel's smirk widened. "That's because you already lost."

Max felt his blood pressure spike. God, he wanted to punch him.

George cleared his throat, dragging the conversation back to reality.

"Max," he said, tone firm. "Sit down."

Max's jaw tightened, but he obeyed.

He glanced at the tall agent, who had been silent the whole time.

"…Who's he?" Max muttered.

George rubbed his temples. "An old friend."

The tall agent finally spoke, his voice low, authoritative.

"I'm here on behalf of the PTRD," he said. "We're here to talk about Raven."

Max's stomach dropped.

Daniel sat down across from him, stretching out like he owned the place. "The Red Floor Incident? That's ours now."

Max's fingers dug into his palms.

"You're telling me to back off."

Daniel smirked.

"No, Max."

He leaned in slightly, his eyes glinting.

"I'm telling you to stay in your lane."