This is a Cover up

The air in the living room was thick with tension.

Roger's voice was calm, but firm, carrying the weight of absolute authority.

"Stay out of the Raven case. Don't investigate this any further. The PTRD will handle it. This isn't your fight."

Richard sat stiffly, his fingers gripping the edge of his seat. Max leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his expression unreadable.

George sighed, rubbing his temples, as if he already knew how this conversation was about to go.

"I'm saying this for your own sake," Roger added. His voice was level, but there was something underneath it—something close to concern.

Before Richard or Max could respond, a voice cut through the room.

"Bullshit."

Amelia.

She stepped out from the hallway, her arms crossed, eyes burning with frustration.

"You think we can just walk away from this?" Her voice was sharp, angry. "People died. Oliver died. And you want us to just—what? Pretend it didn't happen?"

Roger didn't react immediately. He turned his head slowly, his gaze settling on Amelia with unsettling patience.

"I understand you're upset," Roger said, his voice steady, almost too calm. "Oliver was your ex-boyfriend. You cared about him. I get that you want justice."

The way he spoke—like he was trying to rationalize her emotions, like he was explaining her own grief to her—only made her angrier.

"Don't you dare patronize me," Amelia snapped.

Max winced. Here we go.

"This isn't about Oliver," she continued, stepping closer. "This is about what happened. This is about the fact that someone literally exploded in that warehouse, and no one—not the cops, not the PTRD, not anyone—cares enough to dig deeper!"

Roger didn't even blink.

"We are digging deeper. We are handling it."

"Like hell you are," she shot back.

Max let out a slow sigh, rubbing the back of his head.

"Amelia…"

She turned toward him, her expression expecting support—expecting him to stand by her.

But Max?

He was hesitant.

And when she turned to Richard?

He looked away.

That hurt more than anything.

"Oh, I see," she said, voice laced with bitterness. "You're scared."

Richard said nothing.

Max exhaled sharply. "Amelia, listen—"

"No, you listen." Amelia took a step closer, her voice wavering with frustration. "We've gone up against ghosts, curses, and shit that no one else would dare touch. And now? Now you're both backing down?"

Max sighed again, shaking his head. "This is different."

"How?!"

Richard finally spoke, his voice low, almost hesitant.

"…Because it's Raven."

Silence.

Amelia froze, staring at him.

And Richard saw it in her face.

She knew they were right.

She just didn't want to admit it.

Max leaned back against the couch, his arms crossing. "Look, I don't blame you for being pissed. But Roger's right. Raven is on a different level. He's out of our league."

"So that's it?" Amelia's voice was quieter now, but still sharp. "We just let it go?"

Neither Richard nor Max responded.

Roger exhaled through his nose and leaned back slightly.

"I get it," he said. "You think this is about justice. You think we're trying to silence you. But trust me—if you go after Raven, you'll end up like Oliver."

Amelia's jaw tightened.

"Is that a threat?"

Roger shook his head. "No. It's a guarantee."

Silence.

Richard felt his stomach tighten.

Because Roger wasn't being dramatic.

He was just stating a fact.

The room was dead silent.

Amelia stood there, fists clenched at her sides, her breath unsteady as she glared at Roger. She wasn't backing down.

But Roger wasn't threatening her.

He wasn't trying to scare her.

He was simply telling her what was going to happen if she didn't listen.

And that made it worse.

Richard felt it too—that overwhelming sense of inevitability. Like no matter what they did, no matter how hard they fought, this wasn't a battle they could win.

But then—

"Damn. Feisty as always, huh?"

A voice cut through the tension like a knife.

Smooth. Playful. Too relaxed for the situation.

Amelia turned—and there he was.

Daniel.

He stepped forward with an easy stride, hands in his pockets, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

His presence alone was irritating.

He didn't carry himself like Roger. Roger had the weight of authority behind his words. His presence commanded respect.

Daniel?

Daniel acted like he was always in control. Like the world was just a game, and he was the only one who knew how to play it.

And right now?

He was playing Amelia.

His eyes flicked over her, scanning her face, reading every tiny reaction.

"You really don't change, huh?" he said, stepping closer. "Still got that fire."

Amelia's glare sharpened. "Do I know you?"

Daniel grinned. "Not yet."

And with a flick of his wrist, he pulled a small slip of paper from his pocket. A note.

Before she could react, he slid it between her fingers, his touch annoyingly smooth, annoyingly confident.

She frowned, staring at it. A phone number.

"If you really want justice," Daniel said, voice dropping just slightly, "call me."

Amelia hesitated.

Not because she trusted him—because she didn't.

Because something about him felt off.

Too confident. Too smug. Too entertained by all of this.

But that was the worst part.

He didn't sound like he was joking.

---

Roger's Final Warning

Roger sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead.

"Daniel."

The name carried a warning.

Daniel just smiled. "Relax, Roge. Just offering some help."

Roger gave him a long, tired stare before finally shaking his head.

"Enough of this. We're leaving."

He turned toward the door, adjusting his coat. The two other PTRD agents followed, moving in sync, cold and professional.

But before he stepped outside, he paused.

And his gaze landed directly on Richard.

Not Max. Not Amelia.

Richard.

Richard felt the weight of that look.

Then Roger spoke, his voice quieter now—but heavier.

"Your powers are strong, Richard."

A pause.

"Too strong."

Richard blinked.

What?

"Learn to control them." Roger's eyes were sharp, studying him, measuring him. "Because action has consequences."

And then, without another word, he turned and left.

The door shut behind them.

And the room felt colder.

Richard's grip tightened on his knee.

His powers?

Too strong?

His stomach twisted slightly, but before he could even think about what Roger meant—

Max exhaled loudly, flopping back onto the couch.

"Well. That was fucking awful."

---

The station was buzzing with noise, but it wasn't the usual chaos.

It was something else.

Something off.

Detective Henry Calloway sat in his chair, arms crossed, jaw clenched. He watched the station entrance where dozens of officers gathered around the latest announcement.

The case was closed.

The FBI had come in, identified a suspect, and just like that—done.

Red Floor Incident? Solved.

A brutal massacre with no bodies, no evidence, and no real leads?

And they solved it in a day?

Calloway's fingers tapped against his desk.

His gut twisted.

Something wasn't right.

Across from him, Darren Pierce sat quietly, scrolling through his files.

The younger detective had that look.

That deep, thoughtful expression—the one that meant he had something to say but wasn't sure if he should.

Calloway wasn't in the mood for silence.

"This is bullshit," he muttered, his voice low but sharp.

Darren glanced up. "You're talking about the case being closed?"

Calloway scoffed. "Of course I'm talking about the fucking case being closed. The FBI just walks in, claims they found the culprit, and now—what? We all just pack up and go home?"

He leaned forward, his eyes dark.

"We had nothing. No suspect. No body. No goddamn evidence. And they 'solve' it in a day?" He let out a bitter laugh. "Either they're fucking miracle workers, or they're lying."

Darren nodded slowly. "It does seem… off."

That was an understatement.

Calloway exhaled sharply, rubbing his face.

He didn't trust the FBI. Never had.

They weren't investigators. They were cleaners.

They didn't solve cases.

They buried them.

Darren's phone screen lit up, his fingers scrolling through something new.

Then—he froze.

His eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a thin line.

Calloway noticed. "What?"

Darren hesitated.

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he turned the phone toward Calloway.

A file.

A search result.

And an empty database.

No records found.

Calloway's gaze narrowed.

"What am I looking at?"

Darren exhaled. "Jaren Finn."

A pause.

Calloway's gut twisted tighter.

"…The guy Max said borrowed his car?"

Darren nodded. "Yeah. I ran a background check."

Another pause.

Then—

"He doesn't exist."

The words landed like a brick.

Calloway stared at the screen.

No address.

No records.

No employment history.

Nothing.

Jaren Finn didn't exist.

Maxwell Carter lied.

For a moment, Calloway said nothing.

He just sat there, staring at the screen, fingers drumming against his knee.

Once.

Twice.

Then—

A slow, knowing smirk.

"That little shit."

Darren sighed. "Look, we can't do anything about it. The case is closed."

Calloway shook his head. "I don't care what the FBI says. This isn't over."

He sat forward, his voice dropping lower.

"This is a cover-up."

Darren hesitated. "You're sure?"

Calloway gestured vaguely around the station. "A brutal murder case with no body, no physical evidence, nothing but some weird-ass supernatural shit—and the FBI solves it in a day?"

His voice turned sharp. "Come on, Darren. This isn't an investigation. This is a cleanup."

Darren leaned back, arms crossed. "Then why cover it up?"

Calloway's smirk faded.

That was the real question, wasn't it?

Whoever died in that warehouse… someone didn't want it to be known.

Someone wanted this case buried.

Calloway exhaled through his nose, voice quieter now.

"…Whoever died there deserves justice."

A pause.

Darren didn't say anything.

But this time, he nodded.

Because deep down?

He agreed.