A Home Long Abandoned

The morning sun blazed down on Blackridge, mocking the reality of the city beneath it. Golden light poured over the streets, reflecting off glass-covered skyscrapers, making the city look almost serene.

But the truth was anything but.

A police cruiser pulled up outside a run-down apartment complex, its blue-and-white paint job already faded from years of wear. The tires crunched against the uneven pavement as the engine rumbled to a stop.

Inside the car, Darren Pierce sighed, glancing up at the dilapidated building in front of him.

This is where Calloway lives?

It still surprised him. Henry Calloway—the most respected, most experienced detective in the BRPD—lived here?

The place looked like it had been forgotten by time itself. The paint on the exterior walls was peeling, the balcony railings were rusting, and one of the windows on the third floor had a crack running right through it.

Darren turned off the engine, pulled the keys from the ignition, and stepped out. The city air was warm but carried the faint smell of rain, leftover from last night's drizzle.

He approached the small, metal door of the apartment complex and climbed up the rickety stairwell to the second floor. He stopped in front of Room 206—Calloway's place.

Darren knocked firmly.

No response.

He knocked again, this time harder.

Still nothing.

Darren frowned. He's home. I know he is.

He took out his phone and dialed Calloway's number. The phone rang twice before a low, groggy voice answered—so faint that Darren almost didn't hear it.

"…Yeah?"

Darren exhaled. "Are you still sleeping? Wake up, Officer—it's already 10:05 AM."

For a second, there was silence. Then, Calloway's voice came again, louder this time, but still sluggish—like a man who had barely gotten three hours of sleep.

"Yeah, yeah… I'm awake, Darren. I'm awake."

Darren wasn't convinced.

"Alright... I'm coming in."

There was no protest.

Not that it mattered. Darren already knew Calloway's habits.

The man never locked his door.

That thought always unsettled him. In a city like Blackridge—especially with the kinds of people they dealt with daily—leaving your door unlocked was practically an invitation to get killed.

Darren hesitated for a second, then twisted the rusty doorknob and pushed the door open.

He took one step inside.

And immediately regretted it.

The moment Darren stepped inside, his foot crunched against something.

He glanced down.

A discarded beer can.

Darren sighed.

Then, he really looked around.

The apartment was a disaster.

Not just messy—it looked abandoned. Like a place that hadn't been touched by human effort in years. Dust clung to the furniture, old takeout containers were stacked on the coffee table, and the air was thick with the scent of cheap whiskey, sweat, and cigarettes.

The couch, barely visible under a pile of clothes, had stains that Darren didn't even want to identify. The small kitchenette had dirty dishes overflowing in the sink, and there were several unopened letters stacked on the counter, some with FINAL NOTICE printed in bold red ink.

Jesus Christ…

Darren ran a hand through his hair, carefully stepping over the mess as he moved deeper into the room.

"You ever clean this place?" he muttered.

From inside the bathroom, Calloway's low, gruff voice responded. "Doesn't matter. I'm moving out soon."

Darren paused.

Moving out?

Where?

He wanted to ask but decided against it.

Instead, his eyes landed on something else.

Near the corner of the room, next to a thin mattress on the floor, there was a framed photo.

It was old, slightly tilted, with dust gathering on the edges. But the image inside was still clear.

Calloway.

Standing in a garden, next to a woman and a little girl.

They were smiling.

Darren didn't need to ask. He already knew who they were.

Calloway's ex-wife and daughter.

He had heard the story before.

Calloway wasn't a widower. His wife didn't die—she left.

It wasn't a messy divorce, not in the traditional sense. There were no screaming matches, no violent fights. Just a slow, crushing realization that they weren't on the same path anymore.

She wanted a life beyond police work. Beyond the constant dangers, the sleepless nights, the feeling that Calloway was married to his job first, and her second.

So she left.

And she took their daughter with her.

That was over a decade ago.

She had moved on. Remarried.

Calloway never did.

Darren exhaled slowly. He wasn't the type to dig into personal matters, but seeing this…

It hit different.

Calloway Steps Out

Before he could think on it too much, the bathroom door creaked open.

Darren turned his head—and immediately froze.

Calloway stepped out, fully dressed.

Darren blinked.

Wait.

This guy had just gotten out of bed.

He had just been in the bathroom.

And he was already dressed?

A horrifying realization settled into Darren's bones.

His voice came out slower than he intended.

"…Did you just walk out of the toilet already dressed?"

Calloway just stared at him.

Darren felt his pulse increase.

"Wait. Do you—"

He gulped.

"Do you sleep in your clothes?"

A long pause.

Calloway's expression didn't change.

Then, slowly, he sighed.

"What are you, my mom?"

Darren stared at him.

Calloway grabbed his coat from the back of the chair, throwing it over his shoulders. "Let's go."

Darren hesitated.

Then he exhaled deeply, feeling a sudden sense of peace.

He didn't want to know the answer to his question.

He really, really didn't.

Darren and Calloway stepped out of the apartment complex, the morning sun beating down on the cracked pavement.

The city was alive now, people moving about, cars honking in the distance, the sounds of Blackridge slowly waking up.

But Calloway looked like he hadn't slept at all.

Darren unlocked the squad car, and the two of them climbed in. As soon as Darren turned on the ignition, the police radio crackled to life, spitting out static and dispatch codes.

Neither of them paid much attention.

For a while, they just drove in silence.

Darren glanced at Calloway out of the corner of his eye. The older detective was leaning against the window, staring at the streets outside with an expression that was impossible to read.

Darren had seen this look before.

It was the look of a man with too much on his mind.

"So," Darren finally spoke, breaking the silence. "What do you think this meeting is really about?"

Calloway grunted, not looking away from the window. "The dried corpse case."

Darren scoffed. "Well, yeah, obviously. But you think they actually have anything? Or is this just another waste of time?"

Calloway exhaled through his nose. "If the captain called every officer in, then something's changed. Whether it's useful or just bureaucratic bullshit, we'll see."

Darren frowned, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel.

"This whole thing feels off," he admitted.

Calloway finally turned to look at him. "How so?"

Darren kept his eyes on the road. "The way the higher-ups are handling it. I mean, they didn't even give us time to investigate properly before the FBI swooped in and 'solved' the Red Floor case overnight. And now this? Another bizarre murder, no solid leads, and suddenly we're having a department-wide meeting?"

Calloway leaned back in his seat, rubbing his chin.

"You're not wrong."

Darren sighed. "And it's not just the timing. It's the way everyone is acting. It's like… they don't want to ask questions. Like they're just accepting whatever's being told to them."

Calloway didn't answer right away.

Instead, he reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He tapped one out, placed it between his lips, and rolled the window down.

Darren gave him a look. "You can't smoke in here."

Calloway lit the cigarette anyway.

"Write me a ticket, rookie."

Darren sighed, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

Calloway took a long drag, then exhaled the smoke out the window.

Then, finally, he spoke. "You're right. It's suspicious. But that's not what bothers me."

Darren raised an eyebrow. "Then what does?"

Calloway tapped some ash out the window. His expression darkened.

"The fact that someone—somewhere—is benefiting from this."

Darren frowned. "You mean the killer?"

Calloway's gaze flickered toward him. "Not just the killer. Someone else. Someone higher up."

The words hung in the air.

Darren gripped the steering wheel tighter.

"You think this is a cover-up?"

Calloway took another drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke swirl before responding.

"I think someone's pulling strings."

---

The Blackridge Police Department

By the time they pulled into the police station, the parking lot was already full. Dozens of officers were entering the building, their expressions serious.

Darren parked the car, turning off the ignition. "Looks like everyone actually showed up."

Calloway grunted, opening the door and stepping out. "Yeah. That never happens unless it's serious."

Darren followed, adjusting his badge as they made their way toward the entrance.

Just before they stepped inside, Calloway stopped.

Darren turned back to him. "What?"

Calloway took one last drag of his cigarette, then flicked it onto the pavement, crushing it under his boot.

His gaze was sharp. Focused.

"Keep your ears open in there."

Darren nodded.

Then, without another word, they walked inside.