Beneath the Surface

The interrogation room was a cage of metal and silence.

Brendon leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed and unblinking, shadows slanting across his face. The overhead light cast a harsh glare, turning the stainless steel table into a cold, reflective slab between him and the weasel. Robert stood by the door, arms crossed tight, gaze flicking between them with barely hidden unease.

Across the table, the weasel squirmed, wrists cuffed and fur bristling. His eyes darted nervously, breath quick and shallow, but he forced a sneer—teeth bared, eyes defiant. The stink of fear clung to him, sour and heavy, no matter how hard he tried to hide it behind snarled curse words.

Brendon exhaled slowly, the breath a low growl rumbling in his throat. "You done spitting like a damn cat," he drawled, voice flat, "or should I come back later?"

The weasel's eyes narrowed to slits. "Fuck you," he snapped, lips peeling back. "You think I'm scared of some red-eyed mutt? You've got no idea who you're messin' with!" His voice cracked at the edges, but he bolstered it with another sneer. "When Drago finds out—"

Brendon snorted, the sound dark and humorless. "Drago, huh?" he interrupted, leaning forward with a lazy smirk. "Ruthless crime lord, works in shadows, all that dramatic shit?" His eyes glinted. "He sounds fun. Shame I don't give a damn."

The weasel's face blanched beneath his fur, but he snarled, leaning forward as far as the cuffs would allow. "You're dead," he spat, voice trembling. "You're fucking dead. You think I'm scared of you? Drago'll rip you apart and mount your head on a wall, you bastard!"

Brendon's smirk widened, exposing fangs. "Oh, really?" he drawled. "Well, you know…" He paused, voice dipping low and cold. "I am new here. So I have nothing to lose."

The weasel's sneer faltered. Robert's eyes flicked up, ear twitching nervously.

Brendon leaned in, red eyes glinting with something dark and frigid. "That implies," he continued slowly, voice almost gentle, "that if something happens to you on my watch, the most that'll happen to me is I get kicked out of my post." His smile widened, almost feral. "That's it."

The weasel's breath hitched, eyes widening a fraction.

"But you," Brendon drawled, voice a venomous purr, "your life is in danger."

Silence fell, heavy and suffocating. The weasel's eyes were wide, pupils blown. Even Robert shifted uneasily, claws flexing against his arms. The air was sharp with fear, sour and electric.

The weasel's breath shuddered, a whimper slipping free before he clamped his jaw shut, quivering. "You— you wouldn't," he stammered, voice cracking. "There's—there's rules—"

Brendon chuckled darkly. "Do I look like I care about rules?" he growled, claws clicking lazily against the table. "Start talking."

---

Cracks in the Armor

The weasel's bravado crumbled fast, words tumbling out in frantic, half-coherent bursts. His paws shook, claws scraping against metal, eyes darting between Brendon's cold glare and Robert's uneasy stare.

"We— we were just—" he stammered, breath coming quick and shallow. "That damn kid— the human brat with the curly hair— he and his little gang jumped us! H-Hell, they started it!"

Brendon's eyes narrowed. "Is that so?"

The weasel flinched, nodding rapidly. "S-Swear it! They came at us with— with some kinda acid or somethin'—burned like hell, I— I still can't see straight!" His voice pitched high with panic, wrists straining against the cuffs. "Me and Vick—we were just teachin' him a lesson! Bastard stole from us!"

Brendon's eyes flicked to Robert, who frowned, brow furrowing. "Acid?" Robert repeated, skepticism edging his tone.

The weasel hesitated, eyes flicking down. "O-Okay, maybe not acid," he muttered grudgingly, ears flattening. "It— it was some kinda water mixed with chili peppers or— or somethin'. Burned like a bitch, though!" he snapped defensively, baring teeth.

Brendon's lip curled. "So a brat with spicy water got the drop on you," he drawled, voice dripping disdain. "And that justifies beating him half to death?"

The weasel snarled, fur bristling. "He stole the package!" he snapped, voice raw. "D-Drago's package—we didn't have a choice!"

Brendon's eyes sharpened, voice dipping lethal. "What was in the package?"

The weasel froze, breath hitching. "I— I don't—"

Claws scraped slow against metal, and the weasel flinched. "Don't bullshit me," Brendon growled. "What was in the package?"

"I don't know!" the weasel yelped, eyes wide and pleading. "I swear! We—we just deliver 'em, that's it! D-Drago doesn't tell us shit!"

Brendon's gaze bored into him, unblinking and cold. The weasel squirmed, breath coming in quick, shuddering pants. "L-Look, I— I said too much already," he stammered, voice cracking. "If— if Drago finds out—"

"That's not my problem," Brendon cut in flatly. "Start talking."

The weasel's eyes darted frantically. "P-Please, I— I didn't have a choice!" he babbled, voice thin and desperate. "My family's got debt—Drago—he—he owns us! I don't— I don't wanna do this shit!" His breath hitched, a whimper bleeding through. "I just— I just wanna keep my family safe!"

Brendon's gaze remained ice-cold, but Robert's expression softened faintly, mouth pressing into a tight line.

After a beat, Brendon leaned back with a scoff. "Fine," he growled. "Get out."

The weasel blinked, breath catching. "W-What?"

Brendon sneered. "You heard me. Get out."

The weasel didn't need to be told twice. He stumbled upright, paws still trembling, eyes darting wildly. Robert shot Brendon a questioning look, but the sheriff merely jerked his chin towards the door.

With a final, wide-eyed glance, the weasel bolted, tail between his legs.

---

Ding.

Brendon's ear flicked at the sharp chime from his pant's pocket. He fished out his phone with a grunt, eyes flicking to the screen. A notification blinked from GroupChat. It's a message from Scott.

Found the ID on the dead kid.

Name: Jacob Williams.

Student at Ridgecliff Academy.

Sofie helped me in it. 😃

Brendon's eyes narrowed, thumb tapping the screen. Robert peered over, brow furrowing. "That's the private academy, right?" he muttered. "Rich kids and all that?"

Brendon huffed. "Yeah," he grunted, eyes still fixed on the screen. "Figures."

Robert's eyes darkened, ears pinning back. "So this… gang's got rich kids mixed up too?" he muttered, voice low and grim.

Brendon snorted, shoving the phone back into his coat. "No this kid is from different case," he growled.

"Oh! The one from the murder case on which chief Tyson is working on." Robert asks.

"Yeah." A short answer from Brendon.

"Funny to me, I heard from the hospital that the boy we saved is from this very school." Robert says with a light tone.

This info gets Brendon's ear straightened up.