Guilt Persue

The room was pitch dark.

Brendon stood ankle-deep in cold water, the faint ripple of waves echoing through an underground cavern. He could barely see. The walls bled moisture, slick with moss and something older—something foul. He stepped forward, shoes splashing, breath uneven.

A soft sob reached his ears.

Then another.

Then a voice.

Familiar.

Cracked.

Accusing.

"I told you I was trying to help them..."

Brendon turned, and the shadows melted into shape.

Amelia Hudson stood only a few feet away, her hair tangled, eyes red, wrists bound in ghostly chains that shimmered like mist. Tears streaked down her cheeks, but there was a fury in her gaze—a wrath held back for too long.

"You don't understand what's happening here," she said, her voice echoing from every surface. "You think you know who the enemy is. But you don't. You chose your law. You chose your badge. You chose your city."

Brendon stepped toward her, but his legs moved like lead. "Amelia…"

"You abandoned us." Her voice sharpened. "You saw the cult, but you didn't look deeper. You saw me, but you didn't listen."

He tried again to reach her, hands trembling. "I thought you were involved—"

"I was involved! But not like you think! I tried to stop it, Brendon! I tried to save those boys. But you... you saw chains and a label. You called it justice. And you walked away."**

Her tears intensified, rage leaking out through clenched teeth.

"You're all the same. Scoundrels. Wrapped in uniforms and fake order. All of you letting the rot spread right under your nose."

The water around his feet turned dark, thickening into a black syrup, pulling him downward.

"You think you're doing good," she whispered, now inches away, her face twisted in pain. "But you're feeding the fire."

Suddenly, her hand shot out and grabbed his arm.

The darkness surged.

"You chose decay. You chose destruction. Whatever happens next is all your fault."

---

Brendon jolted awake.

He sat upright in bed, drenched in sweat, the sheet twisted around his legs. His breaths came in sharp, uneven gasps, like someone had plunged him underwater and pulled him up too fast.

The clock on the wall blinked: 4:03 AM.

Outside, the world was still asleep. Even Ridgecliff's streets were quiet at this hour.

He sat there for a long moment, heart thudding, his skin crawling with a sensation that wouldn't fade. It wasn't like his usual nightmares. Not the ones of London, the gavel, the blood. Not the courtroom. Not the cold cell. Not the scream of the man he was accused of killing.

This was new.

This was now.

Amelia.

The words she'd screamed in his dream clung to his mind like rot to wood.

You chose decay.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, staring at the darkened ceiling.

"Is it guilt?" he muttered to himself. "Or is it something else?"

He didn't have the answer.

Maybe it was both.

His therapist back in London would've called this progress. A shift in the thematic nature of trauma. Moving from repressed guilt about the past to immediate emotional conflict. Brendon scoffed. Maybe that shrink had a point, after all.

But the dream felt more than guilt.

It felt like a warning.

Like something was trying to tell him he'd missed a piece of the puzzle.

And maybe—just maybe—he had.

He leaned back and closed his eyes again, trying to regain his composure. The room felt heavier now, like a presence was watching. But there was no one. Only silence. And yet...

Decay.

He hadn't seen Amelia since that day at the Isle. Hadn't spoken to her. She was now under Lagooncrest's police jurisdiction. Out of his hands. But even so, her face refused to leave his mind.

Maybe he should have done more.

His phone buzzed suddenly, snapping him out of thought.

He glanced over at the screen.

Unknown number.

Again.

Cautiously, he picked it up.

"Hello?"

A familiar, raspy voice answered.

"Brendon. It's Dr. Vaelrick Grimm."

Brendon sat up again, alert. "Doctor? How did you get this number—?"

"I know you'll ask that," Grimm cut in. "But it's not important. You need to come back. Something… really weird happ—"

Click.

The line died.

Brendon blinked.

"Wait… what?"

He stared at the screen.

Call ended.

No signal disruption. No trace of error. Just clean, dead silence.

Brendon stood up and paced.

Dr. Vaelrick Grimm was no ordinary man. A reclusive scientist residing deep in the woods of Lagooncrest Isle, he was known for his groundbreaking research into the physiological impact of native herbs on Hybrids—individuals born of mixed human and altered lineage. His cabin, more laboratory than home, was cluttered with specimen jars, ancient books, and delicate instruments humming with data collection.

Shunned by some for his unconventional methods and admired by others for his brilliance, Grimm had long removed himself from the bustle of civilization to continue his work in solitude. But Brendon knew one thing for certain—Grimm had never been wrong when he said something felt off.

If he was calling now, of all times, then something had gone very wrong in those woods.

Something really weird?

Had it gotten worse?

And the fact that the call had ended mid-sentence…

Either Grimm was being silenced—or someone didn't want Brendon hearing what he had to say.

He looked out the window.

Ridgecliff was waking up slowly. Lights flickering on. The distant bark of a dog. A car humming through the early morning mist.

He could feel it now.

A pull.

A scent in the wind.

Something had changed in Lagooncrest Isle. Maybe the case is not what it seems like.

Something is still waiting to be uncovered.

He grabbed his coat and slung it over his shoulder.

I'm not done yet. I have to take another deep dive.