CHAPTER 1:

The car pulled up to the station, sleek and silent, its mirrored windows cutting through the glare.

The sky above was a sharp, clean blue—the kind you only get when the sun is high, when shadows are short, when there’s nowhere to hide.

Hawkins sat in the passenger seat, fingers curled around the strap of his backpack. He didn’t move.

Leann twisted the key—cutting the engine.

Silence.

Her claws tapped the wheel. Click. Click. Click.

Hawkins stared at the station. The glass façade reflected that same too-clear sky, making the building feel less like a place, more like a threshold. One he wasn’t sure he wanted to cross.

Leann stayed put, tail deep green streaked with iridescent blue looping across the seat.

It flexed and relaxed.

Hawkins caught himself watching. Looked away.

"Well," she said at last, flashing sharp teeth in something between a smirk and a smile. "That was a quick ride."

"Yeah." His grip tightened on his backpack.

Leann’s gaze flicked to him. Studying.

The glow at the base of her throat pulsed once—then dimmed, retreating beneath her skin.

Finally, a slow sigh escaped her lips.

Then her tail flickered, folding on itself, shifting and reforming. Long legs took the place of her tail, encased in navy slacks. She rolled her ankle, adjusting the hem as if it were second nature.

"You good?" she asked, propping an elbow on the wheel.

Hawkins exhaled through his nose. "Yeah." Too soft. Unconvincing.

Leann lifted an eyebrow. "Look, you’re new to this whole ‘police work’ thing, but so is everyone at some point. You’ll be fine."

A pause.

"Probably."

Hawkins let out a weak laugh. It didn’t reach his eyes.

He was here because Thalor wanted him here.

That wasn’t exactly comforting.

He must have hesitated too obviously, because Leann sighed again, heavier this time.

She leaned toward him, fingers drumming once more on the wheel.

"Listen."

Her voice had softened—just a little.

The glow along her forearms pulsed again, slow, measured.

Not bright.

Not showy.

Just there, shifting with the rhythm of her breathing.

"I get it. This feels big—because it is. But here’s the thing—I don’t know what Thalor sees in you, but he’s got an eye for this stuff. He doesn’t waste time on people who aren’t worth it."

Hawkins blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity.

He opened his mouth to respond, but—

"That said," she added, nodding toward the station, "this is not some kind of campus internship where your biggest mistake is spilling coffee on a professor. This is the real deal. Screw up here, and people could get hurt."

Her green eyes locked onto his, sharp and unyielding.

"So don’t play hero. If you're in too deep, you speak up. Got it?"

Hawkins exhaled, forcing a nod. "Got it."

Leann studied him for a second, then leaned back in her seat, satisfied.

"Good. Now go. Thalor’s waiting."

The door creaked open.

Sunlight hit his face, too bright, too real.

He stepped out.

The crisp spring air hit his face.

It didn’t help his nerves.

Behind him, Leann rolled down the window.

"Hey, kid."

Hawkins turned.

Her grin was sharp. "Don’t forget—you’ve got brains too. So start using them."

He tried to smirk back, but it felt thin.

Turning toward the station, he took a breath.

One step at a time.

Just one step.

⁂

Leann stayed in the driver’s seat, tapping her claws against the wheel.

She didn’t follow immediately.

Instead, she watched through the windshield as Hawkins hesitated at the entrance, shoulders tense under the weight of his backpack.

"Poor kid," she muttered. Her fingers clicked against the leather. "What the hell are we doing, Thalor?"

A sigh.

Her gaze drifted toward the station’s glass doors.

The light in her skin had faded now, like embers cooling beneath the surface.

The kid had good instincts. She’d give him that much.

But nerves? Yeah, he was drowning in them.

She’d seen too many fresh-faced recruits over the years—kids who thought detective work would make them some kind of hero in their own story.

Most of them washed out.

The ones who didn’t… learned fast.

Because this wasn’t about playing hero.

This was about walking straight into messes nobody else wanted to touch.

And Hawkins?

He wasn’t even a recruit.

He was just some kid, barely trained, plunging into a case that was already messier than most.

She exhaled once, watching the doors for a second longer.

Then she put the car in drive.

A faint glow traced the veins in her hands—just a flicker, there and gone.

"Good luck, kid."

And pulled away.

— POLICE STATION —

The station is alive with noise.

Phones ringing. Boots clicking against tile. Paper rustling.

The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and coffee, undercut by something metallic that Hawkins couldn't place.

His boots squeaked as he moved, weaving through the controlled chaos.

Officers passed by in quick strides—an elf muttering into a cell phone, a troll hunched over stacks of files, a human officer scrawling across a whiteboard.

There were dwarves. Werefolk.

And by the window, bathed in sunlight, sat a dryad with bark-like skin that shimmered faintly as they flipped through a case file.

It should have been overwhelming.

Somehow, it was grounding.

Hawkins exhaled. Let the noise settle around him.

Then, something else filtered through the background hum.

The bulletin board.

His steps slowed.

Faces stared back at him, rows of missing person posters pinned in neat, desperate lines. Some young. Some old. Some human. Some not. Some smiling. Some serious.

And then—one stopped him cold.

Not just because of its placement, dead center, pinned perfectly straight.

But because of the face.

Tousled blond hair. Warm brown eyes. A crooked half-smile.

Hawkins’ chest tightened.

Not just similar. Off.

His own reflection stared back at him from the polished station glass.

Side-parted black hair. Sharper angles. Pale skin. The Vietnamese features that shaped every angle of his face.

David wasn’t him.

David wasn’t even close to him.

And yet—

The jawline. The curve of the nose. The way their smiles slanted slightly to one side.

It doesn’t make sense.

It shouldn’t make sense.

But every time he saw David’s face, it felt like looking into a mirror warped just enough to set his nerves on edge.

"Hey, kid, you lost or something?"

Hawkins flinched.

Snapped out of it.

A dwarf receptionist squinted up at him from behind the front desk, thick arms crossed.

"Oh, uh—no," Hawkins stammered, shaking his head. "I’m here to see Detective Thalor. Messival Hawkins."

The dwarf’s sharp eyes swept over him. "You’re the kid Thalor mentioned?" A grunt. "Figured you’d be taller."

Hawkins forced a smile. "Yeah. I get that a lot."

The dwarf chuckled and hopped down from his chair. "Follow me. He’s expecting you."

Hawkins moved through the bullpen, keeping his stride steady.

Tried to act normal.

Tried not to look like his nerves were coiling tight in his chest.

But his eyes—his eyes never stopped scanning.

A female elf’s uniform—scuffed at the shoulders. A troll officer slouched over the copy machine, flipping through a file labeled Missing Person Report #2367.

Two officers fresh from the field, the scent of rain still clinging to their coats.

But it was more than just the people.

The place felt different.

A clock on the far wall had stopped working, its hands frozen at exactly 3:17.

Another bulletin board, opposite the one he’d just seen, held more missing persons flyers—all pinned in tidy rows.

All except one, fallen to the floor.

Forgotten. Trampled.

Hawkins instinctively slowed.

Details clicked into place, a puzzle forming at the edges of his mind.

"What's up? You stop walking halfway."

Hawkins blinked. The receptionist was watching him.

"Oh—sorry." He shook his head. "I just noticed, uh… you have a clock out back there."

The dwarf frowned. "What clock?"

"The one by the bulletin board. It’s stuck at 3:17."

A beat.

The receptionist’s frown deepened. "Huh. Never even noticed that before."

Then, a grin. "Good eye. Hope that sharp focus of yours comes in handy with Thalor. You’ll need it."

Hawkins gave him an awkward smile.

Didn’t reply.

Noticing things—patterns, details, the way pieces fit or didn’t—had always been second nature to him.

Not that it made him a genius.

Just meant his brain never shut up.

The dwarf clapped him on the back, sending a jolt through Hawkins’ already-tense shoulders.

"Do your best!" he said cheerfully.

Hawkins let out a weak chuckle, wiping his palms against his jeans.

"Right. Best."

He turned to the door.

THALOR.

His hand hovered over the knob.

He wasn’t ready.

Not for this. Not for the case.

And definitely not for whatever Thalor was going to say about David.

Then—

A voice in his head.

Daisy’s.

⁂

The apartment was too quiet.

Like silence had weight.

Like it pressed against Hawkins' ribs, made it harder to breathe.

He stood outside Daisy’s door, hand lifted—hesitating.

Light seeped through the cracks, a faint, golden outline against the dark.

Inside, something shifted. A bed creaked. Fabric rustled. She was awake.

If she wanted to talk, she’d have come out by now.

But then—he saw it again. The scarf in her hands that day.

Heard her voice, breaking apart.

"I just want him back."

Hawkins knocked. Soft, but firm.

A pause. Then, a voice—hoarse, barely audible.

"Yeah?"

"It’s me." He swallowed. "Can I come in?"

More silence.

Then, the whisper of bare feet against the floor.

The door cracked open just enough for her to see him.

Daisy’s face, half-lit. Loose strands of dull hair. Red-rimmed eyes.

She stared at him, deciding.

Finally, she exhaled. Stepped back.

"Sure."

The room was small, messy, dimly lit by the glow of a single desk lamp.

An unmade bed spilled onto the floor.

The scarf—pale, familiar—lay on her pillow, like she couldn’t bear to put it away.

Hawkins shut the door behind him. Leaned against it for a second before moving closer.

"You don’t have to check on me," Daisy muttered.

She perched on the bed’s edge, staring down at her hands. Fingers twisting the hem of her sleeve.

"I’m fine."

"Daisy—"

"I mean it."

A short, bitter laugh. A shake of her head.

"I don’t need a babysitter."

Hawkins pulled out the desk chair, turned it to face her. Sat.

"You don’t need one," he said. "Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna check on you."

She rolled her eyes. Pulled her knees to her chest.

"I’m not a kid, Hawkins."

"I know."

His voice was quiet.

Silence stretched, thick and uneasy.

Daisy plucked at a loose thread on her sleeve.

Then—barely above a whisper.

"I don’t think they’re gonna find him."

Hawkins leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"You don’t know that."

She exhaled, shaky.

"It’s been weeks."

Her voice was thin, brittle.

"It’s like… he just disappeared. Like he never even existed."

A beat.

"How does that happen? How can someone just… be gone?"

He didn’t answer right away.

He could’ve given her something empty—

"They’re doing their best."
"They won’t stop looking."

But she didn’t want that.

She wanted the truth.

And the truth was—he didn’t know.

Finally, he spoke.

"I don’t know."

Her head snapped up.

Eyes sharp.

"You don’t know?" The words cut. "That’s all you’ve got?"

"The honest answer?"

Hawkins met her gaze.

"Yeah."

Daisy let out a bitter laugh. Shook her head.

"Right. The people who are ‘looking.’ Like they actually care."

Her fingers tightened around her knees.

"Nobody cares. Not like I do."

Something twisted in Hawkins' chest.

He could’ve told her she was wrong.

That he cared.

More than he probably should.

But saying it wouldn’t change anything.

Wouldn’t bring David back.

"You’re not the only one in this," he said instead, voice steady. "I know it feels like you are."

"But you’re not."

Her eyes glistened, but she set her jaw.

"You’re just saying that."

"No, I’m not."

He leaned forward. Just slightly.

"I mean it. You are not alone, Daisy. I am here for you. I got your back."

She looked him in the eyes, the lips trembling, but nothing came out.

"Listen," he continued more quietly now. "You don't always have to be all right. You don't always need to pretend that you've got everything together. It's okay to fall apart. Just..."

A pause.

"Just don’t think you have to do it alone."

For a moment, she didn’t move.

Then—her breath hitched.

Her chin dropped. Hair falling over her face.

"I just miss him," she whispered.

"I know," Hawkins murmured.

Her shoulders trembled.

She was fighting it—he could see it.

The way she clenched her hands.

The way her breaths came uneven.

Hawkins hesitated.

Then—he sat beside her.

Said nothing.

Didn’t touch her.

Just close enough for her to know she wasn’t alone.

After a while, she spoke again.

Barely a sound.

"Do you think he’s… alive?"

Hawkins’ gaze drifted to the scarf on her pillow.

His throat tightened.

He wanted to say yes.

To promise her.

But he couldn’t.

"I don’t think we should give up," he said finally.

...

"Not yet."

She didn’t answer.

Just leaned into him.

Barely.

Like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to.

"Thanks," she murmured.

Hawkins swallowed.

His voice felt like stone in his chest.

"Anytime."

⁂

Back at the station, the memory faded.

But the weight didn’t.

Hawkins gripped his backpack strap.

Steady pulse.

Restless heart.

Could he do this?

Would any of this actually help Daisy?

Or was he just fooling himself?

Then, he thought of her hands—shaking against the scarf.

The way she’d looked at him.

The trust in her eyes.

Maybe he didn’t deserve it.

But he wasn’t about to let her down.

Not now. Not after coming this far.

With a breath, Hawkins gripped the handle.

And pushed the door open.