Fraid City’s Finest Frank Gavern the truth seeker

In the Slums of Fraid City not a person insight just the darkness of the night sound so silent its deafening until a Siren a police car speeding in the streets between Allan and Kings Street heading straight for a Warehouse.

They pulled up and exited the vehicle two Detective a blonde young man in a Detective suit so young he looks like a teenager this is Frank Gavern the youngest detective in Fraid City’s history. His partner Arthur Sinclaire was an older gentlemen late 30’s a little facial hair a seasoned veteran detective .

The warehouse smelled of dust, rust, and regret. Frank Gavern stepped past the broken glass littering the floor, his sharp eyes sweeping the shadows like they were hiding something just out of reach. Arthur Sinclaire walked beside him, hands in his pockets, chewing absently on a toothpick, the very image of someone who’d seen too much and cared too little.

They didn’t bother shooing away the homeless tonight—they were here for something else entirely.

One man had called them in.

A man in his early twenties his name Aran, stood trembling, his face pale in the flickering light, his grey shirt had blood on it

“I—I just found her. I swear—I didn’t touch anything, I just—”

Arthur lifted a hand to silence him.

“Yeah, yeah. Relax.” His voice was dry, worn. He gestured toward the stairs. “Take us to her.”

Aran nodded quickly, leading them up, up, up—through the rotting remains of the Skyfire building, an industry long abandoned, now a skeleton in Fraid City’s slums.

Arthur sighed.

“Skyfire. Figures. Fraid City leaves the past behind like an ex-wife.”

Frank didn’t comment. He was already thinking ahead—already dissecting the situation before even seeing the body.

And then—there she was.

Top floor. Back room.

Definitely a former office, judging by the water-stained desk pushed to the side, the empty filing cabinets gutted by looters years ago.

The woman sat against the far wall.

Dead.

Throat slit.

A strange insignia carved into the top of her head. Frank seemed to have a look of recognition on his face as it looked like the letter Y.

Arthur exhaled through his nose.

“Great. Some lunatic had a field day.”

Frank stepped forward. His gaze flicked over the wound, the markings, the positioning.

“Not quite.”

Arthur crossed his arms.

“Cult nutjob, then.”

Frank knelt, inspecting the edges of the wound. His fingers hovered near the pentagram—not touching, but observing how cleanly it had been cut.

“No hesitation in the knife work. Whoever did this was practiced.”

Arthur rolled his eyes.

“Yeah? Well, tell me how that helps us solve it, hotshot.”

Frank ignored him. He was already piecing together the parts, already feeling the subtle unease creeping in—because something about this felt off.

Not reckless.

Not random.

Deliberate.

His eyes flicked to Aran.

“How’d you find her?”

Aran swallowed hard.

“I—I was just looking for a place to crash. Then I smelled something weird, and when I came up here—she was already like this I tried to help her I got blood on me .”

Frank let the silence linger.

Arthur sighed, rubbing his temple.

“Look, I already know where this is going. We’ll send it to the lab, get a name, see if she has any ties to local nutjobs. Not much else we can do here, Gavern.”

Frank stood slowly, exhaling.

“There’s always something else to do.”

Arthur gave him that skeptical look again, the one he always gave when Frank found things others missed, when he refused to accept the easy answer.

"Yeah? Well, when you find the miracle clue, let me know."

Frank didn’t answer.

Instead, he stepped closer to the body—his gut already telling him this wasn’t just another murder in Fraid City’s slums. Especially with that Y shaped mark staring him in the face.

It was something worse.

Something intentional.

Something that led deeper than either of them wanted to go.

Frank touched the blood.

The moment his fingertips grazed the cool, drying crimson, a dull pressure coiled behind his eyes, throbbing, growing, expanding—then splitting.

He staggered, exhaling sharply, pressing his palm to his temple as the sensation gripped him, tightening around his skull like a vice.

Arthur barely reacted.

2

“There it is again,” he muttered, hands still in his pockets, watching Frank struggle. “One of your damn headaches.”

Frank didn’t answer.

Because in the next second—he wasn’t in the warehouse anymore.

The vision came violently, pulling him in without mercy.

Sarah Talliga (the victim) was smiling.

Her phone was pressed against her ear, excitement bubbling in her voice as she paced the dusty, forgotten halls of the old Skyfire warehouse.

“Thank you so much! I won’t let you down—I promise!”

She hung up, her grin wide, eyes bright with relief. A new job. A real shot at something better.

She turned—

And Aran was already there.

The attack was sudden, clean, and merciless—his hand snapped forward, fingers coiling around her throat, shoving her back, her head smacking into the wall with a sickening thud.

Her breath hitched—sharp, panicked—hands clawing at his grip.

“W-what—”

“Sorry.” Aran’s voice was calm, almost detached. “This isn’t personal.”

He pulled the knife.

The blade flashed in the dim light, catching only a second of the fading sunset before it sank deep into her throat.

Sarah’s body jerked—the last breath escaping her in a silent, broken gasp—before she slumped against the wall.

Aran didn’t hesitate.

The Y carving was precise, practiced—almost like he’d done this before. Frank could see the way he traced the edges, the calculated movements, not reckless, not impulsive.

But why?

Cult? No.

A message? Maybe.

Then—movement.

The shuffle of someone approaching.

Aran reacted instantly, his eyes darting around for a solution, an escape.

He crouched, flipped the knife, and stabbed it into the bottom frame of the desk, pressing it deep into the wood, letting the frame conceal it perfectly.

A careless officer wouldn’t find it.

Aran knew that.

Then, without a moment wasted—he ran.

Frank snapped back.

His breath shuddered, his pulse hammering against his skin, his fingers still slick with the blood from the victim.

Arthur watched him, chewing absently on his toothpick.

“Let me guess,” he drawled. “You magically saw what happened?”

Frank didn’t answer.

Instead, his eyes flicked to Aran—the hysterical, trembling witness—his body language carefully designed, his panic exaggerated.

Frank knew the truth now.

And Aran had no idea.

Frank didn’t hesitate.

He reached under the desk, fingers sliding beneath the bottom frame, finding the concealed weapon exactly where he had seen it in his vision.

A slight pull—then the knife was in his hand, its blade slick with drying blood, gleaming faintly under the weak glow of the overhead light.

Aran froze.

The shock hit his face instantly, his pupils shrinking, his breath catching in his throat.

Arthur whistled low, crossing his arms.

"Well, damn. That was fast."

Frank barely spared him a glance.

Instead, he turned to Aran, holding the knife out like a silent accusation, his voice sharp, unwavering.

"Tell me again, Aran. How did you find the body?"

Aran’s lips parted, but no words came.

"You claimed the blood on your shirt was because you tried to help her." Frank’s tone was patient. Too patient. "Are you sure it wasn’t because you were the killer?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

Aran flinched.

"You lived here, didn’t you?" Frank continued, stepping forward, his eyes locked on Aran, pressing into him like a scalpel. "You knew Sarah’s routine. You knew exactly when she’d be alone. You knew the perfect chance to get at her—so tell me, Aran."

Frank's grip tightened on the knife.

"Who put you up to it?"

Aran shuddered, his whole body shaking now, his fingers twitching as if his nerves were frantically searching for an escape route.

Then, finally, his voice cracked through the tension—quiet, desperate, unraveling.

"He—he promised everything would be different. I just had to kill her, and all my dreams would come true..."

Arthur scoffed, shifting his weight.

"Classic. Empty promises from scumbags, and you actually bought it."

Aran swallowed hard.

"I—I had no choice. If I hadn’t done it, he would’ve killed me."

Frank barely blinked.

"Who?"

The name never came.

Because before anyone could react—Aran moved.

Fast. Desperate. Reckless.

Arthur barely had time to unholst the safety strap on his service weapon.

Before Aran snatched Arthur’s sidearm with a clumsy grab, the barrel jerking upward just as Arthur swore under his breath.

"You son of a—"

Arthur’s hand snapped toward his holster, but he was a fraction too slow.

"Aran, no!"

The voice wasn’t Frank’s, nor Arthur’s.

It belonged to someone else.

An old woman—one of the factory’s remaining homeless, stepping forward from the corner, her frail frame tense with horror.

Her gaze locked onto Aran, disbelief crumpling her features.

"You—you killed Sarah?" She shook her head, eyes wide, full of grief and confusion. "How could you do such a terrible thing?"

Aran’s expression cracked.

His lips trembled.

And then—without warning—he grabbed her, yanking her close, pressing the barrel of the stolen gun to her temple.

Arthur cursed.

Frank remained still.

The tension collapsed into raw panic.

"Alright! I’m getting out of here!" Aran’s voice was frantic, high with desperation. "Don’t follow me! Don’t make me kill again!"

Frank met his eyes.

For the first time—he saw real fear.

Not fear of the police.

Not fear of being caught.

Fear of something much worse.

Aran backed away, keeping the gun pressed to the woman’s skull, moving toward the door, step by careful step, his breath coming fast, shaky, uneven.

"Step back!" he shouted, voice ragged. "I swear I’ll do it! I will!"

Frank didn’t move.

Arthur stayed frozen.

And then—Aran was gone.

He disappeared into the night, swallowed by the streets of Fraid City.

Frank exhaled slowly, lowering the knife. 

Arthur clicked his tongue.

"Well. That’s gonna be a problem."

Frank exhaled, watching Aran disappear into the night.

Arthur ran a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath before clicking his tongue.

"Well, that was a disaster."

Frank didn’t seem bothered. He turned, giving the old woman a slight nod, watching her slowly back away, still shaken but alive.

“He let her go,” he murmured, almost to himself. “At least that tells us something.”

Arthur scoffed.

“Yeah? That he’s an idiot?”

Frank didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he flipped the knife in his hand, studying the dried blood on the blade, the weight of it, the way it had been used with expert precision.

His eyes darkened.

“No. That he’s scared.”

Arthur sighed heavily.

“Oh, here we go—some deep Gavern-level analysis.” He gestured toward the street. “Come on, let’s get back to the precinct before you start writing an entire psychological profile on this guy.”

Frank tossed the knife into an evidence bag, pocketing it before starting toward the exit.

Arthur followed, hands stuffed in his pockets, his tone dry as ever.

"You know what I don’t get?"

Frank didn’t stop walking.

"Enlighten me."

Arthur raised a brow.

"Why the hell anyone would pay a nobody to kill another nobody."

Frank’s jaw tightened.

That was the real question, wasn’t it?

Aran was just another face in Fraid City’s slums, and Sarah Talliga had been trying to claw her way out of it—she had nothing, no power, no enemies that made sense.

So why had someone gone out of their way to make sure she never left this place alive?

Frank’s fingers curled slightly.

"We need to find out who Aran is."

Arthur sighed again, shaking his head.

"Yeah, yeah, I know where this is going. You’re gonna obsess over this until you find some perfect, hidden, barely-there clue that ‘no one else saw.’ And I’m gonna have to listen to you muttering about it the whole damn night."

Frank didn’t respond.

Arthur glanced at him.

"Tell me I’m wrong."

Frank finally spoke, his voice steady, unwavering.

"Pull a bulletin on him. We can pick him up anytime."

Arthur snorted, shaking his head.

"Called it."

They stepped out into the street, the warehouse looming behind them, the scent of rust and death still lingering in the air.

Frank’s mind was already ten steps ahead, dissecting, analyzing, unraveling.

Arthur just sighed again.

"We’re gonna be at this all night, aren’t we?"

Frank’s answer was simple.

"Probably."

Arthur groaned.

"Fraid City’s Finest, my ass."

Arthur finds his gun discarded just outside and recovers it as he and his partner step into the car and drive back to the Precinct.