THE FOG STAYED.
It didn't burn off by morning.
If anything, it thickened—seeped into the sidewalks, soaked the telephone poles, curled around front porches like it had nowhere better to be.
It draped itself over Elmwood like a heavy coat, smothering the edges of things. The buildings looked smaller inside it. The people, slower. Voices carried farther, but sounded more distant.
Outside Elmwood PD, people had started to gather.
Not a crowd. Not yet. But enough to feel like something was starting.
Two reporters stood near the front steps. One wore an old varsity jacket and lugged a camera that had been repaired more times than it had been cleaned. The other scribbled in a notebook with a forced look of neutrality on her face, though she kept glancing at passing uniforms like a cat waiting to pounce on a dropped chicken wing.
Across the street, a battered pickup truck with a worn decal reading The Hollow Truth sat idling. The driver leaned against the hood—mirrored sunglasses, skull hoodie, sipping black coffee from a thermos shaped like an actual skull. He hadn't blinked in twenty minutes.
Down the block, inside the rust-flecked windows of the diner, townsfolk sat hunched in their booths with hands wrapped around cracked mugs. No one was really eating. They were watching. Whispering.
Elmwood had always whispered.
⸻
INSIDE THE STATION – 9:37 A.M.
The front desk buzzer went off again—short, shrill, annoying. Like a smoke alarm for stress.
Alex barely looked up. He was half-slouched at his desk, one arm draped over an incident report, the other nursing a cold mug of coffee. His shirt was rumpled. His tie was missing.
His new badge—"SHERIFF A. CONOR"—sat off to the side like it had been placed there as a joke. It might as well have said Congratulations! You Lost.
Wells leaned into the office like he was afraid to step fully inside.
"Uh. You've got a DHS liaison waiting in Conference B."
Alex groaned. "Homeland?"
Wells shrugged. "Could be. Might also be Forestry Service. Or Cryptid Control. He flashed a badge and started talking about secure airspace and containment thresholds."
Alex rubbed his face. "He have a clipboard?"
"Laptop."
"Jesus. That's worse."
⸻
CONFERENCE ROOM B
The man was already seated when Alex walked in. Late 40s, maybe. Crisp gray suit, perfectly shined shoes. His laptop glowed with a muted DHS logo. His fingers were steepled like a therapist trying to look relatable.
"Sheriff," the man greeted, with a nod that felt like it came from someone who didn't actually respect you but had memorized the appearance of respect.
Alex didn't sit. "Detective."
The man tilted his head. "Not anymore."
Alex blinked. "I'm sorry—what?"
"Promotion came through thirty minutes ago. Effective immediately. Your interim title is now Sheriff of Elmwood. The paperwork's in motion. Local, state, and federal approval."
There was a long, empty pause.
Alex stared at him.
Then he deadpanned, "Wow. Cool. Do I get a sash? Maybe a commemorative mug? Something that says Congratulations on Managing a Breakdown in Real Time?"
The agent didn't blink. "This wasn't your call, but it was necessary."
"Oh, I bet," Alex muttered. "Kid walks out of a forest talking about blood and creatures, half the town starts seeing shadows that don't match their owners—and the guy who can't keep his coffee warm is suddenly the most qualified to run the department."
The man simply smiled. "Leadership finds you in moments like this."
Alex raised an eyebrow. "No. It finds whoever's dumb enough to stay standing when the sky starts bleeding."
He turned and left without waiting for a response.
⸻
BEHIND THE STATION – 10:08 A.M.
Alex stood in the back lot, smoking a cigarette he hadn't touched in over two years. He didn't even like the brand. He'd just found a crushed pack in the glovebox of his car and decided his lungs deserved a warning shot.
He didn't inhale. He didn't need to.
The act was enough.
Behind him, he could hear voices bleeding out from the breakroom—low, sharp, hushed in that specific way people get when they want you to know they're talking about you.
"…makes no sense. He's not leadership material—he's barely coherent."
"He's been chasing shadows for years. And now he's supposed to run the department?"
"Elmwood used to be quiet. Then this guy started poking things in the woods."
Alex exhaled smoke into the fog.
He didn't turn.
But he heard the one voice he'd been expecting.
Nico.
"Promoting him was a mistake," Nico said, just loud enough to carry. "You don't give the fox the keys to the henhouse. Not when the fox thinks the hens are possessed."
A few scattered laughs followed. Muted. Nervous. But enough to sting.
Alex flicked the cigarette into a puddle, watched the ember hiss out, then turned and walked back inside without a word.
⸻
30 MINUTES LATER – BACK IN HIS OFFICE
The door creaked open and Jade walked in like he'd lived there his whole life.
Still had the blanket around his shoulders, draped like a cape. His hair was wild, eyes half-lidded, socks mismatched—one striped, one solid gray. He carried a plastic bag full of breakroom snacks like it was a bag of stolen gold.
Alex looked up, unimpressed. "You rob the vending machine?"
"I offered the receptionist half my granola bar," Jade said, plopping into the seat across from him. "She said 'fuck it' and gave me the key."
Alex blinked. "Well. That's concerning."
"Relax, I only took the essentials. Two Snickers, one Pop-Tart, and six of those weird cheese crackers with the suspicious orange dust."
"Medical-grade cheese powder," Alex muttered. "Shouldn't be legal."
Jade smirked. "So… you're really the sheriff now?"
Alex picked up the new badge with two fingers, holding it like it might bite him. "Apparently."
Jade leaned forward. "Do you get a hat?"
"You bring that up again and I'm sending you back to your parents."
Jade raised his hands in mock surrender. "Damn. Power really has gone to your head."
Alex fought a smirk, lost. Just a little.
Jade tore into one of the snacks, chewing absently "You know, this place kinda sucks less than I thought."
Alex smirked. "That the official Yelp review?"
"Three stars. 'Didn't die. Snacks included.'"
Alex leaned back in his chair. For a moment, the station felt quieter. Not peaceful. But calmer. Like the eye of a storm.
"You feel safe here?" he asked.
Jade hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. I think so."
Alex nodded too. "Good."
A pause.
Then Jade pointed at the computer screen. "You still haven't written that report?"
"I'm working on it."
"You typed zero words."
"I've been brainstorming."
Jade grinned. "You want help?"
Alex raised a brow. "I don't think 'Haunted tree asked for directions' is standard police language."
Jade shrugged. "Then why bother surviving?"
They both laughed. Quiet. But real.
⸻
MEANWHILE – CONFERENCE ROOM A
Denise, the social worker, sat reviewing her notes. Her face was calm, but her eyes were tired.
Jade's answers were neat. Clean. Safe.
No.
I'm fine.
I don't remember.
But she'd seen it before. The eyes said more than the words ever would.
She circled trauma twice.
Then wrote: Monitored placement advised. Possibly long-term.
She didn't like how still the fog was outside the window.
What the fuck happened to that kid.
⸻
THAT NIGHT – BACK IN ALEX'S OFFICE
The case file still sat open.
Case #437 – "Jade Colter Disappearance & Recovery"
Blank.
Alex stared at it like it owed him an apology.
Outside, the fog pressed against the window, thicker now. Heavy. Like it was leaning in.
The trees beyond the glass didn't sway.
Didn't move.
Didn't blink.
But still—something tapped against the pane.
Once.
Twice.
Alex didn't turn.
Elmwood was whispering again.
It was waiting.