Scrawled Shorts

[mk-scrawlings]

New Fixer

Rajas jabbed an elbow into Diydon's side and flashed him a winning grin, as if the two of them weren't currently pressed against the grimy brick wall of an alley, bent over and sucking air into lungs that still burned from the sprint. Around them, the city carried on with its usual indifference. Neon bled across puddles of rainwater and rainbow-slicked grease beneath their boots, while somewhere beyond the mouth of the alley, traffic rumbled past as though they hadn't just spent the last ten minutes running like their lives depended on it.

"Ah tell ya, dat was perfect," Rajas said between breaths, holding up the scuffed black-and-silver data shard dangling from its dirty lanyard. "We got what we came fa."

Diydon finally managed to get his breathing under control enough to look at it. His eyes moved from the shard to Rajas and back again before he patted the pocket where it had been moments earlier. With a tired grunt, he reached over and jerked it from Rajas's hand, stuffing it safely back into his own pocket.

Rajas immediately raised both hands in surrender, laughing beneath his breath. "All right, all right. Ain't gotta get possessive."

Diydon shot him a look but said nothing.

"We got it, though," Rajas continued, his grin returning as he straightened himself against the wall. "Dat's what matter. Now I tell ya where ya meet dis new Priestess, and you hand over dah data. After dat, we both walk away happy."

"Les just get five streets down first," Diydon muttered. "Den we finish dah trade."

He pushed himself away from the wall and started walking, keeping one hand firmly over the pocket containing the shard. Rajas fell into step beside him, apparently none the worse for their frantic escape. Diydon, on the other hand, could still feel his pulse pounding in his ears.

By the time they had made it five streets, the sharp burn in his lungs had settled into something more manageable, though his legs still carried the dull ache of having been pushed far harder than he would have liked. Rajas seemed to have recovered entirely. He strolled along with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, humming some half-remembered tune and wearing the same satisfied expression he had been carrying since they got their hands on the shard.

Every few steps, he glanced sideways at Diydon.

"See?" he finally said. "Easy."

Diydon gave him a flat look. "Easy?"

"Mm-hm."

"We almost get flatlined."

"But we didn't."

"Dat is not how dat works."

Rajas laughed, his shoulders bouncing as he shook his head. "Is exactly how it works. You alive, me alive, we got da shard, and nobody shoot us. Sounds like a good night to me."

Diydon dragged a hand over his face, already regretting agreeing to any of this. "You lucky I need dat contact."

"Ah know."

There was no apology in Rajas's answer, but there was an understanding behind it. He knew exactly why Diydon had taken the job for nothing. He knew what every eurodollar meant to him, what it could buy, and what it could keep running. The joking stopped being quite so funny when Diydon thought about it for too long, so he pushed the thought away and kept walking.

They turned down another narrow side street, leaving the louder traffic behind them. Rajas finally slowed, glancing over his shoulder before checking the entrances and rooftops around them. Satisfied that nobody had followed, he stopped beneath the flickering light of a broken sign.

"All right," he said. "Dis where we split."

Diydon stopped beside him. "You got da location?"

"Course I got da location."

Rajas pulled out his agent and tapped through several screens before turning it toward Diydon. "Small bar a few streets from here. She supposed ta be there tomorrow night. You go in, ask for dah Priestess, ah tell her ya comin'."

Diydon studied the address until he had it memorized before nodding. "Dat all?"

"Dat all."

Rajas slipped his agent away and held out his hand.

Diydon hesitated for half a second before reaching into his pocket and passing him the shard. Rajas took it carefully, tucking it inside his jacket as though it were suddenly worth far more than the beat-up piece of plastic actually looked.

"Now," Rajas said, pointing at Diydon with a grin, "you gotta bring her a gift."

Diydon stared at him. "A gift?"

"Yeah, man. You can't show up empty-handed. Dah Priestess gonna think you got no manners."

Diydon's eyebrows drew together. "What am I supposed ta bring?"

Rajas shrugged, already looking entirely too pleased with himself. "You smart. Figure somethin' out."

"Rajas – "

"Maybe flowers."

Diydon looked at him as though he had just suggested they go back and introduce themselves to the people who had been shooting at them.

"Flowers?"

"Or chocolate," Rajas added thoughtfully. "Everybody like chocolate."

"She a fixer, not somebody's grandmother."

"Then bring money."

"I don't have money."

That earned a brief pause. Rajas's grin faded just enough for something more genuine to show through. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Ah know."

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Then Rajas's usual brightness returned, softer this time rather than forced. "Which is why you gotta be creative." He started backing away, hands raised as though he were already absolved of whatever trouble he had just dropped into Diydon's lap. "Go impress da Priestess, my friend."

Diydon shook his head. "Rajas."

Rajas raised one hand in farewell as he continued down the alley. "Stay alive!"

Then he disappeared around the corner, leaving Diydon alone beneath the flickering neon.

For a few seconds, Diydon simply stood there, staring at the place where his friend had vanished. He pulled out his agent typed in the address and looked at it again, committing it to memory even though he already knew he wouldn't forget it. A new fixer. A new contact. Potential work, and with any luck, the kind of work that actually paid.

His gaze lingered on the address before he slipped the agent back into his pocket.

"Flowers," he muttered under his breath, beginning the walk home.

A humorless smile tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth.

"Idiot."

-=====-

By the time Diydon reached the bar the following evening, he had convinced himself that Rajas's suggestion about bringing a gift had been ridiculous. He had also, unfortunately, listened to it.

The flowers were the problem. They had been an impulse purchase from a street vendor two blocks away, a small bundle of bright flowers wrapped in cheap brown paper. They had not cost much, which was the only reason Diydon had allowed himself to buy them, but now that he was standing outside the bar with them in one hand, he was beginning to feel like an idiot. The other hand held the real gift, and that had cost him. It was a compact piece of custom netrunning hardware, the sort of thing a serious operator could actually use. Nothing extravagant, but expensive enough that Diydon had spent most of the walk reminding himself that it was an investment. If this Priestess really was as well connected as Rajas claimed, one good job could make the purchase worthwhile. Money spent to make money was different, or at least that was what he kept telling himself.

The bar was darker than the street outside, all muted neon and polished metal, with music low enough that conversations could happen without anyone needing to raise their voices. It took Diydon a moment to understand why Rajas had described the place as small. The room itself was not large, but the people inside carried themselves like they owned considerably more of Night City than the walls around them suggested. There was money here, but more importantly, there was influence. People knew who they were supposed to look at when someone entered, who they were supposed to listen to when business was being discussed, and who they were supposed to leave alone.

Then Diydon saw her.

She was seated toward the back of the room with two people who were clearly there to work rather than socialize. The Priestess looked expensive, though not in the gaudy way of someone trying desperately to prove they had money. Everything about her was deliberate, from the tailored clothes and understated jewelry to the way she held her glass and the calm attention she gave the person speaking to her. She did not need to raise her voice or demand attention. People simply watched her when she moved, and when she spoke, they listened.

She had built herself into someone formidable…and she recognized Diydon the instant he walked through the door.

For the briefest moment, something inside her went completely still.

Older. Thinner. More tired than she remembered. His face carried sharper lines now, and there was a guardedness in his posture that had not been there before. The carefree young man she remembered had been replaced by someone who looked as though he had been carrying the weight of the world for years and had forgotten what it felt like to put it down. But it was him.

She had imagined seeing him again before, though she had stopped doing so after a while. At one point she had wondered what she would say if he ever came back, whether she would scream at him, slap him, demand an explanation, or simply walk away. Time had taken some of the heat out of those fantasies. She had built a life without him. She had learned to live with what happened, learned to make something of herself, and eventually stopped waiting for a door that was never going to open.

Seeing him now did not make her want to run into his arms. It made her remember why she had stopped waiting.

Her first instinct was to stand. Her second was to tell him exactly where he could go. The third was to do neither and make him come to her instead. That was the one she followed.

She remained seated with one leg crossed over the other, her expression composed as Diydon approached. Whatever had stirred inside her was buried beneath careful discipline, and the Priestess would sooner bleed in front of the entire bar than allow anyone in the room to see her lose any kind of control.

Diydon stopped at the table. "Priestess?"

Her eyes moved deliberately over him before settling on his face. "That is what they call me."

Her voice was familiar, not enough for him to place immediately, but enough that something in the back of his mind seemed to catch and then slip away. Diydon shifted his weight and glanced at the two people sitting with her before returning his attention to the woman in front of him.

"Rajas sent me."

"I assumed so."

There was something about the way she said it that made his shoulders tighten and he cleared his throat before holding out the small piece of hardware. "Ah brought somet'in'. Rajas said you might appreciate a gift, but I figured somet'in' useful made more sense."

Her gaze dropped to the hardware and then moved to the flowers in his other hand; that nearly broke her composure. Not because she wanted him. Because she remembered.

There had been a time when flowers had meant something between them, when Diydon would occasionally show up with some badly arranged bouquet and pretend it was nothing more than a practical gesture. He had never been particularly good at romance, and she had teased him for it. Zanji had teased him even more, but that was a memory from another life. One that had already ended.

Her mind flashed to the job, to Zanji, to the chaos that followed and the look on Diydon's face afterward. She remembered trying to reach him. She remembered calls that went unanswered, messages that were never returned, and every attempt to help being met with another wall. She remembered eventually realizing that there was no way to force someone to let you stay in their life.

So she had stopped trying.

The Priestess took the hardware from his hand and turned it over once, inspecting it with professional interest. "This is good."

"Figured you'd get more use outta it than flowers." Diydon glanced down at the bouquet as though he had only just remembered he was holding it.

She followed his gaze. "Flowers," she said.

"Rajas suggested 'em."

"Of course 'e did." There was the faintest hint of amusement in her voice, but it disappeared almost immediately.

Diydon shifted his stance. "So, uh... Rajas said ya was lookin' fa people."

"I am."

"I can run systems. Security, intrusion, data extraction. Whatever needs doing."

"I know."

His brow furrowed, that answer bothered him.

He looked at her more carefully now, and the Priestess saw the change in his expression. His eyes lingered on her face, then moved over the familiar details he could not yet place: the slight tilt of her head, the way her mouth tightened when she was annoyed, the cadence of her voice. Something about her was beginning to feel wrong in a way he could not explain.

She watched him work through it.

There was no satisfaction in seeing him confused, exactly. Perhaps there was a little. After all, she had spent all this time knowing exactly where he was while he had apparently been going through life in a haze without realizing what anyone around him had been doing.

She leaned back slightly and lifted an eyebrow. "Ya look like ya've seen ah ghost."

Diydon's eyes narrowed and he looked at her again. This time, he really looked.

The recognition came slowly, first in his eyes and then in the sudden slackening of his jaw. The hand holding the flowers lowered slightly at his side.

"Sak pase...?"

The Priestess's expression hardened at the profanity, though only for a moment. She had expected surprise. She had not expected him to look quite so completely stunned.

Diydon stared at her as though the woman sitting across from him had stepped out of a memory he had spent all this time trying not to touch. "You're..." He stopped.

She waited.

His gaze moved over her again, searching for the woman he remembered beneath everything she had become. Now that he had the answer, he could see her everywhere. In the shape of her eyes. In the slight crease beside her mouth. In the familiar way she rested two fingers against the side of her glass when she was thinking. It was her. Not some stranger who happened to have a familiar voice.

The woman who had known him before the accident. The woman who had loved Zanji. The woman who had once known every ugly, hopeful, foolish part of him before he had shut everyone out.

His voice came out quieter than he intended. "Priestess?"

Her expression did not change. "Dat is what dey call me now."

Diydon swallowed. For the first time since entering the bar, he seemed completely at a loss for what to say.

She let him sit with that realization, she did not owe him an explanation. She did not owe him forgiveness. Most importantly, she did not owe him the version of herself he had left behind. Besides, the woman he remembered was gone. She, The Priestess, had built herself from everything that had been left afterward, and she had no intention of allowing the sight of an old lover to make her forget how hard she had worked to become this person.

Diydon was still staring at her.

She finally tilted her head toward the chair opposite her. "Sit down."

He hesitated before doing so and the flowers remained awkwardly clutched in his hand.

Her eyes dropped to them once more, and something complicated moved through her expression before disappearing behind the mask again. She remembered those flowers. She remembered the boy who had brought them. She remembered the man who had walked away from her when she had needed him to let her stay.

But whatever affection remained belonged to a different time, and affection was not the same thing as trust. She had learned that distinction the hard way. "So," she said, folding her hands neatly on the table, "you come 'ere lookin' for work."

Diydon nodded slowly. "Yeah."

"Den let us talk about work." The words were perfectly professional and the message beneath them was unmistakable. Whatever they had once been, that was not what she was offering him.

[mk-scrawlings]

Interest on a Hundred Dollars

The courthouse had never felt so small.

Ryan Walker had spent the better part of thirty years standing in rooms like this. He had watched killers sentenced to the gallows and horse thieves granted the mercy of a second chance. He had testified in trials that stretched for grueling days, watched juries deliberate until their eyes were bloodshot at dawn, and listened to grieving families beg judges for a brand of justice that no gavel could truly provide. Through every verdict, the righteous and the bitter alike, he had believed in the process. It was imperfect, often frustratingly slow, but it was the only thing that separated civilization from the howling chaos of the frontier. 

Today, for the first time in his life, Ryan questioned whether that belief had been a fool's errand.

The courtroom was stagnant, the air thick with the smell of old paper and floor wax. The judge's voice was a measured, rhythmic drone, reading from a stack of legal documents with a detachment that felt like a secondary assault. The words drifted through the room like cold smoke, formal and clinical, stripped of every ounce of humanity by the precision of legal Latin and statute numbers. Ryan heard every sentence, every citation. He understood precisely what the legal architecture was building toward.

He wished, with a sudden and violent ache, that he were an ignorant man.

Athena sat in the front row beside Hank. Her face was a ghost of its former self, hidden behind a damp handkerchief clutched in hands that wouldn't stop trembling. Weeks had passed since the funeral, yet she carried the sallow, translucent look of someone who had forgotten how to sleep. Beside her, Hank stared straight ahead, his jaw locked so tightly that the muscles beneath his beard twitched in a rhythmic, pained pulse. Neither of them looked toward the evidence table. It had been draped in a white cloth before court convened, a mercy of the court that felt like a burial.

Ryan had noticed. He had also noticed that the prosecutor had kept the photographs hidden. Even now, they sat beneath that cloth in the center of the room, an unspoken ghost that no one dared acknowledge.

No one had spoken his grandchild's name aloud during the trial. Not once. Instead, the lawyers referred only to "the deceased minor." The words were sterile, sharp as scalpels, and they cut Ryan deeper than any blade ever had.

"...the Court finds insufficient evidence to support the charge of malicious intent."

Ryan remained perfectly still, his breath held in his lungs like a secret.

"...while the defendant's actions were reckless beyond measure..."

Still.

"...the burden required for the original indictment has not been met."

Still.

The prosecutor lowered his eyes. Ryan knew the man, they had shared coffee on trail rides and whiskey in saloons for years. He was a man of integrity, a relentless seeker of facts. He had fought for every witness, every scrap of blood-stained evidence. It simply had not been enough to overcome the cold machinery of the law.

"The Court therefore enters judgment on the lesser offense."

A soft, jagged gasp escaped Athena. It was the sound of a heart finally giving up.

The judge continued, his voice never wavering. "The defendant is hereby sentenced to sixty days confinement in county jail and assessed a monetary fine of one hundred dollars."

One hundred dollars. Ryan repeated the number in the silence of his mind.

The sum echoed with a mocking absurdity. It was the price of a sturdy wagon wheel. A shipment of fine flour. A decent starter horse. That was the value the state had placed on the light of their lives.

The courtroom fell into a deathly, ringing quiet. The defendant exhaled, a subtle almost imperceptible sound, but Ryan caught it. It wasn't quite relief; it was the smug certainty of a man who realized he had cheated the hangman.

Ryan finally looked at him. The man was young, his life still stretching comfortably ahead of him. He was well-dressed, freshly shaved, and leaning in to catch a whispered word from his lawyer that looked sickeningly like a congratulation. Ryan felt... nothing. Not the hot flare of anger or the sharp sting of hatred. It was a cold, clinical awareness. He realized that this man would eventually walk beneath the same sun as all of them again and breathe the same mountain air.

The judge asked if anyone wished to speak. Athena didn't move. Hank simply placed a steady, heavy hand over hers.

Ryan remained standing, his hat pressed against his chest, his Marshal's coat as crisp as the morning he'd pinned the star to it. Every instinct of his soul urged him to scream, to object, to demand blood for blood…but there was no argument left. The law had spoken, and the law was final.

"Marshal Walker?" The bailiff's voice was a soft intrusion.

Ryan blinked, the room coming back into focus. "You all right, sir?"

He met the younger man's eyes and gave a single, practiced nod. "Yes." His voice was a surprise to him, steady and even, devoid of the tectonic shift happening inside him. "I am."

The lie passed without challenge.

Outside, the afternoon sun hung high over Blackwater. It was a beautiful day, a cruel indifference from the heavens. Children chased one another across the dusty street while merchants called out prices from beneath shaded awnings of docks. Wagons rattled over the packed earth and cobbled streets, and from a nearby cafe a guitar played a cheerful, lazy tune.

The world simply continued on.

Ryan descended the courthouse steps, Athena leaning heavily against his arm. She didn't cry until they reached the wagon. The sound that escaped her then was unlike anything Ryan had heard in his long career of witnessing tragedy. It wasn't a sob; it was a collapse, the sound of someone who had spent their last ounce of strength just to remain upright.

He wrapped a protective arm around his daughter and held her. Over her shoulder, his eyes wandered back toward the courthouse doors.

The defendant emerged moments later. He was laughing quietly with his attorney before climbing into a waiting jailhouse wagon. He never once looked toward Walker or the Vanderhuges. Perhaps he lacked the courage. Perhaps, more accurately and more chillingly, he simply didn't care.

Ryan watched until the wagon disappeared around a corner. Then he helped Athena into her own seat, climbed onto the driver's bench beside Hank, and flicked the reins. No one spoke during the long, hollow ride home.

-=====-

Life resumed because the world has little patience for grief.

Within days, Ryan was back in the saddle. He tracked horse rustlers across the Scarlett Meadows, mediated land disputes outside Rhodes, and escorted federal prisoners across the Dakota River. His reports remained immaculate. His arrests were surgical. Fellow Marshals complimented his composure, remarking that hardship had only sharpened his professionalism.

Ryan thanked them with a practiced, polite smile.

Every evening, he returned home, hung his coat by the door, and washed the trail dust from his hands. He smiled at supper. He bounced his surviving grandchild on his knee. Some nights, he even managed to laugh at the stories Hank told. It was a performance so convincing that, after a few weeks, the townsfolk stopped looking at him with pity. They believed he was healing.

Ryan knew better.

Sleep was a stranger. When it came it came in fragments, always ending with the judge's voice echoing in the dark. Sixty days. One hundred dollars. The words were carved into the inside of his skull.

One evening, after the house had gone silent, Ryan unlocked the desk he was using and removed the trial transcript. He read every page. Every objection. Every testimony. When he reached the end, he closed the folder and sat in the dark for an hour before extinguishing the lamp.

The following night, he did the same. And the night after that.

Eventually, he stopped reading the whole file. He turned directly to the final page. To the sentence. He stared at those numbers until the sun began to grey the horizon.

The next morning, before dawn had broken over the Heartlands, Ryan saddled his horse and rode out alone. He told no one where he was going. He told himself he only wanted to see where the man lived. Nothing more.

-=====-

Ryan never admitted to himself that he had begun following the man. He preferred smaller lies.

If his duties carried him through Valentine, it cost him little to ride past the hotel where the man had taken a room after he served his time, and if a prisoner needed transporting through the Heartlands, there was no harm in stopping for a drink at the same saloon where the man played cards most evenings. The Union was not so large that two men could not cross paths by coincidence, and Ryan had spent enough years chasing criminals to know the difference between observation and obsession.

Well, he believed that for a while anyway.

The weeks drifted by with an almost insulting normalcy. Summer settled over the territory, bringing long evenings filled with insects and the smell of dry grass. Merchants argued over prices, trains continued to arrive on schedule, ranchers complained about wolves attacking their herds, and the Marshal Service buried Ryan beneath a steady procession of ordinary work. He arrested cattle rustlers outside Emerald Ranch, escorted witnesses to Blackwater's Courthouse, and recovered a shipment of stolen rifles before they had the opportunity to disappeared across the boarder. Every report he submitted was as meticulous as those he had written for years.

His fellow Marshals remarked that it was good to see him throwing himself back into the work.

The man had resumed his life with terrifying ease. Ryan had expected to see shame, or at least a haunted look in the man's eyes. Instead, he found someone who laughed loudly at the saloon and complained to anyone who would listen about the "inconvenience" of his sixty days in jail.

One afternoon, Ryan watched from the Sheriff's office porch as the man knelt to scratch a stray dog's ears, tossing it a scrap of jerky with a kind smile.

The gesture haunted Ryan. How could a man show kindness to a beast while leaving a family hollowed out? Was evil truly this ordinary? Had he spent his career chasing monsters, only to find that they looked exactly like everyone else?

The question followed him home, where his surviving grandchild, Jonah, climbed into his lap. The boy chattered about fishing and showed Ryan a "lucky" river stone. Ryan listened with a heavy heart, smiling in all the right places.

Before climbing down, Jonah wrapped his small arms around Ryan's neck. "I miss them," he whispered into Ryan's shoulder.

Ryan closed his eyes, the weight of the badge on his chest feeling like a lead weight. "So do I."

That night, the discipline that had carried Ryan through thirty years of service finally snapped. He sat at his desk, staring at the silver star hanging beside his hat. For decades, a badge represented the belief that no man had the right to be judge, jury, and executioner. Civilization depended on restraint. The law was imperfect, but it was all they had.

He still believed those things. That was the tragedy. The law had functioned exactly as it was designed, and yet, a child was in the dirt while the man responsible was tossing jerky to dogs. The road of the law had ended. If justice was to continue, someone had to build a new path.

-=====-

The route wound through a lonely stretch of woodland between Valentine and O'Creagh's Run, a place where the trees grew so thick they seemed to swallow the sound of the world. Ryan didn't hide in the brush. He sat his horse directly in the center of the trail, a silent iron-grey statue framed by the dying light.

He hadn't chosen this place by accident. He knew the man's habits, his schedule, and the exact moment his wagon would crest the rise.

He reached into his coat and withdrew the folded drawing, a paper with four stick figures beneath a charcoal sun where five should have been. He didn't look at it. He simply felt the weight of it in his palm, a small, paper anchor keeping him from drifting away.

When the rhythmic clack-thud of the wagon finally approached, Ryan didn't move.

The man pulled back on the reins, the heavy wooden brake groaning as the wagon slowed to a stop a few feet away. He didn't smile this time. He looked at the silver star on Ryan's chest, then at the empty road behind him. He was a man who had narrowly escaped a noose, and he lived with the twitchy, high-strung nerves of the lucky.

"Marshal," the man said, his voice tight. He kept his hands visible on the reins, a survival instinct kicking in. "Something wrong with the road?"

Ryan didn't answer. He dismounted with the slow, deliberate grace of a man who had done it ten thousand times. He didn't draw his weapon, but he didn't leave the center of the trail. He began walking toward the wagon, his spurs clicking rhythmically against the hard-packed dirt, a countdown in metal.

"I'm done with the law, Walker," the man called out, his voice rising an octave, trembling with a mixture of bravado and burgeoning terror. "The judge ruled.. I served my time and paid my fines. You got no cause to stop me."

Ryan kept coming. He wasn't reaching for his gun yet, which was more terrifying. He was just... coming.

The man reached for a hunting rifle propped against the seat, his movements frantic and clumsy. "I'll tell 'em! I'll tell the Sheriff you're harrassin' me! I'm a free man!"

"You are," Ryan said. The two words were flat, devoid of heat, sounding more like a court ruling than a threat.

The man's hand froze inches from the rifle. He looked into Ryan's eyes and finally saw it—not the Marshal, but the grandfather. The lawman's mask hadn't just slipped; it had been discarded in the dirt miles back. The realization hit the man like a physical blow, draining the color from his face until he looked like a corpse already.

"You... you can't," the man stammered, shrinking back against the bench. "You're a Marshal. You're the law."

Ryan stopped at the edge of the wagon wheel. He looked up, and for a second, he didn't see the coward in the seat. He saw a white cloth in a silent courtroom. He felt the vibration of Athena's broken sobs against his chest. He heard the price of a wagon wheel echoing in a judge's indifferent voice.

"I already did everything I was supposed to do," Ryan said, his voice scarcely louder than the wind moving through the pines. "I gave the law its turn."

The man scrambled to throw the wagon into gear, his hands shaking so violently he dropped the reins then lunged for the rifle again, a desperate animal flail for survival.

But Ryan was faster. He had spent years being faster.

He didn't feel the surge of adrenaline he usually felt during an arrest. He didn't feel the righteous spark of duty. He simply felt a cold, hollow necessity. He knew that what happened next would not bring the laughter back to his house. It would not heal his daughter. It would only finish the job the court had been too weak to complete.

As his hand closed around the grip of his sidearm, Ryan Walker, the man who believed in the process, the man who separated civilization from chaos, finally stepped off the map. Again, he knew that what happened next wouldn't bring his grandchild back. It wouldn't heal Athena. It would simply destroy what was left of his own soul.

He knew that. And still, he reached for his holster.

-=====-

The investigation remained open for months.

Marshal Ryan Walker assisted with the case whenever he was asked. He reviewed the reports, interviewed the few witnesses who had heard a distant shot, and followed every lead with the quiet professionalism that had defined his life. No one questioned him. No one suspected the man with the silver star.

Eventually, the trail went cold, buried beneath the dust of newer crimes and the file was closed.

Ryan continued to wear the badge. He continued to protect the Union. He still told young deputies that the law was the only thing holding the world together.

But every morning, as he fastened that silver star above his heart, he felt its weight a little more. He understood the terrible secret of the frontier: The law hadn't failed on that lonely road outside Valentine. It had failed weeks earlier, in a crowded room full of lawyers and logic, when a good man was told that his grief was only worth a hundred dollars.

Everything that followed was just the interest being paid.

[mk-scrawlings]

Temporary Miracle

The train rocked steadily beneath Sadie as it carried her south toward The Union. The rhythm of the wheels beneath the carriage settled into her bones, a steady, unchanging sound that dulled the edge of her thoughts. Outside the window, the land stretched on in long, quiet miles, already beginning to feel like something she had left behind rather than something she belonged to.

Sadie sat with her hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on the passing landscape. At some point, the warmth of the carriage and the steady motion softened her focus. Her eyelids grew heavy. Without noticing the moment it happened, she drifted into sleep.

She dreamed she was home.

Not as it had been after her father died, but as it had always been before—simple, familiar, whole. The house stood as it always had, the air filled with the faint smells of soap and wood and bread cooling somewhere out of sight. Morning light spilled across the floor in wide, peaceful bands. Nothing felt wrong. Nothing felt missing.

She moved through the house without thinking, her body remembering the small, ordinary routines. At some point, she stepped outside and crossed toward the small barn behind the house. The door stood open, sunlight spilling across the packed dirt floor.

Her father was inside.

He sat on an overturned crate, resting as though he had simply stepped away from his work for a moment. His sleeves were rolled up, his hat set aside, his posture easy and unguarded. He was whole. Alive. Exactly as she remembered him.

Sadie stopped short.

She knew—somewhere, distantly—that this should not be possible. That he had been taken from her. But the knowledge had no weight here. It did not matter. The miracle of his presence overwhelmed everything else.

Relief rushed through her so suddenly it stole her breath.

"You're back," she said, her voice thick with emotion, though she did not know from where it came. It was not a question.

He looked up at her and smiled, warm and familiar, as though nothing extraordinary had happened at all. "I am," he said simply, like that was explanation enough.

She crossed the barn in a few quick steps and stood in front of him, her hands trembling before she could stop them. He reached out and rested a hand over hers, solid and warm. The simple truth of his touch undid her.

She laughed softly, the sound caught halfway between joy and disbelief. "I didn't know" She stopped, the rest of the thought dissolving before it could form.

He didn't ask her to finish. He just watched her with that same steady attention he always had, as though he had all the time in the world.

"Sit," he said gently.

She sat beside him on the crate, close enough that their shoulders touched. The barn smelled of hay and sun-warmed wood. Somewhere nearby, an animal shifted in its stall. Everything felt right—settled, returned to its proper place.

They talked, though later she would not remember the words. It was enough to hear his voice again, calm and certain, filling the quiet spaces she had carried since his death. At one point, she leaned her head briefly against his shoulder, and he did not pull away.

"You're doing fine," he told her, his voice low and steady. "You always have."

She believed him completely.

When she opened her eyes, the train was still moving.

The carriage was unchanged—the same seats, the same low murmurs of other passengers, the same steady clatter of wheels against the rails. For a moment, the dream lingered so strongly she wondered where she was, where she was going.

Then the absence returned.

Her throat tightened. Tears welled before she could stop them. She turned her face slightly toward the window, lifting her hand in a clumsy, hurried motion as she searched her bag. Her fingers closed around her handkerchief, and she pressed it to her eyes, breathing slowly, carefully, as though that might steady the ache spreading through her chest.

The miracle had passed.

Outside, the land rolled on, indifferent and wide. Sadie straightened her back, folded the handkerchief in her hands, and stared ahead once more.

The Union lay somewhere ahead of her. And with it, the man who still carried what she did not yet understand.

[mk-scrawlings]

Restless

Charlie shifted in the sheets, rough linen rasping against her skin. Another restless movement. A breath caught too high in her chest—and then she jolted upright, heart hammering like she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't.

Darkness pressed in from every side.

She sat there for a moment, blinking, disoriented, the remnants of the dream clinging like heat she couldn't shake. Then she exhaled slowly and let herself fall back against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling.

The boards above her were plain and varnished, knots standing out like dark eyes. She traced them without really seeing them, her mind already slipping backward.

It had been Brandon's couch. The same sag in the cushions. The same lamplight. In the dream she hadn't held her tongue. She hadn't laughed it off or deflected or folded herself smaller. She'd said it—said how empty the quiet felt, how tired she was of being strong by herself, how much she wanted...

Charlie groaned softly and dragged a hand over her face, then down, shifting again as if she could physically escape the memory. Her legs tangled in the sheets. The bed creaked under her frustration.

Stupid.

Careless.

Needy.

She squeezed her eyes shut. This was exactly how things started last time. Wanting too much. Letting the wrong ache speak louder than sense.

She rolled onto her side, curling in on herself. Her chest ached—not sharp, not dramatic. Just dull. Persistent. Like a bruise you keep pressing to see if it's still there.

She missed them.

Jonas. Clyde. Malcolm. Enzo. Even Elijah, if she was being honest—though she hated that one the most. She hated what he'd become, hated the edges he'd let sharpen. She wanted to blame James Rowe for that, even if it wasn't fair. James had made everything too easy, too fun, and Elijah had followed the gravity of it without stopping to think.

They'd all gone on without her. All gone their separate ways.

Not cruelly. Not intentionally. They had desires. Lives. Purpose. She understood that. She always understood that.

Understanding didn't make the room any less quiet.

Charlie sank deeper into the mattress, staring back up at the ceiling as faint grey shapes bloomed at the edge of her vision—phantom colors the mind invented when it didn't want to be alone with itself.

"Need to spend more time in Saint Denis," she murmured aloud.

Her own voice grounded her. Solid. Real. Saying it made it feel like a decision instead of a wish.

She swallowed and let the silence settle again.

Saint Denis meant noise. People. Movement. It meant not sitting alone in borrowed rooms with borrowed thoughts and dreaming about men she couldn't afford to want.

Her lips pressed together.

"Eve Brooks," she muttered, the name like a lifeline and a deflection all at once.

Maybe Eve was right. Maybe a little harmless attention would help. A dinner. A smile held a second too long.

It didn't have to mean anything.

Charlie turned onto her other side, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Heat still lingered beneath her skin, unwanted and embarrassing, and she scowled at herself for it.

Damn dreams. Damn loneliness.

Her thoughts drifted back despite her best efforts—back to the couch, the closeness, the way in the dream she'd mattered just enough to be held onto.

She sighed, slow and tired, and closed her eyes.

Sleep came reluctantly.

But eventually, it came.

[mk-scrawlings]

Quiet Resentment

Charlie didn't say any of it out loud.

She waited until the wagon was put away, until the horses were settled, until the noise of Valentine dulled into its usual evening murmur. She waited until Brandon had gone, gone to lay down for the night.

Only then did it start to burn.

It simmered first—low and controlled, the way she'd learned to hold anger like a live coal in her gut. The kind that kept your voice even and your hands steady. The kind that didn't betray you in front of people who had already decided what you were allowed to feel.

Gracie's words replayed anyway.

I need my brother, not a caged animal.

Charlie leaned against the hitching post and closed her eyes, jaw tightening. Not because the words were wrong—because they were careless. Because they landed on a man already broken open and called it motivation.

She could still see Brandon sitting on the cell floor, shoulders curved inward, badge heavy in his hand like it weighed a hundred pounds. Could still hear the way his voice had frayed when he said too late, like that phrase had been living in him for weeks, chewing him hollow.

And Gracie had stood there—scarred, furious, alive—and demanded strength from a man who had been drowning in guilt since the moment her blood hit the snow.

Charlie understood why. God help her, she did.

Gracie had been flayed and stitched and carved and still standing. She had survived something no one should have to survive, and survival had sharpened her into something brittle and bright and cutting. Pain like that didn't leave room for gentleness. It demanded absolutes. Action. Certainty.

But understanding didn't soften the anger.

Because kicking a man while he was down and calling it truth didn't make it right.

Charlie dragged a hand down her face and stared out at the street. People passed. Laughed. Lived. None of them had seen Brandon fold in on himself like he didn't deserve to take up space. None of them had heard him say he should have been caged, like maybe that would have kept everyone safe.

You should have been there for me.

Charlie exhaled slowly through her nose.

As if he hadn't been trying to carry the weight of everyone at once. As if knowing about the letters—knowing about the taunts—had been some kind of privilege instead of another cut.

And that was the part that made her chest ache with something sharper than anger.

The implication that she shouldn't have known.

That Brandon shouldn't have told her.

That his pain was a private failing, to be borne all alone.

Charlie had seen that thinking before. She'd lived it.

The idea that strength meant silence. That needing anyone made you weak. That you proved your worth by how much you could endure without breaking in front of witnesses.

It ruined people.

She pushed off the post and started walking, boots scuffing dust, thoughts pacing faster than her steps. Gracie wanted her brother back upright and armored and functioning. Wanted him fixed—as if healing was something you could bark into existence.

Charlie wanted him breathing.

Wanted him sitting on a wagon watching herds drift across open land, wanted him talking about anything that wasn't guilt or blood or failure. Wanted him alive enough to feel tired instead of empty.

And maybe that was the difference.

Gracie had survived hell and demanded the same of him.

Charlie had watched too many strong men crumble under the weight of being told to endure.

She stopped, fists clenched at her sides, and stared at nothing.

You're not a caged animal, she thought fiercely, like she could send it after him on the wind. And even if you were—animals don't deserve punishment for surviving.

She didn't know if Gracie would ever see that. Didn't know if she ever could, not with scars still fresh and rage still burning hot enough to cauterize empathy.

But Charlie knew one thing with painful certainty.

If Brandon disappeared again—if he folded in on himself and decided the world would be better without him—Charlie would never forgive the people who demanded strength without offering grace.

And she wasn't sure she'd forgive Gracie, either.

[mk-scrawlings]

A Caged Animal

Charlie spotted Graham before he spotted her—silhouetted on horseback against the dirty white of the snow, reins slack, shoulders hunched against the cold.

"Hey, Graham," she called, already walking toward him. "Come let me in the back door."

She didn't ask if Brandon was inside. She knew he was. The sheriff had said it plainly—locked himself in one of the cells like a wounded animal that didn't trust its own hands anymore. Charlie's jaw tightened at the thought.

Graham swung down from his horse. "Which door?"

"The one nobody watches," she said, already turning away.

Inside, the jail smelled like old iron and damp wool. Voices echoed low and strained from the cellblock.

Alex Ashcroft stood just inside one of the open cells, speaking carefully, like every word was meant to be a handhold.

"…you get yourself better. You get back on your feet," Alex was saying. "At the end of all this healing, you're gonna get out there again. And you're gonna prove to everyone—especially him—that we are not the animals he wants us to be. He doesn't win by making you sit in this cage all day hating yourself."

Charlie slowed without meaning to.

Luna, sitting inside the cell, snapped back hard. "Just because Gracie says death isn't good enough for him—that's fucking bullshit. If he wants to know what a caged animal is, he's talking to the wrong fucking Witlock."

She stood abruptly and brushed past Charlie without a glance, boots heavy against the floor as she stormed out.

Alex sighed, rubbing his face. "I don't expect you to just take this and magically feel better," he said more quietly. "Take the time you need. As long as you need. But do not let it keep you here. Okay?"

A gunshot cracked outside—sharp, too close.

Alex straightened. "You know what to do, Witlock," he said, already moving, then he was gone.

Charlie stepped into the cell.

Brandon sat on the floor with his back against the stone wall. His hair hung loose around his face instead of slicked back, too long now. His beard was uneven, neglected. A cast swallowed his leg. One hand was wrapped tight, white bandages stark against dirt and blood. He didn't look up when she sat beside him.

For a moment, she said nothing. Just existed there. Solid. Quiet.

"You told her?" Gracie's voice cut in sharp from outside the cell.

Brandon lifted his head slightly. "What?"

"You told her?" Gracie repeated.

"Told her what?"

Charlie felt it then—that edge in Gracie's tone. Accusatory. Territorial. Like Charlie was trespassing somewhere she hadn't earned the right to be.

"You know exactly what you told her."

"I'm very confused with what you're asking me right now." His voice was tired and weak, like that of a man beaten down.

"Thomas," Gracie said flatly. "Ring a bell?"

Brandon let out a hollow laugh. "What? That he got in my head? That he called me a dumb caged animal who should've been locked up? Is that why I'm sitting in this goddamn cell?"

Charlie's fingers curled against her knee, hard enough that she felt it in the joint. Every instinct in her wanted to step forward, put herself between them, snap something sharp and ugly back at Gracie until she stopped aiming her words like knives at a man already bleeding.

Careful, she warned herself. Careful.

"Do you believe that?" Gracie pressed. "Do you physically believe you're a caged animal?"

Charlie's gaze flicked to Brandon before he answered—saw the way his shoulders drew in, the way the bars framed him too neatly for comfort.

"Do I look it?" he asked.

"No. I never believed that," Gracie snapped. "I never believed Luna was unhinged. Never believed Bobby was a kid playing at marrying into the name. Never believed any of it. I stayed strong on that damn mountain longer than I can remember. I told you I didn't want him killed. I didn't want corruption touching any of us. And as much as I wanted to put a bullet in his head, I didn't."

Charlie swallowed hard. She could hear it—the truth and the fury tangled together, the way pain sharpened everything it touched. If Gracie hadn't earned every ounce of that anger in blood, Charlie would've been on her feet already.

"Did I?" Brandon shot back.

"No."

"I didn't," he said again, firmer.

"But you punched him. You fought Alex to get to him."

Charlie's teeth ground together. And I'd have done the same, she thought. Every time.

"What the hell was I supposed to do while he kept taunting me?"

"You were supposed to be there for me."

That landed.

Charlie saw it hit him like a blow to the chest, watched the fight drain out of him all at once. The words were quieter than shouting, but heavier—because they were the one accusation he already believed.

"Yeah," Brandon breathed. "Like he said. I wasn't."

Charlie's jaw clenched. Her mouth opened, just a fraction, then shut again. Don't you dare let that stand, she thought—and then, just as quickly, Don't. Not now.

"I don't believe his words," Gracie said. "But yesterday I needed my brother, and he was too angry to even talk to me. I understand you're pissed at him—but how do you think I feel? I'm the one with scars. All you got were letters."

Charlie felt heat flare behind her eyes. Letters don't carve skin, she wanted to say. But they can still cut to the bone. She dug her nails into her palm instead, grounding herself in the sting. Gracie had scars Charlie couldn't see, things no one should have survived. That mattered. It had to.

But so did this.

"Don't you dare think I wouldn't trade places with you."

"I'm not saying you wouldn't."

"I would," Brandon said. "Without hesitation."

Gracie exhaled hard. "He wasn't after you. He wanted your blood boiling so you'd do something irrational. I don't know what happened to you—but I had to force myself to talk to you because you wouldn't come to me."

Charlie looked at Brandon again—at the cast, the bandages, the way he sat folded inward like he was trying to take up less space in his own skin. You broke trying to hold all of it, she thought. And she's asking why you cracked.

"Same goes for you," Brandon said to Gracie.

Charlie let out a slow breath through her nose, staying seated, staying silent. She hated it. Hated every second of holding her tongue. But she knew if she spoke now, it would be a fight Gracie couldn't afford—and neither could Brandon.

So she stayed where she was. A witness. A wall. Waiting for the moment she was allowed to speak.

She paused. Then nodded, tired. "Yeah. Maybe. I need my brother—not a caged animal. Because you've never been that. Everything he's said—to you, to Pops, to Luna, to Bobby, to Ryan—it's all false. And I know I'll never get an apology."

Charlie stayed still, back straight, hands folded like restraint alone could keep her from stepping in. Gracie was right—and wrong—in ways that tangled together so tightly Charlie couldn't pull one thread without tearing the rest apart. She understood the anger. She understood the exhaustion. She understood that Gracie was speaking from scars that went deeper than bone.

But god, she was flaying him alive.

"You know what hurts the most?" Brandon asked quietly.

Charlie felt her chest tighten before Gracie even answered.

"What?"

"That one line he wrote. That I was supposed to protect you. And I didn't. I came too late."

Charlie closed her eyes briefly. Don't you dare carry that too.

"I didn't need a knight in shining armor."

"That's not what I mean. When it mattered," he said, voice breaking, "I wasn't there."

Charlie's fingers twitched. She wanted to tell him that being late wasn't the same as failing. That sometimes survival itself was proof enough. But this wasn't her ground to speak on—not yet.

"The only thing I believe," Gracie said slowly, "is that sometimes when I need you, you storm off. Everything else—you've always been there. What happened on that mountain was my mistake. I chose to be the hero."

Charlie inhaled through her nose. You shouldn't have had to be one.

"You did what you thought was right."

"Yeah." Gracie answered the first soft break in anger Charlie had heard.

"You tried to get away so no one else would get hurt," Brandon said. "I wasn't there. That's what hurts."

"If you were too late," Gracie snapped, "I wouldn't be standing here."

"You were unconscious when I found you."

"And yet I'm alive," she shot back. "So how is that too late?"

Charlie's jaw tightened. She could picture it too clearly—Brandon finding her broken and bloodied, thinking he'd failed while she was still breathing. That kind of moment didn't leave a man. It nested.

"You had skin flayed off your arm," he whispered.

"And 'debt paid' carved into my back," Gracie said sharply. "And I'm still standing. So stop calling that too late."

Charlie swallowed hard. Jesus Christ.

Brandon folded in on himself, shoulders caving. "Pops taught me to stop the bad guys."

"No one can stop him," Gracie said. "Not you. Not Pops. Not Luna. He's clinically insane. This is not the man I married." She reached through the bars and gripped Brandon's sleeve. "I'm annoyed—but not at you," she said. "I'm annoyed at myself. And I can't watch you become what he called you."

Charlie watched Brandon's face crumple, tears finally breaking through. She stayed where she was. Didn't touch him. Didn't interfere. Gracie needed to say this—and maybe Brandon needed to hear it—even if it hurt like hell.

"I can't see you like this," Gracie finished. "Get up. Clean yourself. Put your badge back on. Until then, I don't want to hear it."

She turned and walked away.

The sound of her boots faded.

Brandon stared after her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he unpinned his badge and lowered it into his palm.

That was when Charlie moved.

Not fast. Not sharp. Just enough to remind him he wasn't alone.

"So," she said lightly, like she hadn't just watched him get torn open, "you made me spend a whole night in the snow just to find you in Valentine?"

He huffed a weak breath. "Didn't mean to. Was gonna come get you. Go huntin'."

"You wanna go now?" she asked softly, careful with every syllable, like a hand offered to a skittish horse.

He gestured vaguely at himself. "Broken leg. Broken hand. Fractured skull."

"We could sit on the wagon."

"I can't shoot."

"You don't have to."

Charlie let a small, steady smile touch her mouth. "We don't even have to hunt. Just look. See where the herds are moving."

Brandon nodded, slow and thoughtful. "I like that."

"Want me to get the wagon?"

He nodded again.

Charlie stood, already turning toward the door—quietly furious, quietly loyal, and very certain of one thing: Whatever Gracie had said, whatever Thomas had written, Brandon Witlock did not belong in a cage.

[mk-scrawlings]

Broken Spiral

The snow had no mercy for him.

It crept into the seams of his coat, settled into the folds of wool and leather, clung to his boots until they felt twice their weight. Brandon sat where the rock broke the slope, high enough that all of New Hanover lay spread beneath him—dark forests, pale rivers, distant lights swallowed by the coming dusk.

He didn't look away.

His coat was heavy, thick-lined, the kind meant for men who expected to be out in weather like this. Gloves hung useless at his side, fingers bare and red, knuckles cracked. Snow gathered in his beard, caught in the wild, untrimmed growth like frost on a dead hedge. His hair had fallen loose from whatever tie he'd once bothered with, curling damp against his temples, sticking to his face.

He hadn't moved in a long time.

The wind worried at him, low and constant, carrying that particular smell that meant more snow was coming. A storm. The sky was already bruising purple and gray, clouds rolling in slow and heavy like something massive and uncaring.

He drew his knees up slightly, boots digging into the crusted snow. His hands trembled—not from the cold alone. That was the part he couldn't control anymore. The shaking had started hours ago, maybe longer. Time had gone soft around the edges.

You failed her.

The words weren't on paper now. They were etched into him.

Gracie's face rose unbidden in his mind—not as she was now, hurt and frightened and changed, but as she'd been. Laughing too loud. Standing too close. Trusting him without question. His little sister, who had always assumed he'd be there. That if things went wrong, Brandon would fix it. Brandon would stop it.

His jaw clenched so hard it ached.

"I was there," he said aloud, the wind stealing most of it. His voice sounded strange to his own ears—thin, scraped raw. "I was right there."

But the mountain didn't answer. The valley didn't care.

He had been loud. He had been angry. He had paced and postured and told himself that meant something. That being ready to explode was the same as being ready to act.

When the moment came, he'd hesitated. That's what the letters said. That was the truth he couldn't outrun, no matter how high he climbed.

His shoulders folded inward, the weight of his coat suddenly unbearable. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, fingers digging into the snow until they went numb. The cold bit down hard, sharp and clean, and for a moment he welcomed it. Pain was simple. Pain made sense.

"She needed me," he muttered. "And I didn't—"

The words failed him. His breath hitched, fogging thick in front of his face. He swallowed hard, throat burning.

He'd told himself he was protecting her. The letter had laughed at that idea.

Animal.

The word stalked him now, circling slow.

He could see it when he closed his eyes: himself rushing headlong, teeth bared, all instinct and noise. Snarling at shadows. Bolting when things turned real. A creature that didn't know when to stand or when to strike—only that it made a mess either way.

Animals didn't understand consequences. They just reacted.

Animals got people hurt.

His hands curled into fists, snow crunching beneath his grip. His shoulders began to shake—not violently, but steadily, like something inside him was coming undone thread by thread.

"Maybe that's all I am," he whispered. "Just that."

The wind picked up, tugging at his coat, lifting loose snow into the air. The first flakes of the coming storm brushed his face, melting against his skin. The sky darkened another shade.

Cages came to mind without warning.

The thought slid in quiet and smooth, like it had been waiting for the right moment to show itself. It didn't frighten him at first. It settled. Heavy. Certain.

Animals belonged in cages.

That was the truth of them. You didn't reason with an animal. You didn't ask it to be better than its nature. You contained it. Locked it behind iron and wood and distance so it couldn't lunge, couldn't break something precious just by being what it was.

Cages were honest in a way people never were.

They didn't pretend something could change if it just tried harder. They didn't lie about potential. A cage said this is what you are and this is as far as you're allowed to go.

If he were caged, he wouldn't be able to hover uselessly at her side, all noise and fury and empty promises. He wouldn't be able to mistake standing nearby for protection. He wouldn't get to tell himself next time.

There wouldn't be a next time.

The idea tightened around his chest until his breaths came thin and shallow, each one scraping like it might be his last. He folded inward, shoulders rounding, chin dropping until his beard brushed his coat, posture instinctive—as if he were bracing for a blow he knew he deserved.

Maybe that was the point.

Below him, the world went on.

New Hanover lay spread out beneath the storm-dark sky, lights flickering to life one by one as dusk deepened. Somewhere down there, people shut their doors against the cold. Someone fed a horse, rubbed warmth back into stiff muscles. Fires crackled. Supper cooked. Life continued with a stubborn, indifferent rhythm.

It felt obscene.

Up here, there was only him. The cold seeping into his bones. The wind cutting through every layer. The truth pressing down until it felt like it might crush his lungs flat.

Once again, Gracie is in need of protection and you are too late.

The words landed like a final judgment.

A sound wrenched itself out of him—raw and broken, somewhere between a breath and a laugh that had forgotten how to be anything but cruel. He bent forward sharply, pressing his forehead into his knee as if he could drive the thought out through sheer force. Snow clung to his lashes, melting there, cold water streaking down his face indistinguishable from tears he refused to name.

“I know,” he rasped into the wool of his coat. His voice shook apart around the words. “I know.”

The storm answered him.

Wind rose into a howl, fierce and relentless, snow thickening until it blurred the line between sky and ground. The mountain seemed to close in on itself, white and gray swallowing everything beyond a few feet.

Brandon stayed hunched before the gathering storm, trembling, shrinking, convinced down to his marrow that the world was safer—she was safer—without him loose in it.

And the snow kept falling, eager and unending, burying the shape of him inch by inch.

Brandon stayed where he was.

A dark figure hunched against the coming night, shaking beneath the weight of his own skin, convinced—utterly—that whatever part of him had been meant to protect was broken beyond repair.

And the snow kept falling.

[mk-scrawlings]

Snowbound

The cabin was barely more than four walls and a roof, but it held. That was something.

The wind screamed itself hoarse outside, snow clawing at the shutters like it wanted in. Charlie had dragged the table against the door, more out of habit than fear, and led Silver Bell inside once it became clear the storm wasn't passing anytime soon. The mare had resisted at first—confused, stamping—but eventually settled in the middle of the room, folding herself down with a huff and a grateful shake. Charlie sat with her back against Silver Bell's warm flank, one hand resting on the familiar solidity of muscle and hide.

It helped. A little.

The telegram lay folded and unfolded so many times it had begun to soften at the creases.

I am Broken.

She read it again. And again.

The words didn't change. Their meaning didn't sharpen or dull with repetition—if anything, they frayed. What kind of man wrote something like that and vanished into the snow afterward? Brandon wasn't dramatic. He wasn't poetic. He was steady, plain-spoken, earnest to a fault. If he wrote those words, something had cracked hard enough to force them out of him.

Her thoughts chased themselves in circles.

The deputies in Valentine hadn't looked shaken. No whispered conversations. No sudden tightening when his name was mentioned. If something terrible had happened—if there had been blood, or arrests, or deaths—someone would have said something. Wouldn't they?

Unless they hadn't told her.

The idea crept in sideways, quiet and suffocating. That she was outside the circle. She wasn't a lawman anymore and everything was a secret. If something had happened they wouldn't have told her. She had no right to know.

Charlie shut her eyes and pressed her forehead briefly into Silver Bell's shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of horse and leather and cold. No. She wasn't doing that. She wasn't letting herself spiral down that old, lonely well where every unanswered question became proof she didn't matter.

She opened the telegram again, forcing herself to read it slower this time.

What worth of a man am I if I can't protect my family…

Family. So something had happened—or nearly had. Something he felt responsible for, whether it was his fault or not. His sister. His father. God, maybe even something smaller that had grown claws in his mind and wouldn't let go.

Her jaw tightened.

Had she pushed too hard? Asked too many questions about the cult, about the threats, about what he planned to do next? She'd meant it practically, not critically—meant it the way lawmen talked to one another, the way problems were solved by naming them. Her thoughts had been too much on that last case, the one that had been the last straw. The reason she'd quit being a lawman, and the man who shouldn't have gotten away scott free.

And she'd stood there, arms folded, suggesting action.

The thought twisted unpleasantly in her chest.

She'd told herself he was too forward. That the touches—his hand on her arm, the brief clasp of her fingers—were things she ought to stop before they turned into something else. And she had stopped them, stopped them by feigning that she was ignoring them, not returning the gestures.

Not because she didn't like them.

Because she did.

Because liking them felt dangerous. Because the last time she let something move fast and easy, it had burned down around her and taken parts of her with it. Too fast. Too soon. Always the same mistake, dressed up in a different face.

Outside, the wind howled louder, rattling the cabin like a warning.

Charlie stared at the telegram until the words blurred.

She had wanted a hunting partner. A friend. Someone steady. Someone uncomplicated.

And now she was alone in a snowbound cabin, clutching a piece of paper that felt heavier than it had any right to be, wondering where a good man had gone to fall apart.

Silver Bell shifted slightly, pressing closer, and Charlie let her head rest back against the mare's shoulder once more.

"Damn it," she murmured to no one.

The storm raged on, uncaring, while Charlie sat in its heart—waiting, thinking, and trying not to admit how much she hoped she'd find him when the snow finally let her go.

[mk-scrawlings]

Whiteout

Charlie told herself she wasn't waiting.

She was just… lingering. Tidying things that didn't need tidying. Checking the clock too often. Standing in the doorway of the saloon longer than necessary, watching the dirt road like she expected someone to materialize out of the dust.

Brandon had mentioned Nordheim casually—offhand, even. A hunting trip up north. Snow and quiet and clean air. She'd said it sounded nice, nothing more, careful not to lean into it. Careful not to sound eager.

But she was.

She missed the idea of it more than she cared to admit: the ride north, the cold that sharpened the senses, the easy companionship of someone who didn't demand anything from her except presence. Gentle touches—accidental brushes of hands, and after, before leaving the frozen town shared warmth by a fire. Things she'd learned to live without, and apparently still noticed the absence of.

It wasn't smart to get wrapped up in anything. Everyone in the east seemed to be dating a Whitlock, and that alone felt like a warning written in block letters across the sky. Bad timing. Bad odds. Bad sense.

She tried not to spiral on it.

The day wore on. Morning slipped into afternoon. Brandon didn't come by. Didn't send word.

Eventually—after arguing with herself far longer than she should have—Charlie sent a telegram. Short. Casual. Carefully balanced on the line between concern and indifference.

If you're still wanting to head north, I'll be around the saloon.

Nothing more.

Hours passed.

By late afternoon, the quiet had started to itch.

Charlie closed up and headed into Valentine, telling herself she just needed air, or like his father he'd gotten caught up in work and would be stood on the porch. She ran into Deputy Russell near the station, sitting on his horse waiting for his posse member to finish their telegram.

"Hey, have you seen Brandon today?" she said, keeping her tone light.

Russell frowned, thinking. "Not since earlier. He's around somewhere. Probably."

Probably wasn't comforting.

That was when she decided she’d go find him.

Not because anything felt wrong. Just because it felt natural. Charlie had always had an easy habit of drifting through sheriff’s offices, leaning in doorways, trading small talk. Even if she didn’t want the badge anymore, she still liked the company—the rhythm of it, the way time passed more honestly there. If Brandon was around, someone would know.

First stop was Bobby's place—his soon-to-be brother-in-law. The house sat quiet, shutters closed, no smoke from the chimney. No tracks fresh enough to matter.

Charlie hesitated only a moment before turning north.

Colter wasn't exactly on the way, but Bobby's house skirted the edge of the snow line, and curiosity tugged at her. There'd been talk of a missing wagon caravan—rumors, nothing solid. A narrow pass where snow liked to swallow things whole. She didn't expect to find Brandon there, but it was a rumor she'd meant to check on all day and now seemed as good a time as any.

She checked the pass anyway, then finished the trek up to Colter. She might as well.

Nothing but wind-swept drifts and the distant shapes of locals who knew better than to linger in the open. The cold had a way of making everything feel watched. There in the town, as she popped into the telegram station to warm her hands, the man behind the desk flagged her down.

"Got somethin' for you."

Charlie's brows raised in hopeful consideration, maybe he had gotten her telegram after all. She smiled as she took the letter and read it over.

The paper was damp, the edges soft from snow. She unfolded it carefully.

Telegram received from Wallace Station titled Broken. Charlie, I am broken.

She frowned and continued to read.

What worth is a man if he can't protect his family? What worth is a man if he can't protect, even with a badge? I am no one. A fever dream to most—seen only as an animal, brazen enough to hurt anything he touches, anything he sets his eyes on. Don't look for me, Charlie. I'm lost.

The ink had run in places. Snow, maybe. Or tears.

Charlie stared at it longer than she meant to, the cold suddenly sharp and invasive, like it had found a way inside her coat.

So much for a carefree search.

Whatever this had been—whatever she'd thought she was doing—it wasn't that anymore.

She folded the telegram with shaking hands and tucked it into her pocket. The urge to chide him rose fast and fierce, a familiar defense. Foolish man. Dramatic. Always carrying the world like it was his alone.

But beneath that was something colder.

She'd seen people crumble under isolation before. Seen what happened when responsibility became a closed circle with no way out.

Snow, then. If not here—then further.

Her mind mapped the area quickly. Barrows Lagoon, with its lonely little cabin. Houses to the north, scattered and quiet. An old mining camp to the west, half-swallowed by ice. Nordheim itself.

Weren't they supposed to go there?

The thought tightened her chest painfully. Poetic in the worst way.

Charlie reined Silver Bell toward Barrows Lagoon.

The wind picked up halfway there. Snow thickened, flakes stinging her cheeks, the world narrowing to white and motion. By the time she reached the cabin, the blizzard had arrived in earnest—howling, relentless, erasing tracks as quickly as they were made.

She broke in out of necessity, fingers numb as she forced the door. The cabin was empty. Cold. Undisturbed.

No Brandon.

The storm trapped her there, night falling fast, the world beyond the door reduced to sound and whiteout.

Charlie sat by the small, unlit hearth, telegram clenched in her hand, listening to the wind batter the walls.

Somewhere out there, he was lost.

And the snow was still falling.

[mk-scrawlings]

Charlie's Reflection—Modern Police AU

It had happened the exact way Elijah once said he feared.

Not suddenly. Not dramatically. But slowly—like rot beneath floorboards, quiet until the whole house sagged.

At first it was just little things. He'd miss a call. Show up late. Seem tired in a way she couldn't name.

Charlie told herself it was the transition—both of them leaving the force, him trying to find his footing, her trying to build something from scratch. It made sense. It was normal. People drifted a little when life was loud.

But then the spacing became distance.

And the distance became absence.

He went back to old habits—not the drugs, no, he was too stubborn for that—but the thrill, the pull. The kind of gray work he'd sworn was behind him. Except this time he was careful, deliberate. Careful enough to never get caught. Careful enough that she couldn't even confront him without admitting she knew too much.

She tried to help. God, she tried.

She gave him a room when he needed it. Gave him food. Gave him rides. Gave him advice. Gave him everything except the one thing he kept silently reaching for—complicity. Real complicity.

As if it wasn't already criminal enough to know and not turn him in. As if her own tangle of loyalties and lawman's instinct and all the discipline drilled into her bones didn't already make every secret feel like a betrayal waiting to detonate.

But Elijah wanted more from her—more involvement, more risk, more closeness she didn't know how to give. And when she couldn't give it, he found someone who would. Someone who followed him into things Charlie wouldn't.

Someone who didn't have a restaurant to run. Someone who didn't have brothers who'd taught her to keep her chin up and her feelings sealed off. Someone who wanted to say yes. Charlie learned about the new woman the way people learn about storms—first a suspicion, then a certainty.

He took up his old name again, and then Elijah blocked her number.

That part hurt more than she'd let herself imagine. She'd told herself she didn't need him. That she was fine. That she was busy. That she was strong.

She had a business, and she was good at it. People said it was the best spot on that side of town—warm, loud, full of life.

Except at closing time, when the lights went out and it was just her and the emptiness.

Maybe that was why she felt so lonely now, not because she didn't know what she wanted, but because she'd already been left once. Not by someone she'd chosen to let go—but by someone who simply… stopped choosing her back.

And that kind of rejection lived deeper than she wanted to admit. Especially for someone who prided herself on never showing weakness. Someone who'd break under her own strain before letting anyone see her flinch.

Someone who hated hypocrisy—yet somehow believed everyone else needed people, but she should be able to handle everything alone.

Maybe that was why she didn't know what to do. Because every path forward felt like it already hurt.

[mxrderscenes]

writing is so funny because i could write nonstop for 9hrs and then hit a block where im like "how do i transition between this moment and the next?" and then i just dont touch it for 6 months

[mk-scrawlings]

The Last Witness - Noncanon

The letter arrived on brittle parchment, the kind that felt older than it ought to in the fingers. It was waiting for Elijah McCrae when he stepped into the Rhodes office just after dawn, the sky still painted with the bruised purple of early morning. The writing was rough, shaky, and smelled faintly of mildew and whiskey, but it was his name—his name—that stopped him cold.

To Sgt. Elijah McCrae. Come alone if you can. I remember you. I'm ready to speak. Justice depends on it. The old cabin. The Bayou. Before nightfall.

No signature. No return.

Charlie Vanderhuge sat across the room cleaning her rifle, but her eyes lifted the moment she caught his expression. "What is it?"

Elijah read the note again, jaw tight. "Someone asking for me by name. Says he's ready to talk…about something."

Her brow knit, careful. "Someone you know?"

"That's the thing," he murmured, handing the note across. "I don't."

She read it, mouth pressed thin, then met his gaze with that steady way she had—like she could read the tension working under his skin as easily as words on the page. "You're not riding out alone."

He didn't argue. He knew better by now.

---

The ride out to the Bayou was long and silent save for the distant trill of cicadas and the soft, rhythmic sound of hoofbeats on damp ground. The trees grew thicker the deeper they went—knotted cypress with moss trailing like funeral veils, water pooled black and still beneath their roots. The air hung heavy, sweet with rot and stagnant marsh.

Charlie broke the quiet first. "You think this is real?" Her voice was soft but alert, one hand gripping her longarm as she kept an eye on the twisting shadows around them.

"Feels like a trap," Elijah admitted. His eyes stayed forward, sharp and restless. "But if he's seen something… if he knows something about any of the crazy stiff going on right now, we can't ignore it."

Charlie gave a small nod, lips pressed tight. "Then we keep our heads. In and out. No heroes."

The cabin came into view a moment later—a sagging structure half-swallowed by the swamp, the roof bowed under years of weight, shutters missing, the porch crooked and rotting. The place looked abandoned even before they dismounted, and the first real chill spidered down Elijah's spine as his boots sank into the mud.

"Something's not right," Charlie murmured, voice low.

It didn't take long to confirm it.

The front door hung slightly ajar, the wood scarred with strange symbols drawn in some dark substance—mud, blood, or something worse. Candle stubs littered the porch, burnt down to waxy pools, their soot marks smudged like frantic fingers had brushed them mid-melt. Hung from the eaves were small woven totems—twigs, scraps of fabric, and animal bones knotted together with rough twine. They swayed gently in the still air though there was no wind.

Charlie's breath caught. "Jesus."

Elijah stepped carefully, gun drawn. He nudged the door with the barrel, the hinges groaning as the entry gave way.

Inside, the cabin was worse.

The air was thick with burnt tallow and something coppery-sweet. More symbols scrawled the walls—spirals, crude faces, jagged marks like teeth. The floor was strewn with broken glass, overturned furniture, and melted candle wax. In the far corner, the remnants of what had once been a crude bed lay stripped and dark with something sticky.

"Looks like whoever it was left in a hurry," Charlie murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She scanned the room, her face tight, controlled. "Or someone took him."

Elijah's heart thudded hard in his chest. "Something happened here."

It was then Charlie's eyes flicked to the doorframe. "Elijah—"

There, pinned neatly to the inside of the cabin door with the point of a rusted knife, was a folded scrap of paper. His name written across the front in that same jagged hand.

He pulled it free, opening it with care. The message was short. Chilling.

You carry the badge of liars. You guard the wicked. The scales must balance. The shields must fall. True justice is coming.

There was no signature.

Elijah felt Charlie step in beside him, her shoulder brushing his as she read over his arm.

"It's them," she murmured. Her voice had cooled to something dangerous. "The gold mask. The ones hunting the lawyers."

Elijah's jaw locked, and he gave a tight nod. "Yeah."

For a moment, neither of them moved. The only sounds were the low buzz of insects outside and the soft rasp of their breathing in the stale cabin air. The symbols on the walls seemed to press in closer the longer they stood, as if they weren't meant to be looked at for too long without something inside you starting to shift. Whether these marks had been left by the Golden Masks or by the man himself—if he even truly existed—was another question entirely.

"We need to search," Elijah said quietly, glancing to her. "They were here for a reason."

Charlie nodded, already moving, careful in every step.

They split the cabin, keeping close but not crowding one another—both well-used to the rhythm of searching a scene. The place was small: one main room, a corner section curtained off with tattered sheets, and what looked like the remains of a lean-to out back half-swallowed by swamp growth.

The hearth gave nothing away at first glance, just the usual charred wood and crumbled ash. But something—Elijah wasn't sure what—made him crouch down and sweep the tip of his finger through the still-warm soot.

"Here," he muttered.

A curled edge of paper, half-buried in the debris. He worked it free slowly, careful not to tear the fragile thing as he rose to his feet.

Charlie held the lantern closer. The paper was half-burned, edges eaten away, but most of the center still clung to life. Names. Dozens of them. Some neatly written, some so hurried the ink bled in jagged slashes. A few were crossed out, others circled with shaky, heavy hands.

"These are… people," Charlie said, her brow furrowed. Her eyes skimmed the page, initials next to their names gave it all away. "Lawyers and judges."

Elijah's eyes scanned the list, his stomach tightening when he recognized one—an old magistrate from Saint Denis. Another name sparked a memory, a defense attorney known for getting brutal men off on technicalities.

"He knew," Elijah said quietly. "He knew they were coming. Or he knew they'd come for all of them eventually."

Her eyes lifted to meet his. "He just had this list of names?"

"And he didn't want the Golden Masks getting it," he said.

For a moment neither of them spoke. The cabin seemed to press in tighter, the air heavier somehow, thick with smoke and the ghost of old sins. The list trembled faintly in his grip, ash crumbling from the edges.

"The Mask," Charlie murmured, voice low and tense, "they're not going to be done."

Something made him pause. The fine hairs on the back of his neck rose before he could name why. He turned, gaze catching on the open door—and froze.

There, across the clearing at the edge of the tree line, stood a figure.

White. Still. Unmoving.

A person. A mask.

The gold shone pale in the weak afternoon light, not gleaming but dull, like old bone. The figure's clothing was wrong—patchwork cloth, sack-like, with sticks or antlers bound to the shoulders, twisting upward like some primitive god. It didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just stood.

Watching.

"Elijah," Charlie breathed, her voice sharp with warning.

He lifted his gun without thought, heart slamming against his ribs. But when he blinked—just once—the figure was gone. The trees stood empty. Nothing but swamp mist shifting low over the grass.

Charlie's breathing quickened. "Did you see—?"

"I saw," Elijah said flatly, his voice tight. He scanned the trees, teeth clenched. "They wanted us to."

She shifted closer to him, her presence grounding without a word. The letter. The mask. The symbols. Had the cabin been bait? If it had they'd taken it.

Charlie's fingers brushed his sleeve, steady. "We ride back. We find out what Balmont means. And we don't split up."

Elijah's hand found her wrist briefly—just a touch, silent thanks—before they holstered up and stepped back into the wet air, the sound of unseen footsteps—or maybe just their imaginations—whispering through the trees behind them.

---

They made it back to Rhodes under a sky gone the color of old pewter, the air thick with the weight of an oncoming storm. Elijah said little on the ride, jaw tight, the letter burning a hole in his pocket as his mind chewed on the words over and over. Charlie kept pace beside him, her eyes scanning every shadow they passed like she half-expected something—or someone—to step out of the trees.

When they dismounted outside the sheriff's office, Elijah lingered a moment, his eyes sweeping the quiet stretch of main street. Even with people milling about—voices low, wagons creaking past—the world felt…off. Like something beneath the surface had shifted, subtle but undeniable. The weight of the letter, the cabin in the swamp—it all clung to him, heavy as wet cloth, and no amount of movement could shake it loose.

Inside, neither wasted time. Charlie cleared the back desk, pushing aside odds and ends to make room, while Elijah went straight to the shelves, dragging down ledgers, old case files, anything that might hold a thread to the names on the scorched scrap of paper still tucked in his pocket.

The lamplight caught along the sharp lines of his face as he flipped through page after page, his movements quick, restless—betraying the unsettled churn in his chest. His thumb paused at a familiar name, then kept moving. Too many gaps. Too much missing.

"Some of these names," Elijah muttered, breaking the silence, "they're long gone. Retired. Dead. Most of ‘em natural causes… but not all."

He ran his fingers down the brittle spine of a record book, the paper inside faded and worn but still intact—one of the few survivors from before the war with Mexico, before the fires that had gutted courthouses and government halls across the territory. Whole chapters of justice gone to ash. What was left was scattered, incomplete, like bones of something too old to piece back together clean.

Charlie leaned over the desk, frowning as she traced her finger along another yellowed document. "It's like trying to build a house out of splinters."

"Exactly," he said softly.

He kept turning pages, the sound sharp in the stillness. Somewhere, out there, someone knew exactly what this list meant—who the next target might be. And every lost record, every burned file, made the shadows between the facts that much deeper.

There was a dull thunk outside—something small striking the front door of the office. Both of them stiffened. Elijah was the first to move, quiet and deliberate, his hand resting loose on his holster as he crossed to the door.

He eased it open, eyes sweeping the empty street. No movement. No sound but the soft rustle of wind through the trees. The usual rhythms of Rhodes had fallen into an eerie hush, the kind that settled over a place just before a storm.

When he turned, he saw it.

Nailed to the door—right at eye level—was one of the crude effigies they'd seen hanging on the porch: a misshapen little figure twisted from sticks, frayed string, and what looked like dried sinew. Its arms were bound tight to its sides, and the head—a lump of bundled cloth—was pierced through the center with a rusted nail.

Charlie came up beside him, her breath catching. "It's the same," she murmured. "From the porch."

Elijah nodded grimly, eyes narrowing as he spotted something else. Jammed into the hollow center of the effigy's chest was a scrap of paper, yellowed and stained. Carefully, he pried it free, taking care not to touch the figure more than he had to.

The message, written in the same jagged, erratic hand as the letter before, read:

"Shields fall first. Then the guilty."

Beneath the words was a crudely drawn eye—nothing more than a slit pupil and crude lines—but it felt as if it watched even in death.

Charlie's voice was quiet: "Shit."

Elijah's fingers tightened on the note. "It means they're not done yet."

They stayed in the office long after the message on the stone had been tucked away, poring through every surviving record they could find. Pages turned, candle wax dripped low, and the names on the burned list stared back at them like ghosts that refused to speak.

But there was something missing.

"We're looking at the pieces," Elijah murmured, scrubbing a hand through his hair, "but we don't have the center."

Charlie glanced up from where she'd spread the old case files across the desk. "The man. The one from the cabin. We still don't even know who the hell he was."

Elijah nodded. "If we can find his name, his history, maybe we'll figure out why he was targeted. Why he called for me. Why—" He gestured toward the half-burnt list, frustration bleeding into the motion. "—we even have this in the first place."

She stood, planting her hands on her hips, her brow drawn in thought. "His cabin's the only thing we have. There's gotta be something we missed. Neighbors. Land records. Anything."

They shared a glance—wordless agreement falling between them like the click of a hammer pulled back.

Elijah exhaled sharply, shaking off the weight that threatened to freeze him in place. "Let's go."

They saddled up before the moon had fully crested, the swamp pulling them in once more—this time not just hunting answers, but the ghost of the man who'd set the whole thing in motion.

The trail led them deeper into the Bayou as night settled in like a heavy shroud. Lantern light cast weak, flickering halos over twisted trees and tangled undergrowth. Each step felt muffled by the thick air, the distant calls of swamp creatures only sharpening the unnatural silence that clung to their path.

They didn't speak much at first, save for the occasional murmur to check directions. But every few dozen yards, something new waited for them.

The first was a dismembered rabbit—its front paws missing, its sightless eyes staring up from the dirt. Charlie stiffened when she saw it, glancing uneasily at Elijah. He only shook his head, jaw tight, and they pressed on.

The next marker came not long after: a child's porcelain doll, streaked with something dark and sticky, seated neatly atop a tree stump. Its glass eyes gleamed in the lamplight, one cracked into a spiderweb of fractures. Beside it, a carved wooden effigy, near identical to those hanging from the cabin's eaves, swayed gently from a branch.

"Someone's herding us," Charlie murmured. Her voice was low, tense.

"Yeah," Elijah agreed, scanning the darkness between the trees. "And not towards anything good."

They pressed on. The soft squelch of water underfoot, the oppressive press of humidity, and that relentless, crawling sensation of being watched burrowed under their skin. Charlie rubbed her hands together absently, as if to ground herself.

"You alright?" Elijah asked softly after a long stretch of silence.

She hesitated, then gave a shallow nod. "Yeah. Just… hate this. Feels like every step we take we're lettin' them write the story, not us."

Elijah hummed, understanding. He adjusted the grip on his repeater but didn't raise it. "We could turn back."

She gave him a small, dry laugh. "You'd really do that?"

"I'd do whatever you needed me to," he said, gentle but honest.

For a moment, the tension cracked, and she offered him a faint, grateful smile. But neither of them stopped moving.

The last stretch came without warning.

Symbols—carved, burned—marred nearly every tree trunk. Blood smeared haphazardly across bark and stone. Their footsteps slowed as they neared a clearing, the lantern's light falling on something unmistakably human.

The missing man.

Or what was left of him.

His body was arranged with grotesque precision in the center of a crude circle of bones and symbols. Arms splayed, ribs opened like a split carcass, his eyes cataract white stared blindly up to the break in the trees where the moonlight spilled across his displayed corpse. Scraps of yellowed paper, the same kind as before, were pinned to his flesh with rusted nails.

Charlie's breath hitched sharp in her throat, her hand flying to cover her mouth.

Elijah didn't speak—he couldn't. His heart thundered against his ribs as he forced himself forward, eyes scanning for any sign of the perpetrator, any sound beyond their own horrified breaths.

Pinned to the man's chest was one note, scrawled in that same careful, spidery hand:

"Shields fall. Justice without mercy comes. You chose the wrong side."

They stood in stunned silence for a long moment, the dim glow of their lanterns barely pushing back the darkness that pressed in on every side. The clearing smelled of blood and old rot, the soft croak of distant frogs the only sound.

Elijah finally exhaled, low and unsteady, before crouching down near the body. Charlie didn't speak, her hand still hovering near her mouth, eyes flicking over the gruesome display with a mix of horror and the forced detachment of duty.

"Look at this," Elijah murmured.

There—tucked carefully into the man's torn coat pocket—was a folded, blood-spotted bundle of papers, yellowed at the edges as if they'd been handled too many times. Elijah hesitated only briefly before pulling them free.

He passed one to Charlie. Even by the faint lantern light, the handwriting was clear.

It was a list. Names. Dates. Case numbers.

Dozens of them. Each line was the same grim rhythm: a violent crime, an accused man, and the word "acquitted" or "charges dropped" scrawled beside it.

Some of the names bore annotations in a different hand—victims' names. Women. Children. A handful of dates crossed through in red ink.

"Jesus," Charlie breathed, her voice barely audible. "Does this prove it? He was a lawyer too?"

Elijah's mouth pressed into a grim line as he turned over another sheet. Newspaper clippings had been roughly glued to the back of one page: headlines about unsolved murders, notorious trials gone wrong, released criminals who killed again.

"God," Elijah murmured, his voice edged with cold realization. He flipped the last page over and under it, on the last page—another handwritten note, different from the first one pinned to the man's chest:

"When justice fails, we deliver it. Shields protect the wicked. The Shield's will falls."

Charlie shivered and folded her arms tightly across her chest. "Shields," she whispered nodding then shaking her head. "Lawyers." It wasn't the first time the Golden mask had referenced them as such.

Elijah looked down at the mangled remains, the carefully laid bones, the grotesque precision of it all. His stomach twisted, but more than revulsion, what clawed at him was something colder. A dread that this was only the beginning.

"We weren't meant to save him," he said quietly, more to himself than her. "This was a message. He was probably already dead when we got the first note."

Charlie's jaw tightened. "Yeah."

He nodded once, slow. The weight of it settled between them in the humid air, heavy and suffocating.

They spent the next few minutes combing the perimeter—finding more carved symbols on the trees, more of those same totems dangling in the branches overhead—but nothing that pointed to who had done it, or where they'd gone.

No footprints. No clear direction to follow. Just echoes of something old and hateful, something that wanted them to know it was watching, even if they couldn't see it.

When they finally mounted up to head back to Rhodes, Charlie cast one last look over her shoulder at the lifeless clearing.

"This is far from over isn't it," she asked softly.

Elijah didn't look back. "Yeah. I'm sure it's only just starting."

[mk-scrawlings]

Counting Breaths

Charlie didn't remember deciding to stay behind.

One moment there weren't enough deputies, and the next—too many. Orders flew thick and fast, boots hit the dirt, rifles were checked. In the chaos, she told them to go. Said she'd stay behind, coordinate the doctors, manage the backup. Her voice had sounded steady. Professional. Even as her chest twisted tight beneath her badge.

She'd heard about raids like this before. Moonshine operations out in the hills didn't go quiet—not without a fight. Folks got hurt. Sometimes killed.

She stood on the ridge with the Western Sheriff and two of his deputies, binoculars in hand like the rest of them, trying to make out what was happening down in the valley. The sun was low, slanting red across the scrubland. A doctor stood behind them, bag ready, watching the scene unfold with grim stillness.

Gunfire cracked through the air—loud, staccato. Muzzle flashes flared. Then, silence.

Charlie didn't move.

Even when the dust cleared enough to see bodies dropped in the dirt. Even when she recognized Colt's jacket crumpled near the rocks. Even when Hank—her baby brother—was half-dragged, half-crumpled behind cover. Even when she saw Elijah—God, Elijah—pulling himself back with blood darkening his shirt, hand clutched to his side.

Still, she stayed.

It wasn't bravery. It was the only way she wouldn't fall apart.

When the Western Sheriff raised his hands and walked down into the clearing, Charlie's eyes didn't leave the field. She counted them as the wounded were carried out—one, two, three… six. All still breathing.

She told herself to do the same.

---

Back at the Rhodes doctor's office, she didn't think—she worked.

The storm rolling in outside gave the air a thick, swollen weight. Thunder cracked distantly as she washed her hands, tore cloth, held pressure to wounds. Wrote notes, fetched tools, barked orders to the deputies still conscious enough to listen. She held someone's head while they vomited from pain. Spoke only when spoken to. Said, "You're alright," whether it was true or not.

Elijah was treated first—though Charlie didn't know it. She was on the floor beside Hank, knees stiff, hands pressed hard over the wound in his gut. The bleeding had slowed, but not enough. The smell of blood, sweat, and rain on the wind was thick in her nose. Elijah was somewhere in the next room, she thought, and she didn't let herself picture him. She kept her mind numb. Busy.

When the doctor finally reached Hank, Charlie flinched—just once—when he whimpered. Her little brother had screamed louder the time he broke his arm falling out of a tree. Now, he barely made a sound. She swallowed hard and didn't let her hands shake.

Soon after she was fussing at both Hank and Elijah in the other room, where they'd been moved to rest. They were high on morphine, half out of it, making jokes, pretending it hadn't just happened. She clung to the fussing like a life raft.

"Sit down," she snapped. "Don't mess about. Don't fall. Stay still."

Elijah just smiled, doped up and useless. Hank blinked at her like she was yelling in a foreign language. There were other injuries too—an Assistant Deputy, two from the West—but Charlie only had so much worry to give. And it was already all spent on the three of them.

Colt was last. Of course he was. That was just like him. She wasn't even surprised. She caught his gaze once while she was helping the doctor dress his thigh—his face pale, lips tight—but he gave her a weak wink. That almost did her in. She flared her nostrils and told him, "Quit showing off," voice tight, just this side of a sob.

She didn't cry. Not when Elijah clenched his jaw and grunted through the worst of it. Not when Hank bit down so hard on the span of offered leather that he left teeth marks in it. Not even when Colt looked up at her, pale and bloodied, and whispered, "I'm fine, kid," even though he clearly wasn't.

She didn't cry when they were all stable.

But when the Sheriff said, "We've got to go back," her stomach dropped like a stone.

He was right. The job wasn't done. There might still be stragglers, still a fight left in the bastards who cooked the moonshine. But her hands trembled as she re-buckled her gunbelt. On the ride back, no one spoke.

The quiet was too loud. Her thoughts filled every inch of it.

What if one of them hadn't made it? What if she'd stayed behind and missed her last chance to say goodbye? Was it somehow her fault? Was there something she should have done different?

The still was empty. Just twisted metal, cracked coils, and the low stink of burnt mash. Smoke clung to the air. The silence that followed the earlier violence was unbearable. She hated that still. Hated the wreck of it. Hated how small and stupid it looked now that it had cost so much. Blood stained the ground where good people had fallen. They tore it down piece by piece until there was nothing left to use. Just ruin.

When they rode back to town, the sun had begun to set, the clouds behind them bruised purple and heavy.

She didn't go inside.

Instead, Charlie crouched low on the sheriff's office porch, back pressed to the warm wood, arms wrapped tight around her knees like she was trying to hold herself in one piece. Her hat lay forgotten somewhere beside her. Her hair clung damp to her neck. She didn't notice.

The town was quiet now. Too quiet. The kind that came only after something violent had passed through.

Somewhere nearby, a cigarette burned—slow and steady. She didn't know if it was Colt's, or if it was just the town itself breathing out smoke and silence after holding its breath too damn long.

They were alive.

She told herself that again, slowly this time. They are alive.

Elijah. Hank. Colt. All of them. Breathing. Conscious. Wounded, yes—but alive.

That should've been enough. But the relief sat heavy in her chest like a stone with sharp edges. It scraped every time she inhaled.

The rest of her was still back there. In the doctor's office, elbows deep in blood. Holding pressure on Hank's side. Catching Elijah's weight when he nearly fell moving from one room to the next. Colt's eyes flickering as doctor pulled the final bandage tight. Still waiting—God, still waiting—for one of them to stop breathing.

She didn't cry. Not because she didn't want to. But because she was afraid if she started, she wouldn't be able to stop. She was afraid it would make everything real.

Charlie tilted her head back against the wall and shut her eyes. The wood was solid. The night was warm. She focused on the tiny things—the rustle of leaves on the wind, the scrape of someone shifting in a chair inside, the faint murmur of voices down the street. Anything to keep her from spiraling too far inward.

They were alive.

But what about next time?

Would there be one? Of course there would. There always was. Some new fool with a gun and something to prove. Another raid. Another storm. Another night like this one. And she'd say she was fine. She'd stay calm. She'd do her damn job. And maybe next time someone wouldn't come back.

She hugged her knees tighter. Just a bad night, she told herself. But the truth was—it had been bad enough. And maybe if she'd gone down that hill, been one more set of eyes, one more gun, one more hand to help—maybe it wouldn't have gotten so bad.

She knew staying back had been the right call. Someone had to coordinate, someone had to hold the line behind. But knowing didn't stop the guilt. Didn't ease the image of Colt bleeding, Hank pale, Elijah barely breathing.

They were alive. That was what mattered. But the weight of what could've been pressed down on her like a storm that hadn't quite passed. It settled beneath her ribs, quiet but steady, waiting for the next bad night to break wide open.

Not yet. But it was there. And it was heavy.

[mk-scrawlings]

What If: Sparrow in the Smoke

Charlie blinked into the dark.

Her lashes stuck together. Blood. Sweat. Something. She tried to open her eyes wider, but the left one wouldn't budge—swollen shut or glued by dried tears, she couldn't tell. A low, aching pulse throbbed behind her temples. Her head felt too heavy, like it didn't belong to her body.

The taste in her mouth was thick and metallic—blood, yes, but something else, something older. Rotting cloth. Mold. The air stank of fish guts and rust, a briny, coppery stench that clung to the back of her throat and crawled inside her lungs with each breath. Somewhere nearby, water dripped in a slow, steady rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap. Like a leaky faucet in a nightmare.

Pain announced itself in waves—her ribs, her shoulder, her arm. Throbbing, hot, and wet. Sticky blood clung to her skin, trapped beneath the too-tight press of a torn shirt. Her right arm screamed when she tried to shift. Something was wrong with it. Broken, maybe. Or worse.

She didn't move again. Just breathed. In and out. In and out. Trying to anchor herself to the rhythm. Trying not to cry. Not to panic.

Then she heard it.

Bootsteps. Scraping on concrete. Deliberate. Uneven. A dragging limp beneath the heel-toe rhythm, like a wounded animal pacing in a cage. A man's voice followed, low and strange, as though speaking to someone only he could see.

"She'll do," he muttered. "I can't get to him yet. But she'll do."

Charlie's breath hitched. Her voice was barely a whisper. "Who's… him?"

Silence. A pause that stretched thin and tight like wire. Then he turned. Slowly. Like a puppet yanked by tangled string.

His face was pale and damp with sweat, hair slicked back like he'd done it with his own spit. His eyes—green, bright, and too wide—seemed lit from the inside with something unhinged. Fever. Obsession. Madness. All of it. None of it.

"Don't act like you don't know," he hissed, lips peeling back from yellow teeth. "Always behind the badge. Behind the books. Never behind me."

He crouched in front of her, knees creaking, the smell of him washing over her like a wave—iron and cheap whiskey, unwashed skin, and something else, something sour and animal. His pupils dilated when he got close. He was excited. Vibrating under the skin.

"You wear it like armor," he whispered, touching the edge of her badge. "But I see you. I see the weight. Every ounce." Something flashed in his hand. A knife. Thin. Curved. Too clean. "Let's lighten it."

Pain exploded down her arm—sharp and hot and lightning-fast. Her nerves lit up in sparks, and her muscles jerked involuntarily. She gasped, nearly screamed—but her teeth locked down on the inside of her cheek. Hard. Blood filled her mouth, copper and thick.

Another cut. Precise. Another. Then another. A cruel rhythm. Her skin split open like wet paper under the blade.

Her arms wept blood, long sticky lines trickling toward her elbows, soaking into the fabric beneath her. The air kissed every open wound with a sting, and her breath came ragged and shallow.

"You're art now," he murmured, head tilting as he admired the mess he'd made. "Look at you."

Charlie didn't. She kept her eyes on the floor—dirt, dust, a dark stain that might've been oil or something worse. She focused on that, on breathing slow and steady. She wouldn't give him what he wanted. Not her fear. Not her voice.

"I'm not the one you want," she rasped. "Let me help you find him."

It worked—sort of. He froze, blinking. His eyes darted across her face, like he couldn't decide what she'd just done.

"You'd help?" he said, voice softening to something broken. Childlike. Then he about faced. "You'd lie. Like the rest. Like all of them." Then he laughed. Not loud—but sharp. A slice of sound too brittle to hold weight. It curdled in the air, dry and wet all at once. The sound of someone right at the edge.

His hand drifted up—fingers trailing her cheek, her jaw, the curve of her ear. A mockery of tenderness. "Maybe just one," he whispered. "You don't need both."

Charlie went still. Completely still. The words took a second to land. Then they sank like stones.

Her thoughts slowed. Thickened. Syrupy. She couldn't tell if she was going into shock or just falling. Her heart beat sluggish and loud in her ears. Her fingers tingled, then numbed.

Please, she thought. Please find me.

-----

The air inside the shack was still. Too still.

It had that awful, waiting kind of silence—like the aftermath of a scream that hadn't finished echoing yet.

Elijah stepped in low, longarm gripped tight, shoulders drawn up, every nerve screaming. His boots cracked over broken glass and old grit, each step loud in the pressing dark. The light from his torch flicked through the wreckage—jagged bricks, overturned chairs, a shattered window—but nothing moved.

Where is she.

His heart pounded so loud it felt like it was rattling the inside of his skull. His breath fogged in the cold air. His jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Then—he saw her.

She was crumpled near the far wall, her body twisted at an angle that didn't look right. Her shirt was torn open, clinging to her skin with blood—dark and dried in some places, fresh and glistening in others. Her arms had been carved up with slow, deliberate cruelty. Thin red lines tracked down her skin like rivers of suffering. Her head hung low, lips slack and parted just enough to show she was still drawing breath.

Barely.

"Charlie." Her name left his mouth in a raw, choked whisper. He was on his knees before he realized he'd dropped, the gun clattering somewhere behind him, forgotten. His hands reached out but hovered mid-air, fingers trembling, terrified that touching her would break what was left.

But—no. No.

The shallow rise and fall of her chest. The tiniest twitch of her fingers. Her skin wasn't cold.

Alive.

Still with him.

A sound caught in his throat—half a sob, half a prayer—and he leaned in, hand pressed gently to the side of her neck. Her pulse fluttered beneath his fingers, weak but there. His breath came in sharp, unsteady gasps as he forced himself to breathe.

He'd found her.

But he hadn't saved her. Not in time.

This shouldn't have happened.

The rage hit like a match to dry brush—instant and consuming. He staggered upright, fists curled so tight his nails dug into his palms. The heat in his chest became unbearable. He turned, snarling, and kicked the nearest chair with everything he had. The legs snapped like bones, wood splintering across the floor.

"Coward." His voice was raw, full of gravel and hate. "You fucking ran, didn't you? You couldn't even finish it." His voice was a roar.

He stood there panting, murder burning through every muscle like wildfire. He wanted to hunt. He wanted blood. He wanted to find the son of a bitch and—

No.

No.

Charlie first.

He dropped back to her side with a thud, all the fight leaking out of him in a breath. His hand found her face, dirt-smudged and streaked with blood, and he gently brushed her hair back, fingers skimming across her cheek like she was made of glass.

Still warm. Still here.

"I'm here," he murmured, his voice barely holding together. "I've got you now. You're not alone."

God, she had fought. He could see it. The bite marks in her cheek. The tension still knotted in her jaw. The way her hands were curled, even in unconsciousness, like she'd refused to go easy. She'd held on with everything she had.

And he hadn't been there to stop it.

The guilt hit him so fast he thought he might vomit. His throat tightened. He bowed his head, forehead brushing hers. If he'd been quicker. If he'd been smarter. If he hadn't taken the long way around the ridge.

One mile too far. One hour too late.

"Goddamn it, Charlie," he whispered, voice catching on her name. "You better hold on."

He swallowed it all—the fury, the grief, the ache—and forced his hands to work. He ripped clean cloth from the back of his shirt and pressed it firm to her arm, tying it off as best he could with fingers that wouldn't stop shaking. He checked her breathing again, checked for breaks. Assessed the blood loss. He knew what to look for—he'd trained for this. But training didn't cover what it felt like when it was her.

No posse. No help coming fast.

He had to get her out.

But how?

His mind ticked over possibilities—wagon, stretcher, carry her back himself. Whatever it took.

Still, she didn't wake. Didn't stir.

He leaned in close again, resting his forehead to hers, grounding himself in the faint warmth of her skin. She was real. Still alive. Still his to protect.

"I'll find him," he said, voice low, steel forged in flame. "I swear to God—I'll hunt him to the ends of the earth."

But not tonight.

Tonight, she needed him steady.

So he stayed. Kneeling in the wreckage. Holding her like she might slip away if he let go. Guarding her with his body. Swallowing every scream inside him like it might shatter the air if it ever got out.

And waited for dawn—or help—whichever came first.

BONUS

The hallway outside the doctor's office stank of iodine, sweat, and blood. The door had been shut for ten minutes now—too long, too quiet—and Elijah hadn't stopped pacing since.

His shirt was torn open at the collar, still stained with her blood, and his fists flexed over and over like he didn't even realize he was doing it. His boots scuffed back and forth across the wood floor, back, forth, back, forth, until Colt finally said, "You're gonna wear a trench through it."

Elijah didn't stop. "Let it break."

Colt leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight over his chest. He looked calm from a distance, but up close, his jaw was grinding so hard it looked like he might break a tooth.

"She's alive," Colt said quietly.

"That don't matter." Elijah spun on him, eyes wild. "That doesn't fucking matter. You saw what he did to her. You saw her—" His voice cracked and he looked away, fingers dragging through his hair hard enough to tug.

Colt didn't respond right away. Just let the silence press in.

"I should've been there," Elijah said, his voice lower now, raw and hoarse. "I should've—God, I should've—"

"Yeah." Colt nodded slowly. "Me too."

Elijah leaned against the opposite wall and slid down to a crouch, resting his elbows on his knees. His knuckles were still bloody from punching the wall outside when they first brought her in.

"I'm gonna kill him," he said. Not a threat. Not a possibility. A fact.

Colt exhaled through his nose, long and slow. "Yer not thinking straight."

"Damn right I'm not." Elijah stood again, too quick. "You know what I'd do if I got him first? I'd drag him out to that same shack, tie him to the rafters, and let him see how it feels to bleed slow. I'd—" His voice twisted into a low growl. "I'd take pieces. Make him beg. And then I'd start being cruel."

Colt's expression didn't change. But his eyes darkened. "I get it," he said.

Elijah stopped pacing. "Do you?"

"I'm her brother." Colt's voice was raised and firm now. "You think I don't wanna do the same? You think I didn't picture puttin' a bullet through each of his kneecaps and takin' my damn time after that?"

Something ugly passed between them—rage shared like a torch passed hand to hand.

"Then let me do it," Elijah said, stepping in closer. "Let me put him down. You stand aside, no questions. You let me finish it."

Colt stared at him for a long moment. "And what do I tell her when you're rotting in a cell? Or dead?"

Elijah flinched like he'd been slapped. But only for a second. Then he straightened, jaw tightening, voice low and mean. "You wouldn't have to say a damn thing. I wouldn't get caught. And even if I did—" He stepped closer. "You wouldn't turn me in. Just like you didn't turn in Knox."

The words hit like a punch, deliberate and ugly.

Colt's expression didn't change, but his shoulders stiffened—like Elijah had reached straight under his ribs and twisted something.

"That's different," Colt said quietly.

"Is it?" Elijah snapped. "You let him walk after what he did. Tell me what makes this so goddamn different. Tell me why this man deserves justice through the front door instead of the back of a barn."

The hallway thickened with heat. Colt didn't answer right away. His fists were balled, and for a second, Elijah wasn't sure if he'd thrown the first punch—or if Colt would.

But then Colt exhaled through his nose. Shook his head. "Because if we start living like that… we don't stop. It never stops."

Elijah looked away, jaw working.

Colt's voice dropped. "You think I don't want it too? I do. God, I do Elijah."

Elijah said nothing. Just let the fury churn in his gut like something acid.

"You think she wants that? After what she's been through? You think she'd want to wake up and find out you went and got yourself hanged for revenge?"

Elijah looked away.

Colt stepped in, voice lower now, grating with restraint. "I want the bastard too. Don't mean we get to throw away our damn heads just 'cause our hearts are screaming. You got her back. You saved her."

"I didn't save her," Elijah muttered. "I just found what was left."

That stuck between them, heavy and hot. Colt looked down, then scrubbed a hand across his mouth. "She's strong," he said finally. "Too strong for either of us to carry like a burden. But she ain't gonna heal right if we make this uglier than it already is."

Elijah was quiet for a beat, then whispered, "She could've died, Colt." His voice cracked on the last word, like it hurt just to say it.

"I know," Colt said, steady.

"I thought I lost her."

"I know," Colt repeated, gentler this time.

Elijah's face twisted, grief and rage pulling him in opposite directions. His eyes burned with it. "I—I love her."

Colt didn't blink. "I know that too."

A beat passed.

"She needs you," Colt said, voice low. "But not like this. Not the part of you that wants to burn it all down. She doesn't need the worst version of you out there hunting shadows in the dark. She needs the best version of you right here. Alive. Steady."

Another silence fell—thick, heavy with everything they couldn't change, everything they still might.

Then, the door creaked open behind them.

The doctor stepped out, face pale with exhaustion, hands red up to his wrists. He looked like he'd aged a year in an hour. "She's asking for you," he said. "Both of you."

They didn't speak. Just moved. Side by side into the room. The storm still roiling under their skin, but banked—for now.

It wouldn't stay buried. Not forever.

Not until they found the man who did this. And made him answer.

[mk-scrawlings]

Something Like Trust

The gator shot out from the reeds like a curse, and Charlie's horse spooked sideways—hard.

She hit the ground with a jarring thud, sliding through mud and shallow water, a sharp cry punching from her throat.

A shot rang out and the gator stopped in its tracks. "Shit—Charlie!"

"I'm fine," she snapped, but the wince in her voice said otherwise.

Elijah dismounted quick, "Your bandages—" he said looking at her mud drenched shirt.

"I know." Her jaw clenched. She dragged herself to her feet and hissed through her teeth. "I need to change them now."

—

The woods north of Rhodes offered a quiet, clear-running brook. Shielded by a thicket of sycamores and undergrowth, it was far enough from the road to feel safe. A place no one would just stumble into.

"Alright," Charlie said, glancing back at him with a faint breath of a smile. "I'll let you know when I need your help."

She turned away, and Elijah respectfully kept his distance.

Charlie crouched beside the stream, letting out a soft hiss as she began to peel the sodden, mud-streaked plaid shirt from her body. The fabric stuck slightly where her skin was bruised and tender, and she winced again as she freed herself. Her fingers found the edge of the old bandage and unwound it, letting it fall limply into the grass. Mud speckled her arms and shoulders, though the areas under the wrap had mostly stayed dry.

Most of the grazes had begun to scab over—ugly streaks of red and brown that she hoped wouldn't scar—but the real injury was the bullet wound tucked high under her left arm. Stitches still held the bruised, purple-green flesh together. It ached—more now than it had all day—but she grit her teeth and knelt in the creek's cold rush without complaint. The water was freezing, sending goosebumps up her arms and across her back.

She lathered soap in her palms and worked gently, carefully over the broken skin. The grazes weren't so bad—it was the deep ache in her side that made everything harder. Still, she worked through it. She had to. She needed to be strong. Needed people to know she was doing her best.

Behind her, Elijah stood silent. He had promised to help change her bandages, but he hadn't expected her to strip from the waist up like this—right here in the woods. His eyes went to the tree line at first, but inevitably, they wandered—traced the gentle curve of her back, the soft sweep of her shoulder blades, the purpling bruise he wished he could take away. The echo of a feeling—if only I'd been there things would have been different.

A warmth stirred in him low and sharp. Desire, simple and stubborn, rose like a tide. But it wasn't just want—it was the ache of having something close and choosing not to take it. They weren't just anyone. This was Charlie. This was new. They were new. And whatever this thing between them was becoming, it deserved more than a fast burn in the dark.

He drew a long, quiet breath through his nose and pulled his gaze away, scanning the treeline again. She deserved better than a man who couldn't keep his hands to himself. And God help him, he wanted to impress her—not overwhelm her.

"Okay, Elijah." Her voice called him back, steady but soft. "If you could just pull this tight and help wrap it around… but not too tight. I still gotta breathe easy."

She was standing again. He turned. She had a clean bandage held across her chest, arms crossed to keep it in place, one end offered toward him.

He stepped in, fingers brushing hers as he took the roll.

Her skin was warm beneath his hands. She smelled like cold water and soap and something faintly sweet he couldn't name. His fingers moved with care—wrapping the bandage around her ribs, anchoring it snug but gentle. He tried not to linger. She didn't flinch, but her breath hitched slightly when he passed under her arm.

"Like this?" he asked, voice low.

"Yeah," Charlie breathed, a small sigh slipping free. "That's good."

The bandage tugged as Elijah wrapped it, each pass firm but careful, his hands steady as ever. Charlie kept her arms folded across her chest, skin still damp from the creek, heart beating harder than it ought to.

He paused—just a beat too long—then let his chin rest lightly on her bare shoulder.

She tried to focus on the sounds around them—the rush of the brook, the distant hum of insects—but none of it could drown out the awareness prickling at her skin. The feel of his fingers near her ribs. The brush of his breath as he leaned in closer. The heat where he rested his chin on her shoulder.

A low thrum rolled through her, starting somewhere deep in her stomach and curling downward. It wasn’t new exactly—but it was sharper now, more urgent. He made her feel like her whole body had a switch flipped inside it, like just his nearness could turn her head foggy with wanting. It scared her, how strong it was. How good it felt.

She shouldn’t want this so much. Not yet. Not here.

God, but she did. She didn't pull away.

Instead, she leaned into him, her head tilting gently to the side until it touched his. Her eyes closed, the moment stretching quietly between them. Her chest rose and fell beneath his hand. She could feel the weight of him, solid and steady, and the brush of his beard against her skin was unexpectedly intimate.

A thrum of want twisted low in her belly—raw, unspoken, and immediate. But like him, she kept it buried beneath something else. Something softer. Something better. She liked this. Trusted it. The feeling gave her a rush to the head, but they weren't ready. Not yet. And if she was going to fall, she wanted it to be for real.

Every little touch sent her thoughts spinning. She could feel the soft scratch of his beard, the warmth of his chest brushing against her back. Her thighs pressed together just slightly, instinctively.

She tried not to squirm.

Tried not to give in.

This wasn’t who she was. She wasn’t the kind of girl who just gave herself over to a man because he made her feel seen and strong and desired. She didn’t want to be easy. Didn’t want to be another story traded behind closed doors by men who never looked her in the eye again.

But Elijah didn’t look at her like that.

And maybe that was why it was so damn hard to hold back.

Because she trusted him. Because she liked him.

Because she could feel how much he was holding back, too.

His hands were respectful, his eyes careful, but she’d seen the flicker of heat in them. Felt the tension coiled beneath his quiet. He wanted her. And that want was a wildfire inside her now, just waiting for a spark.

After a moment, she murmured, "Okay. Now just tuck the end there, under the back. Pressure should hold it in place."

She let out a breath she hadn’t meant to, soft and shaky. He didn’t say anything. Just finished the wrap and stepped back like a man afraid to cross a line he knew he couldn’t uncross.

And maybe she loved him a little for that.

Without a word, Elijah knelt beside the stream and washed her shirt. He wrung it out carefully, every movement deliberate—trying to quiet the way his pulse had spiked.

The ache hadn't gone away. Not completely. Her warmth still lingered in his hands, her voice still soft in his ears. It was the kind of moment that sank into a man—slow and dangerous. He adjusted his belt slightly, a barely-there shift, hoping the tension in his body would ease by the time they rode out.

Christ, get it together.

He didn't want to ruin this with clumsy need. Didn't want to cheapen the thing they were building by moving too fast. But it was there all the same—an ache in his gut that wouldn't quit, and a whisper in the back of his mind that told him just how close she'd been.

Still, he said nothing. Just offered her the shirt, still damp, and nodded once.

They didn't speak much on the ride back to Valentine, but the silence between them wasn't empty. It was full of things neither of them could quite say yet.

They parted ways quietly that evening. No kiss. No touch. Just a smile and the weight of something growing slowly, surely, between them.

[mk-scrawlings]

Ask Again After Happy Hour

The house leaned like it had a secret.

It stood crooked at the edge of the wide open plains of the Heartlands, its bones as weathered as the pines that hemmed it in. Charlie Vanderhuge swung down from her saddle first, boots thudding against soft earth, her expression tight with unease she refused to voice. Behind her, Corporal Elijah McCrae followed suit, eyeing the structure like it might take offense at being looked at.

"This it?" he asked, adjusting the rifle slung across his back.

Charlie nodded. "Colt sent a telegram several week before I moved up. Creepy old thing. Said Enzo tried to get some kind of answers out of this place."

Elijah gave her a look, half-warning, half-amused. "And you brought us here during a missing persons case because…?"

"I don't know. Ronnie May didn't just vanish into air. And sometimes the weirdest places cough up the craziest ideas."

That said, she pushed open the splintering front door.

Inside, the stench of dust and rot clawed at their nostrils. The air felt thick, like the house was still breathing—just very slowly. Bunk beds lined the walls, iron-framed and eerie. Each held a long-dead body: skeletons laid out flat beneath threadbare blankets like men tucked in for a sleep that never ended. The room was silent, except for the rasp of Elijah's breath as he took it in.

At the back of the room sat one final figure—different.

A single skeleton rested upright at a table dressed in tattered silks and old jewelry. Before it: melted candles, rusted coins, buttons, marbles, and a dust-covered Ouija board, its planchette sitting dead center.

Charlie folded her arms, frowning. "This is what he was talking about?"

"You sure this wasn't some kind of cult house?" Elijah asked, stepping cautiously closer. "Or maybe somebody's idea of a sick joke?"

They lingered in the silence, both reluctant to be the first to say what they were thinking. Finally, Charlie gave in. "We're outta leads. Ronnie May's gone, and this is the first place that feels like it's tryin' to say something."

"You wanna ask the board?" Elijah asked, raising a brow. "Seriously?"

She shrugged. "I don't believe in ghosts. But if the house is gonna be weird, might as well let it be weird."

With only the light from the slatted windows and their lanterns, they stood across from each other at the table. Charlie placed two fingers on the planchette. Elijah hesitated before doing the same.

Charlie asked quietly, "Is Ronnie May still alive?"

The planchette didn't move. Then slowly, jittery at first, it began to drag itself across the board.

A… S… K… A… G… A… I… N… A… F… T… E… R… S… A… L… O… O… N… H… A… P… P… Y… H… O… U… R.

Elijah blinked. "The hell does that mean?"

Charlie snorted. "Means we're either gettin' pranked by a ghost or it wants us to get a drink."

Elijah shook his head. "This is a waste of time."

Still, they tried one more time.

"Is Ronnie May still alive?" Elijah asked aloud.

This time it was faster.

B… L… A… C… K… W… A… T… E… R… S… U… C… K… S.

Charlie pulled her hands away and leaned back. "That's fair, honestly."

Elijah let out a laugh under his breath. "Yeah, well. Ghosts got opinions."

They left the house not long after. Neither admitted to the way the hairs on their necks had stood the whole time they were inside. The air felt lighter as they rode away, even if their case felt just as heavy.

Later that day, however, questions circulating among the Blackwater townsfolk yielded several promising leads. A casual remark about saloon happy hour led them to ask around one particular establishment—where, to their surprise, they uncovered more answers than expected. For the first time in days, the ball was finally back in their court.

They never gave the Ouija board credit.

But the house—quiet, crooked, and long forgotten—had whispered just enough to nudge them toward the truth. Whether by luck, fate, or something colder.

[mk-scrawlings]

Guns Don't Make You Powerful

Charlie sat at the desk she was borrowing in the Saint Denis Sheriff's Office. There was a lot more paperwork in police work than she'd expected. On top of that, she'd taken it upon herself to rewrite the Eastern Sheriff's Office handbook. Too much of it was outdated or flat-out wrong—giving bad policy information for situations that could go south fast. That's what she was working on now.

She laid her pen down and rubbed her eyes with both hands. A lot had happened in the past week—or was it two? She couldn't say without checking the dates on some already-filed paperwork. Not that she minded the paper-pushing. It was just hard to find time for it when she was still expected to respond to the constant stream of events unfolding across the region.

And even in the quiet moments, her mind kept drifting back to one specific incident.

Jordan.

Teaching that young man gun safety had been important—hell, even fun. Watching him handle Jonas' shotgun and then his own cattleman with growing confidence had been exciting. But then came that question. That moment.

"So if I want to get rid of a problem, I just shoot it?"

That wasn't what she'd meant. Not at all. She'd been trying to stress how dangerous a gun is—that you don't point it at anything you're not ready to hurt. But she hadn't explained when it was appropriate. She hadn't clarified the weight of it all. Now, that moment echoed in her mind like a badly ricocheted shot.

She exhaled, leaning back in the chair, eyes drifting to the ceiling high above. And now, too late, all the right words came rushing in—everything she should have said.

A gun is for protecting yourself or someone else. You only use it when someone is about to seriously hurt or kill you or someone else—when there's no other way. Guns are powerful. Dangerous. You never use one out of anger. Never to solve a problem that could be talked out or walked away from. Life is important. Every life.

That's what she'd wanted to say. Something like that.

But instead, she'd gone with: Don't point it at anything you don't want to destroy.

Too clean. Too simple. Too easy to take the wrong way. Her stomach turned thinking about it. Why did that bother her more than some of the other things that had happened lately?

She wished she'd said something worth remembering. Having a gun doesn't make you powerful. It makes you responsible. And being strong means knowing when not to use it.