A few days had passed since Victor Serrano's death, but New York still hadn't caught its breath. The city's dark undercurrent of corruption and crime festered, yet Detective Evelyn Nada wasn't chasing ghosts anymore. The hum of old fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as she stood before a sprawling corkboard, her eyes darting between the cases pinned across it. Threads of red string crisscrossed the board, connecting photos, names, and power players—the very ones now dead, disgraced, or missing. In the center of it all: Victor Serrano, now marked with bold red ink.
To the right, freshly pinned: Morgana Devereux.
The morning news played in the background. Morgana's voice echoed like a lullaby wrapped in deceit, her smile on screen the polar opposite of the darkness Evelyn could sense. Evelyn didn't look at the TV. Instead, her eyes remained locked on the board as she took a slow sip from her chipped mug—black coffee, bitter as her thoughts.
"She's hiding something," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.
"You always say that," came Marcus's voice from the doorway, his footsteps soft against the floor. "But this time... I think you might be right."
He dropped a thick folder onto her desk. She didn't need to open it to know what it contained—more bodies. More of the same.
Inside were three reports—different names, same condition. Victims found in their homes, eyes closed, vitals stable, brain activity almost nonexistent. Each had a NeuroPeace headset placed neatly beside them.
"Three cases in two weeks. No signs of trauma. No drugs. Just... unplugged," Marcus said, standing with his arms crossed, watching her closely. "You told me to flag anything weird. Well, consider this neon."
Evelyn flipped through the reports, her eyes narrowing with each page. The descriptions matched, eerily so.
"They're not overdosing... they're surrendering. Morgana's peddling serenity, but it's more like psychic euthanasia."
Marcus shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flickering toward the window. He knew what was coming next.
"You're gonna go after her, aren't you?"
Evelyn's voice hardened as she slammed the folder shut, her jaw tight.
"I don't care how pretty her face is on TV," she said, her words clipped, deliberate. "Something's wrong. People don't just vanish from themselves unless they're being pulled into something. And I'm not letting her hide behind whatever sick, serene lie she's selling."
Marcus sighed, rubbing his temples.
"Just... be careful, Evelyn. You're digging into something dangerous."
"Danger's my job, Marcus," she said, her eyes cold. "Now let me do it."
The apartment was serene, too calm for Evelyn's taste. Soft pastels bathed the space in gentle light, wind chimes tinkling faintly from the balcony. But the tranquility felt wrong. On the couch, a woman in her 40s sat, her hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes closed as if in a deep, unnatural sleep. The NeuroPeace headset blinked softly on the coffee table—blue... white... blue.
Evelyn kneeled beside the woman, her hand hovering over her wrist to check for a pulse. It was steady. Too steady. There was nothing behind the closed eyes, no breath of life in the air around her. No struggle. No chaos. Just perfect, unnatural order.
Evelyn slipped the headset into an evidence bag, her gaze sweeping over the room. Everything was meticulously arranged, almost sterile—like a space untouched by time or humanity.
The buzz of her comms shattered the silence.
"You think HeartEater's watching this one too?" Marcus's voice crackled through her earpiece.
Evelyn didn't look up from the woman's face. Something about the serenity disturbed her in ways no violent crime scene ever had. This was different.
"If he is," she said quietly, her eyes narrowing, "I hope he waits."
Her fingers curled into a fist at her side, uneasy with the thought.
"This isn't his style. Not yet."
Elsewhere, on a rooftop several blocks away, HeartEater crouched, his silhouette a shadow among the rain-soaked cityscape. The cloak that draped around him hung heavy, soaked but silent as the rain fell in fine needles. From his perch, he could see the NeuroPeace Wellness Center across the street, its windows glowing with the soft warmth of activity.
Inside, dozens of patients sat in circles, their faces expressionless, their bodies still as statues. The NeuroPeace headsets blinked softly on their heads—blue... white... blue.
HeartEater's fingers flexed involuntarily, his muscles taut. He had known rage before, but this was something new. Something insidious. This wasn't chaos—it was control. It was an invasion masquerading as healing.
Morgana's voice echoed in his mind, soft and deceitful.
"..we no longer need to struggle... we simply learn to breathe."
The words gnawed at him, biting through the stillness.
He muttered under his breath, just loud enough for the rain to hear.
"You'll choke on your own serenity."
But he didn't move. Not yet. He needed more. Needed to see more