Chapter 1: Arrival in Ash and Steel

The Verrowind Serious Crimes Unit’s van rolled through the battered outskirts of Kaldstricht just after midnight. Headlights caught rusted signage: *IRONWORKS DISTRICT – PROUD HERITAGE, HARD FUTURE*—the phrase half-gouged by graffiti and bullet scars. Mira Lorne, lead investigator, tapped her pen against her chin as she watched the shadows slide across hollow factories and skeletal cranes. The city’s breath was all coal-dust and cold. Elias Vann, hunched over his tablet in the back, muttered, “How many CCTV cameras still work in this district? I’m counting more dead nodes than live feeds.” “We’re lucky if we get power, let alone surveillance,” Yara Novik grunted from the passenger seat. Her knuckles gleamed white on the door handle, military scars itching in the heatless air. Dr. Ivo Grell, half-shrouded in smoke from the cigarette dangling at the corner of his lips, squinted at the flickering streetlights. “Place looks worse than the last time I was here. I could hear the steel presses then. Now it’s just ghosts.” The city felt it, too. As the SCU van nosed toward the cordoned-off entrance to Volkmar Subway Station, a trio of local police in battered blue stood tense at the tape. Kaldstricht Regional Police—barely enough staff on the night shift to keep the peace, never mind a major crime scene. Chief Inspector Rena Dahl herself met them, her face tight under the sodium glow. “You’re later than we hoped.” Mira’s reply was gentle, almost apologetic. “Highway fog. And a truck jackknifed on the A1. We came as soon as the call came through.” Behind Dahl, the subway entrance yawned—a wound in the city’s concrete skin. The air stank of old rain and burnt wiring. “Victim’s an activist. Local,” Dahl said, eyes flicking to Yara and then to Mira. “Name’s Alina Hesch. Found stabbed at track level. She’s alive, barely, but the paramedics say her wounds are shallow—deliberate, not frenzied.” Elias exhaled sharply, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Harassment escalating? Or staged warning?” “Depends who you ask,” Dahl said, voice flat. “Half the city wants the SCU’s help. The other half wants you gone by dawn. I want this solved before it triggers something bigger. We’ve already got angry crowds outside.” Mira nodded, her gaze lingering on the knot of protesters at the barricades—some with placards denouncing corruption, others with fists raised against “Outsider Injustice.” She felt the city’s desperation, brittle and raw underneath its scorn for her badge. “Let’s get to work,” she said, and ducked under the tape. —

Chapter 2: Scene of Shadows

Volkmar Station’s main stairwell was an artery of grime and stale air. As the SCU team descended, their footsteps echoed off cracked tiles adorned with protest stickers: NO MORE LIES, CLEAN AIR NOW, and—overlapping them all—ALINA SPEAKS FOR US. Track level was a cordoned mess. Blood slicked the yellow safety line, glimmering under harsh forensic lamps. Yara took point, barking orders to the weary local officers. “Stay back! No footprints past the markers!” Dr. Grell knelt by the drag marks. “No attempt to hide it. Whoever did this wanted her found.” He traced his gloved finger through the blood. “Directionality says she was stabbed near the platform’s edge, then crawled herself back toward the wall.” Mira hovered near the body’s outline, eyes closed, reconstructing. Alina Hesch—twenty-nine, known for leading protests against factory pollution and municipal corruption—had antagonized half the district’s powerbrokers. But tonight’s wounds were careful, surgical. Not meant to kill. Elias joined her, tablet in hand. “Nothing on the station’s internal cams—system’s supposedly been down since last Thursday.” He hesitated. “Though, weirdly, someone accessed the server logs remotely early this morning.” Mira’s eyes snapped open. “Can you ping the IP?” He nodded, already scrolling. “I’ll run a trace.” Yara’s voice rumbled behind them. “Witnesses?” Dahl appeared at her elbow, jaw clenched. “One. Train operator on the midnight shift. Says he saw someone—tall, hood up—running up the stairs right after the attack. Couldn’t see a face.” Mira moved to the wall, fingers brushing a torn banner: *ALINA—OUR VOICE AGAINST THE IRON LORDS!* She imagined the chaos: protestors mixing with commuters, the city’s anger thick enough to choke. In all that, one act of violence—so precise, so measured. Dr. Grell stood, peeling off bloody gloves. “Wounds are shallow. Defensive, but calculated. Not a berserk rush. Maybe someone who wanted to frighten, not kill.” Mira nodded. “Or someone making a point.” Outside, the roar of the crowd swelled—a storm waiting to break. —

Chapter 3: The Ghosts of Worker’s Row

With the scene processed, Mira and Yara split off for Worker’s Row, where Alina lived in a cluttered flat above a shuttered bakery. They passed boarded storefronts and graffiti-splattered benches as the morning drizzle set a gray pall over broken glass and concrete. The building’s stairwell reeked of mildew and old protests. Posters—ALINA’S FACE, stylized and defiant—competed with scrawled threats: LEAVE OUR JOBS ALONE, and ALINA = TROUBLE. A neighbor peered through a cracked door as Mira knocked. “She’s not here,” the old woman said, voice wary. “They said she was attacked. Is she…?” Mira’s tone softened. “She survived. We’re here to check her apartment.” The neighbor nodded, eyes darting to Yara’s imposing form. “She gets threats, you know. All the time. Last week, someone slashed her tires. She told the police, but they said they couldn’t do much.” Inside, Alina’s flat was a paradox: neat stacks of legal paperwork, protest banners jammed against books on urban ecology, and a single mug reading *#JUSTICEFORVERROWIND*. Her laptop—password-protected—sat open on the desk, next to a pile of restraining order forms. Yara scanned the orders, lips pursed. “Multiple threats. But this one’s recent.” She handed Mira a document: *Restraining Order Petition: Subject—Leonid Mirkov. Filed: Three weeks ago. Status: Pending.* Mira memorized the name. “Any follow-up from local police?” Yara shook her head. “Looks like it stalled. Resource issues, maybe.” Mira’s gaze swept the room, catching sight of a cracked photo frame: Alina smiling with two other activists, one arm slung over the shoulder of a man—tall, bearded, with wary eyes. She pocketed the image for reference. “Let’s get this laptop to Elias. And pay Mr. Mirkov a visit.” Outside, sirens moaned through Worker’s Row. Distant shouts promised that today, Kaldstricht’s brittle calm might finally shatter. —

Chapter 4: The Oracle of Market Square

By midmorning, the SCU regrouped at the edge of Market Square—still clinging to life amidst shuttered stalls and sour stares. Celeste Arbour, the unit’s civilian analyst, awaited them under the awning of a defunct café, her long coat fluttering in the breeze. Celeste wasted no time, pacing as she spoke. “Alina Hesch is polarizing. Community hero to some, troublemaker to others. I pulled up incident reports from the last six months—over thirty threats, most anonymous, but five named suspects. Leonid Mirkov leads the pack.” Elias, hunched over Alina’s decrypted laptop, nodded. “I scraped her inbox. Mirkov sent several angry emails—accusing her of ruining his job prospects after her protests got a factory shutdown notice last month.” Celeste added, “He was also seen at two of Alina’s rallies, heckling her. And—oddly—he filed a counter-complaint, claiming she was harassing him.” Yara grunted. “A two-way feud. That muddies things.” Mira’s mind spun through timelines and motives. “What about the others?” Celeste ticked off names. “Karla Deitz—former friend, now rival activist; Anton Strahl—union organizer, blames Alina for dividing the movement; and local entrepreneur Magda Fless, whose salvage operation was targeted by Alina’s exposés.” Dr. Grell, silent for much of the briefing, observed, “Too many suspects for a ‘random act.’ Someone wanted us to look everywhere at once.” Mira nodded. “Let’s talk to Mirkov first. But keep tabs on the others. And watch the crowd—they’re restless. Any riot could scuttle our whole investigation.” As they moved out, the crowd’s anger echoed through the market—desperation painted over with graffiti and hope, always one spark from combustion. —

Chapter 5: Leonid Mirkov — Suspect or Scapegoat?

Leonid Mirkov lived in a decaying tenement near the Hallowbend River, its windows fogged with grime. Yara and Mira found him hunched on a sagging couch, hands shaking, eyes rimmed red. He glared at the badges. “You here to blame me for what happened to Alina? I told the other cops—I haven’t seen her in days.” Mira’s approach was soft, deliberate. “You sent her angry messages. Accused her of ruining your job. Why?” Leonid’s voice trembled. “Because she did! Her protests got the plant shut down—my uncle and cousins, all out of work. She kept posting my name online, calling me a ‘scab’ for crossing picket lines. I was angry, yeah. But I didn’t stab her!” Yara, standing like a statue by the door, cracked her knuckles. “Why did you file a restraining order against her?” He looked away, shame flickering over his features. “After she started showing up outside my building. Filming, shouting. I just wanted her to leave me alone. This city’s hard enough without… all this.” Mira let the silence stretch. “Where were you last night between midnight and two?” “Here. With my mother. She’s sick—emphysema. Ask her. She can barely breathe, but she’ll tell you.” Yara jotted down the alibi, all caps, no emotion. “Anyone who can confirm?” “My neighbor, Mrs. Volker. She brings us groceries, checks in every night.” He looked pleading now. “I never wanted it to get violent. I just wanted my life back.” Mira studied his hands—nails bitten, bandaged knuckle. She noted it, but left it unsaid. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Mirkov. We may need you again.” Outside, the morning was thickening into storm. The city’s wounds lay open, and every answer bred new questions. —

Chapter 6: Dead Ends and Distractions

Back at SCU’s mobile unit, Elias and Celeste pored over footage from nearby traffic cams—a tedious process made worse by power outages and camera blind spots. “The only clear shot from the subway stairwell shows someone in a long dark coat and heavy boots,” Elias reported. “Could be male or female. The timestamp matches the attack window, but no face.” Celeste spun in circles, sorting color-coded notes on possible suspects. “Mirkov’s alibi is shaky, but not impossible. Mrs. Volker confirms he and his mother were present—no evidence he left during the attack.” Dr. Grell, reviewing forensic photos, frowned. “The wound pattern suggests familiarity—someone who knew how to avoid arteries and organs. Not a random street thug.” Yara, pacing, growled, “Every path we take leads us nowhere. No print matches. No murder weapon. The crowd outside’s getting more volatile by the hour.” As if summoned, a sudden roar erupted from the direction of Market Square—lights, shouts, and the crack of breaking glass. The riot had begun. Mira watched the chaos unfold on Elias’s live feeds: protesters surging against police lines, chants for justice and for jobs, flashes of violence seeping through the city’s veins. Chief Inspector Dahl’s voice crackled over the radio. “All units—rioters pushing toward the subway! We’re stretched thin. You’ll have to hold your own perimeter.” The investigation screeched to a halt. For the next two hours, the team was pinned inside the station, evidence at risk, suspects scattered. Mira stood at the window, pen tapping, mind whirring. Every delay gave the truth time to slip further away. When the shouting finally ebbed, and order returned, the SCU’s leads were already growing cold. —

Chapter 7: False Trails and Red Herrings

By late afternoon, the team regrouped at their van. Yara’s uniform was dusted with riot debris. Elias’s jaw was clenched with frustration. “We lost three hours. Whoever’s behind this—the riot gave them cover.” Mira leafed through suspect sheets, stopping at Karla Deitz. “Let’s try her next. She’s been vocal about Alina’s ‘extremism’ online, and she’s no stranger to confrontation.” Karla’s flat was a cluttered nest of protest memorabilia and old newspapers. She met them at the door, arms crossed, jaw set. “I suppose you’re here to ask if I ‘did it.’” Mira’s gaze was steady. “You and Alina had a falling out recently.” Karla snorted. “She was too eager to burn bridges. She made enemies everywhere. But hurting her? That’s not my style. I fight with words, not knives.” She gestured to a stack of flyers. “Check my messages if you want. I was at the union hall all night—twenty people can vouch for me.” Yara examined Karla’s hands. No fresh cuts, no signs of a struggle. Elias, muttering, checked her phone records and alibi—solid. Another suspect, another dead end. As they left, Karla called after them, “You’re wasting time. Alina’s enemies run deeper than you know. Some people want her gone from both sides of the protest lines.” The tension in Mira’s chest grew. The evidence scattered, stories conflicted, and every step forward brought them back to the shadows. Something—someone—was pushing them in circles. —

Chapter 8: The Knife in the Dark

With the day waning, Dr. Grell requested another look at the evidence. The weapon—still missing—nagged at him. He spread photos of Alina’s wounds on the folding table, overlaying a city map. “These cuts… precision, but not panicked. And shallow, almost ritualistic. I’ve seen this kind of wound pattern before—in self-defense classes. And… in staged assaults.” Elias blinked. “You think Alina did this to herself?” Grell shook his head. “Not necessarily. But whoever did it wanted it to look like a warning, not a murder attempt.” Celeste, who’d been quiet, interjected, “I ran a background search on protest incidents here in the last year. There’s a pattern of staged threats—graffiti, minor vandalism—escalating just before major rallies.” Mira sifted through her notes. “And the restraining order—what if it wasn’t about Mirkov’s danger to Alina, but about building a record of victimhood? That would make her next protest more sympathetic, draw bigger crowds.” The idea felt dangerous, but Mira couldn’t ignore it. “We need to talk to Alina. Now.” Elias hesitated. “She’s still in the hospital, under sedation.” Yara was already reaching for her coat. “People don’t orchestrate their own assaults unless they’re desperate. Or trying to make a point.” As they left, a thought gnawed at Mira: What if everything they knew about the victim was wrong? —

Chapter 9: Truths at the Hospital Bedside

The Kaldstricht General Hospital was a fortress of peeling paint and overworked staff. Security was tight; protestors had gathered even here, shouting slogans for and against Alina outside the emergency wing. Mira and Yara entered the darkened room where Alina lay—awake now, eyes glazed but focused. Her left arm was bandaged, and a police officer stood watch by the window. Mira sat beside her, voice soft but unwavering. “Alina. We need you to tell us what happened last night.” Alina’s jaw worked, and for a moment, Mira saw the iron beneath the weariness. “I was attacked. Someone came out of the shadows at the station. I didn’t see their face.” Yara leaned forward, blunt as ever. “You’ve been threatened before. You filed a restraining order against Mirkov. You knew the risk, but you went alone. Why?” Alina’s eyes flickered. “I… needed to be seen as vulnerable. People don’t care unless there’s blood. The city is dying. No one listens to peaceful protests anymore.” Mira’s pen paused mid-tap. “Did you know your attacker?” A long silence. Then, Alina whispered, “I arranged to meet someone—a contact who’d threatened me online. I thought… if I could talk, I could turn them. But it got out of hand. I tried to scare them off, but when they pulled the knife, I realized I’d misjudged. They cut me, then ran.” Yara’s voice was granite. “You orchestrated your own meeting, knowing it could get violent?” Alina’s chin trembled. “I wanted to expose the danger. Make the city see. But I never thought they’d actually do it.” Mira weighed the confession. “You engineered the situation, hoping to control it. But it escalated beyond your plan.” Tears began to spill down Alina’s cheeks. “I’m sorry. I just wanted people to care. About the pollution, the corruption. But now… everyone thinks I’m just a victim. Or a liar.” Mira’s heart ached—seeing not just a victim, but a soul ground down by the city’s relentless brutality. Yara crossed her arms, the tension easing from her posture. “You could have died. Next time, you might.” Alina only nodded, silent and broken. —

Chapter 10: Culprits in the Mirror

The SCU gathered in the hospital’s dim-lit family room. Outside, the city’s pulse beat with protest and uncertainty. Inside, the team wrestled with a case that had turned on its head. Elias exhaled, glasses askew. “So—Alina orchestrated the encounter, hoping to draw attention. But the attacker wasn’t who she expected. We still need to ID them.” Celeste shuffled her notes, voice soft. “I found a chat record on Alina’s laptop—messages from an anonymous account, threatening to ‘finish what the factory bosses started.’ I traced the IP—public library, Worker’s Row.” Dr. Grell chewed his gloves. “Anonymous. Anyone could have used that terminal.” Yara, ever blunt, said, “Mirkov’s alibi holds. Karla and Anton, too. That leaves Magda Fless—the salvage boss. She’s got motive, and she’s been lurking at rallies.” Mira closed her eyes, picturing the desperate woman from the background of photos. “Bring her in.” Later, in the interview room, Magda Fless blustered. “I’ve lost enough to Alina’s crusades. But blood? That’s not my way. I was at the riot last night—three cops will vouch for me.” Elias quietly checked the records—she was indeed seen on riot footage, hair wild, voice raised in anger. Yara threw her hands up. “Another dead end.” Tension pulsed through the team. The attacker was still unknown—drawn like a moth to Alina’s orchestrated flame. —

Chapter 11: The Final Clue

Celeste, frustrated and restless, returned to the digital logs. “There’s something odd here—Alina’s restraining order paperwork lists another name. A minor at the protests: Ren Kessel, barely nineteen. He’s obsessed with Alina, according to forum posts—idolizes her, but turned sour after she rebuffed him.” Elias dove into the data. “He was seen in the area last night. His phone pinged near Volkmar Station at the time of the attack.” Mira’s fatigue melted into urgency. “Let’s find him.” They located Ren in a cramped hostel near Ironworks, hands shaking, eyes hollow from nights awake on protest lines. He broke under their questions, voice quivering. “She said she wanted to talk. I wanted her to see I was loyal. But she kept pushing—so I tried to scare her, just like she said the city scared her. I had the knife from my kitchen. I didn’t mean to hurt her—just wanted her to see we needed to fight harder. But then she screamed, and I panicked. I ran.” Tears streamed down his face. “I’m sorry. I never… I never wanted to hurt her.” Mira’s pen stilled. The escalation—a follower turned tormentor, each feeding into the other’s desperation. A cycle as old as the city’s decay. —

Chapter 12: Aftermath in a Sundered City

The riot subsided by dawn, leaving cracked windows, scattered banners, and a city more fractured than before. Kaldstricht’s headlines screamed for justice—or vengeance. In the SCU’s van, Mira gathered her team. “We have the truth. Alina orchestrated the meeting, hoping to amplify her cause. Ren, unstable and desperate, escalated it with real violence. No masterminds. Just a city’s decay, echoing in every choice.” Yara grunted. “We solved it. But no one’s a winner here.” Dr. Grell lit a cigarette, eyes haunted. “The city eats its children. We just pick up the bones.” Celeste, voice soft, added, “There will be backlash. The crowd wanted a villain. Instead, they’ll get a mirror.” Elias, fingers trembling, packed away his gear. “I’ll send the digital evidence to the prosecutor. But it won’t fix what’s broken.” Mira watched the city through rain-streaked glass—hardened, opportunistic, desperate. The SCU would move on, but Kaldstricht would carry the scars. As they rolled out, Mira tucked Alina’s cracked photo frame back into her pocket, a silent reminder that in Verrowind, even truth offers no comfort—only a brief reprieve from the dark. —

Chapter 13: Reflection and Regret

That night, Mira stood alone on the edge of the Ironworks district, cigarette ember glowing in the fog. The city sprawled before her: a monument to pain and persistence. She thought of Alina’s tears, Ren’s confession, and the riots that had nearly torn the city apart. Her phone buzzed—a message from Celeste: *Crowds still restless. Local papers painting us as heroes and meddlers in the same breath.* Mira smiled grimly. That was always the way. The SCU were both saviors and intruders. She tapped her pen to her chin, thinking of all the cases still unsolved, all the wounds left to fester. She breathed in the city’s air—ash, rust, hope threaded thin through decay—and whispered to the night, “We’ll keep searching. Even if the city turns away.” Above, the dying neon of an old factory sign flickered, stubborn against the darkness. —