Chapter 1: The Call from Blackharbor

The coastal wind battered the side of the SCU van as it wound its way along the C2 highway, the sky above Verrowind bruised purple and gray. At the wheel, Yara Novik kept her jaw set, knuckles white where she gripped the steering wheel. Mira Lorne sat beside her, half-lit by dashboard glow, absently tapping a slim pen against her chin. The rest of the team huddled in the back: Elias Vann, hunched over his laptop with lines of code flickering on the black screen, and Dr. Ivo Grell, already pulling on a pair of latex gloves in anticipation, the scent of tobacco trailing from his coat. Celeste Arbour, the civilian analyst, sat perched between cases of equipment, a file folder fanned open in her lap, colored tabs protruding like warning flags. The Serious Crimes Unit had been summoned out of Greyhaven at dawn, their encrypted comms relaying Superintendent Faure’s clipped voice: “Blackharbor incident. Activist. Possible animal mauling—dogs or something else. But there’s digital noise—ransom demand, blackmail. Local police are stonewalling. I need you there. Now.” Blackharbor loomed as a jagged silhouette against the sea, even more isolated than the file’s reputation suggested. The stony cliffs, the low cluster of slate-roofed houses, and the battered trawlers swaying in the harbor gave the town a haunted, glowering aspect. Dockmaster Lorne Ravich’s name was circled twice on Celeste’s intake forms, marked HOSTILE in angry red ink. As the van crested down into the town, Mira reviewed the case aloud, green eyes unreadable. “Victim: Corin Tallow. Local activist, late 20s. Led protests against quarry expansion, rumored to have dirt on Blackharbor’s council. Found last night in a storage unit, wounds consistent with animal attack. But someone sent a ransom demand to his activist group at 3 a.m.—email, attached video. Police call it a tragic accident. We’re not here for accidents.” Yara grunted. “Town’s ready to eat us alive. Let ’em try.” “Let’s not start a war before noon,” Mira said, voice soft but edged. Her pen tapped, a metronome for her thoughts. She looked back at Elias. “What do we know about the cyber angle?” Elias pushed his glasses up, not looking up from his laptop. “Email was masked, bounced through foreign relays. Video’s grainy—shows Tallow alive, bound, someone off-screen threatening to ‘let the hounds off’ unless his friends cough up data. Timestamp’s two hours before he’s found dead. I’ll need a stable connection to do more.” Celeste took a slow breath, voice lilting. “But Blackharbor’s main relay is down—storm last night. No net, no phone service. We’re in a black hole, for now.” Mira’s jaw flexed. “We do this the old way, then. Footwork, faces, facts. Yara, scene control. Ivo, preliminary exam. Elias, see what you can pull from local storage, anything offline. Celeste, I want background—victim, enemies, friends, recent threats.” As they parked near the battered constabulary office, the streets were already thick with sideways glances. A huddle of fishermen, oilskin coats flapping, muttered as the SCU stepped out, gear in hand. A gull screeched overhead, flapping against the gale. The air was brine and suspicion. “Welcome to Blackharbor,” Yara muttered, cracking her knuckles for luck. —

Chapter 2: The Storage Unit

It was a mean little row of storage sheds, set against the black cliffs like scars. Salt spray streaked the corrugated metal, and the tang of rot hung in the air. Yellow tape, already battered and sodden, cordoned off Unit 17. Two local officers in faded constabulary blues—faces set, eyes cold—stood guard. One spat on the gravel as SCU approached. Yara flashed her badge, chin high. “Serious Crimes Unit. Scene’s ours.” One officer, broad-shouldered and scowling, sneered. “All yours, sirs. Not that there’s much left to see. Dogs do what dogs do.” Mira silenced him with a long, unblinking stare. The man looked away first. Inside, the unit stank of copper and fear. Corin Tallow lay sprawled on the cold concrete, head shattered against a busted crate, wounds ragged and deep—teeth marks, claws, blood pooled beneath his arms. His face was twisted in a final, silent scream. Beside him, a battered phone, screen cracked but still glowing faintly, and a heavy chain with a broken lock. Dr. Grell knelt beside the body, fingers spidering expertly, voice a gravelly murmur. “Bite radius—bigger than any local breed. No sign of a struggle, but…” He pried open an eyelid, sniffed at the wounds, then the air. “Sedative. Faint, but there. He was conscious when they brought him in, but sluggish. Defensive wounds on the wrists. And see here—” He pointed with a gloved finger at a welt on Tallow’s neck. “Injection mark. Fast-acting. No leash burns on his ankles. Animals didn’t drag him—they were set on him, then called off.” Elias hovered near the battered phone, coaxing the last dregs of battery to life. “No calls out, no texts after midnight. But check this—” He flashed the screen at Mira. “Phone was forced open at 1:10 a.m. Someone used his thumbprint. No new apps, but—wait, what’s this?” He tapped, muttering code, frowning. “A hidden folder. Encrypted video, timestamp matches the ransom demand.” Celeste, pacing the small space, scanned the walls for any overlooked detail. “No sign of a forced entry on the unit itself. The chain was cut from the inside. And look—fresh scratches on the inside of the door. As if something—or someone—tried to claw their way out.” Mira crouched, examining the floor. “Salt stains. Not local. Someone tracked in brine—heavy boots, not fishing gear.” Yara’s notepad snapped shut. “So: Victim sedated, brought here. Staged as an animal mauling. But why the ransom? Why the theater?” Celeste murmured, “Someone wanted it to look brutal, but not too clean. Public message, private motive.” Outside, the wind howled, and the town seemed to draw further away—watchful, silent, waiting for the outsiders to fail. —

Chapter 3: Tides of Suspicion

Back at the makeshift command post—the storage facility’s grimy staff room, redolent of instant coffee and spilled oil—the SCU circled, parsing the first threads. Celeste laid out her findings, voice soft as rain. “Corin Tallow was not just a protester. He’d been at odds with the town council for years—led the blockade against Blackharbor Stone, claimed the quarry was dumping toxic runoff. He was about to go public with something. His last message to his activist group referenced ‘the ledger’—a digital file, evidence of bribery, maybe worse.” Elias, hunched over the battered facility computer, muttered, “His laptop’s gone. But…here.” He held up a USB drive, found duct-taped under Tallow’s belt. “Hidden backup. Maybe the ‘ledger.'” Yara scribbled, voice clipped. “Locals say they heard dogs last night. Big dogs. But when I talked to the nearest neighbor, she swore she heard two men shouting, just before the dogs.” Mira watched the team, her face closed. “This was meant to scare. To send a message to someone else, not just Tallow. We need to talk to people who feared him—and those he feared.” Outside, the wind rattled the windows. A group of townsfolk gathered, faces hard, muttering. A woman with a fisherman’s cap glared through the glass. From the harbor, the rhythmic clang of buoy bells echoed, almost funereal. Yara glanced out, jaw set. “They want us gone. Fast.” Dr. Grell, gloves stained, voice dry: “We’re not leaving. Not until I cut deeper.” Mira’s pen tapped. “First, the town council. Then Blackharbor Stone. And—” She turned to Celeste— “anyone who lost money if Tallow’s evidence went public.” Elias, fidgeting, nodded. “And as soon as I get a signal, I’ll crack that drive.” A sharp knock. Superintendent Faure’s voice, tinny over the radio: “You’re losing the crowd. Stay sharp, Lorne. No backup for miles.” Mira looked at each of them in turn. “We dig, or someone else gets buried. Let’s move.” —

Chapter 4: Council Shadows

The council chamber was a cramped, battered room above the fish market, the walls hung with yellowed nautical charts and a faded regatta pennant. The councilors—four men and two women, all with weathered skin and wary eyes—sat behind a scarred table. Dockmaster Lorne Ravich, barrel-chested, his hair shot with gray, glared as the SCU entered. “You’re not wanted here, Lorne,” he rumbled, voice like rolling stones. “This is Blackharbor’s business.” Mira held his gaze, unblinking. “A man is dead. This is our business.” Ravich’s hand tightened on his chair. “Corin Tallow made a lot of enemies. Stirred up the quarry men, threatened livelihoods. But he was a good lad, underneath. Trouble is, he didn’t know when to shut up.” One councilor, pale and twitchy, stammered, “He said he had proof—emails, bribes, even names. Was going to send them to the Herald.” Yara’s voice was flat. “Anyone threaten him recently?” Silence. Then a woman, hair in a tight braid, said, “Everyone did, in their own way. But not like this. This—it’s not our way.” Celeste circled the table, eyes flicking. “But someone went to great lengths to make this look savage. Why?” Ravich’s jaw twitched. “Superstition, maybe. ‘The Harbormourne’—old story, about bad omens. But nobody here believes that anymore.” Elias, restless, piped up. “The ransom demand was digital. Who here has the skills?” Laughter, bitter and short. “None of us old salts,” Ravich said. “Maybe the kids at the internet café. Or one of Tallow’s own, turning on him.” Mira let the silence hang, her gaze unsettling. Finally, she spoke. “If you know who threatened him, now is the time. Or we start digging into every closet in Blackharbor.” The room chilled. Ravich stood. “You’ll get nothing but salt and stones, detective.” As the SCU left, Mira caught the barest flicker of fear in the pale councilor’s eyes. It was enough. —

Chapter 5: The Black Dog

The only kennel in Blackharbor sat behind a rusted gate, the air thick with wet dog and disinfectant. Its owner, Maris Fen, was a wiry woman with tattooed forearms and a stare like a knife. The kennel’s six cages were empty—except for one, where a massive black mastiff crouched, hackles raised. Yara led, badge held high. “We’re investigating Tallow’s death. Locals say dogs were involved.” Maris shrugged. “Not mine. My dogs are locked up every night, storm or no. Except Bear—” she nodded at the mastiff— “and he never leaves my side.” Dr. Grell walked the cages, eyes sharp. “Any missing, recently? Anyone borrow a big dog, maybe offered you cash?” Maris snorted. “Not unless they want their hand bit off. But—” she paused, frowning. “Last week, a kid came by. Shaggy blond, nervous. Asked if I’d train a dog to ‘scare someone.’ I said no. He left.” Elias, curious: “Name?” Maris shook her head. “Didn’t give one. But he had a tattoo—anchor, inside his wrist. Didn’t look like a Blackharbor boy. Maybe from Driftwood Cove.” Celeste scribbled a note. “Driftwood Cove. Pirate ancestry.” Yara pressed. “Where were you last night?” Maris’ laugh was harsh. “Here. With Bear. My cameras are dead—storm fried the power. But the butcher saw me at dawn, walking the docks. Ask him.” As the team filed out, Elias paused, eyeing the mastiff. “Bear’s too old to chase anyone. But someone wanted us to think otherwise.” Mira watched the dog’s dark eyes. “Red herring,” she murmured, so only Elias heard. “But sometimes the wrong dog barks the loudest.” —

Chapter 6: The Ledger

Back at the van, Elias worked the USB drive through an ancient air-gapped laptop. The files were heavily encrypted, naming convention oddly familiar—whorls of numbers, then “ledger.final.” Yara prowled the perimeter, keeping watch on the tightening ring of suspicious townsfolk. Dr. Grell cleaned his kit, muttering about the pattern of the wounds—”Too precise. Not a panicked animal. Someone controlled them.” Celeste sat beside Elias, cataloguing what they could. “Tallow’s group was called ‘Harborwatch.’ Small. Tight. Who was his closest ally?” Elias’ fingers flew. “His ex, Arlen Pike. Still in town. Runs the internet café.” Mira’s gaze sharpened. “Let’s talk to Arlen.” Before they could move, static crackled from the radio. “SCU, this is the constabulary. We have a suspect in custody. He’s confessed. Says he killed Tallow—used his own dogs. Says he’s sorry.” Yara’s face darkened. “Too neat. Let’s move.” —

Chapter 7: The Confession

The station was a squat, wind-blasted building. Inside, a young man sat, wrists cuffed, head bowed. His name was Denny Rourke—a local, barely twenty, trembling. Superintendent Faure, voice tight: “He walked in, said he did it—couldn’t handle the guilt. Says Tallow was blackmailing him, so he set the dogs loose in the storage unit.” Mira entered the interview room alone, closing the door. She sat, silent, pen tapping. Denny stared at his hands. “Tell me what happened,” she said, voice soft as dusk. “I—I owed Tallow. He found out—about me, and the boats. The smuggling. He said he’d go to the Herald unless I paid. So I—I took my uncle’s dogs, let them in. I locked the door. I didn’t mean for him to die.” Mira’s silence stretched. “You know, Denny, the wounds—too precise. The dogs didn’t drag him. And you don’t have the skills to send a ransom video. Who helped you?” Denny burst into tears. “I did it. Just me. I’m sorry.” After, Yara watched as Denny was led away, pale as driftwood. “He didn’t do it,” she said, voice hard. “Or he didn’t do it alone. Someone put him up to this.” Celeste’s eyes narrowed. “A false confession. Classic pressure valve. The real killer’s still out there.” Elias closed his laptop, frustrated. “And we’re still offline. No way to check his alibi. Someone’s controlling the story.” Mira, leaving the station, glanced up as the storm finally broke, rain slashing down. “We find the truth. Even if the town hates us for it.” —

Chapter 8: Harborwatch

The internet café, “Signal Rock,” was shuttered but lights glowed within. Arlen Pike met them at the door—a non-binary figure with sharp eyes, hair cropped close, anchor tattoo on their wrist. Elias flicked a glance at Celeste, silent question. Celeste nodded. “Arlen Pike? We need to ask you about Corin Tallow,” Mira began. Arlen’s mouth tightened. “You and everyone else. What’s left to say?” Yara, blunt: “You were the last one to see him alive. And you have the skills—the ransom came from a masked server. That takes know-how.” Arlen looked from face to face, then sighed, opening the door wider. Inside, the café was silent except for the hum of servers and the flicker of emergency lanterns. “Tallow was my friend. More than that, once. He was scared. Someone had been stalking him—leaving dead animals at his door, slashing his tires. He thought it was council muscle. Maybe Blackharbor Stone.” Celeste, circling, murmured, “But you argued—three days ago. Witnesses heard shouting.” Arlen stiffened. “He wanted to blow the ledger wide open. I said—be careful. You don’t know how deep this goes.” Mira: “Where were you last night?” Arlen’s eyes didn’t waver. “Here. Working—patching the net relay after the storm. Ask anyone. But—” They hesitated, then reached behind the counter, pulling out a battered hard drive. “He gave me this. Said if anything happened, I should send it to the Herald.” Elias took it, hands trembling. “If this is the real ledger, it could break this case.” Yara scanned the room, eyes narrowing. “Anyone else know about this backup?” Arlen shook their head. “Just me. And now you.” Outside, thunder rattled the glass. Mira’s pen tapped, the rhythm of secrets on the verge of revelation. —

Chapter 9: Salt and Stone

The rain made the cliffs run black as oil. The SCU’s van idled near the quarry gates, the only light a sputtering lantern above a rusted sign. Blackharbor Stone—closed after hours, but the office window glowed. Inside, the foreman, Owen Strake, waited. He was thick-necked, eyes wary. “You people again. What now?” Yara, looming: “Your dogs were heard near the scene. Two security dogs, both missing since last night.” Owen shrugged, too quickly. “Storm blew the gate open. Maybe they ran off.” Dr. Grell, voice a rasp: “Or maybe someone borrowed them. To stage a mauling.” Celeste’s fingers danced over her notes. “You threatened Tallow—a week ago, in the market. Witnesses heard you say you’d ‘shut his mouth for good.'” Owen’s face tightened. “Yeah, I was angry. He was going to ruin us—shut down the quarry, cost fifty jobs. But I’m not a killer. I was at home, with my wife. Ask her.” Elias, frowning, asked, “Do you have a list of employees with tech skills? Someone who could send a ransom demand?” Owen’s laugh was hollow. “We break rocks, not firewalls. But—I did hear something. The council hired a consultant, from out of town. Name of Sybil Roar. Digital security, supposedly. She was snooping around Tallow’s place last week.” Mira’s pen stilled. “Roar. Where is she?” Owen shrugged. “Checked out the day before the storm. But maybe the council knows more.” Yara’s radio crackled—static, then a voice: “Dogs found. Both dead. Poisoned.” Elias looked sick. “Someone’s covering tracks. Fast.” Mira, voice cold: “We’re running out of time.” —

Chapter 10: The Oracle’s Thread

Back in the van, Celeste worked her own magic, cross-referencing handwritten notes, colored tabs, and half-remembered scandals. She murmured, half to herself: “Sybil Roar. Not her real name. Known alias—digital fixer, worked for corrupt officials. Last seen in Marleaux, after a leak scandal. Disappeared with a forged passport.” Elias, eyes shining with vindication, said, “If she was hired to clean up after Tallow, she could have staged the whole thing—made it look savage, local, but hid the real motive: kill the story, not just the man.” Dr. Grell, voice trembling with weariness, added, “And the poison—fast-acting, hard to trace. Used in Eastern Europe. She’s not just a fixer—she’s a pro.” Mira said, “So—she uses council money to cover up dirty business. Frames a scared kid, poisons the dogs, sends a digital ransom to discredit Tallow’s group. Makes it look like local vengeance.” Yara slammed a fist into her palm. “But we can’t reach the outside. No comms, no warrants.” Elias glanced at the hard drive Arlen had given him. “If the ledger’s real, it’s got evidence—bank transfers, emails, maybe even Roar’s real name.” Celeste’s eyes glinted. “There’s one place we can access the net—the old lighthouse. Emergency relay. But the town will see us coming.” Mira stared into the rain. “We go now. Fast, quiet. Yara, cover us. Elias, Celeste, with me.” As they climbed the cliffs toward the lighthouse, the wind howled with the voices of all the town’s secrets. Mira felt the weight of every step. —

Chapter 11: The Lighthouse Gambit

The lighthouse was skeletal and battered, its stone pitted by storms. The emergency relay, a battered antenna, blinked weakly in the storm. Yara circled the perimeter, sidearm drawn, while Elias and Celeste set up a makeshift connection. Inside, ancient lanterns flickered. Mira watched over their shoulders as Elias cracked the hard drive. Files bloomed onto the screen: bank transfers from Blackharbor Stone to council members, emails arranging digital smear campaigns, even a contract—digital signature: Sybil Roar. Celeste’s voice was reverent. “This is it. Everything Tallow was killed for.” A sudden noise—footsteps outside. Yara’s voice, low and urgent: “We have company. Locals. Torches, sticks. They think we’re hiding something.” Elias uploaded the files in a mad rush, sweat gleaming on his brow. “Sending to the Herald—province-wide drop. Once it’s out, they can’t bury it.” Mira’s radio crackled—Superintendent Faure, his voice faint but triumphant. “Got your file, Lorne. It’s all over the news. Stand by for extraction.” Yara backed into the room, eyes wild. “They’re throwing rocks. We have to go—now!” As the files finished uploading, Mira snatched the laptop and led the team out the back, down a narrow path cut into the cliff. The angry crowd surged past, searching for scapegoats. At the van, battered but whole, the team collapsed inside as sirens wailed in the distance. The truth was out. But the town was burning. —

Chapter 12: Collateral Damage

By morning, Blackharbor was a storm of anger and fear. The council chambers had been raided by angry townsfolk. Denny Rourke was cleared—but his family’s boat was torched in the harbor. Owen Strake resigned; Dockmaster Ravich was nowhere to be found. The Herald’s front page screamed: “LEDGER LEAK SHAKES BLACKHARBOR: SCU UNCOVERS QUARRY PAYOFFS, DIGITAL FIXERS, AND STAGED MURDER” But the victory was hollow. Corin Tallow was dead. His friends scattered. The town, stripped of its secrets, was left with wounds that would not close. In the van, the SCU debriefed in weary silence. Celeste wrapped herself in her scarf, eyes distant. Dr. Grell chain-smoked by an open window, muttering about scars. Elias stared at the laptop, haunted. Yara looked out at the burning boats, jaw set. Mira sat alone, her notebook open, pen still. She wrote one word: _Cost._ Faure’s voice came over the comm, pride and warning mingled: “Good work. But Verrowind will not forgive. Be ready for the storm.” Mira closed her notebook, the weight of the case heavy on her shoulders. In the wind-beaten town, justice had come—but at the price of peace. —

Chapter 13: Lines in the Salt

That night, as the SCU prepared to leave, Mira stood by the cliffs, the sea boiling far below. Yara joined her, silent. “You almost crossed a line, back there,” Yara said, voice low. “With Denny. With the crowd.” Mira’s eyes stayed on the black water. “I know. I wanted to push. To make someone break.” She exhaled, shivering. “But if we give in to the town’s rage, we’re no better.” Yara hesitated, then placed a hand on Mira’s shoulder. “We saved the truth. Didn’t save the peace. That’s the job.” Mira nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Behind them, the van’s engine rumbled to life. The team—scarred, tired, changed—turned their backs on Blackharbor, the salt wind stinging their faces, and drove into the dawn. —