Blood Tyes

The evacuation of the Chelmsford Police Station was a study in organised chaos. Alarms blared with a monotonous, infuriating rhythm while uniformed officers marshalled dazed civilian staff out into the drizzling Essex night. The flashing blue lights of arriving response vehicles painted surreal, dancing patterns across the wet pavement.

DI Miles Corbin stood on the pavement opposite, a grim-faced DCS Davies and a pale, shaken DC Harris beside him. Davies's fury was a palpable thing, radiating off him in waves.

"What the hell was that, Miles?!" he finally exploded, rounding on Corbin. "The entire county's network is being firewalled. We're blind. What have you been doing that could provoke a targeted attack of this magnitude?"

Corbin knew he couldn't say the truth. He couldn't talk about metaphysical architecture or souls being built from stolen concepts. He couldn't mention the eccentric academic from Cambridge. He sounded like a madman to himself; to his by-the-book boss, it would be career suicide.

"We're dealing with a highly sophisticated digital entity, Frank," he said, his voice level. "Part of a group. They knew we were getting close to their front company."

"Your 'front company'," Davies sneered. "Your secret, off-book side project. I've just had the head of Cyber Crime on the phone. This wasn't just a hack, Miles. It was an occupation. They've been in our systems for weeks. They had access to everything. Witness statements, forensic reports, our duty rosters. They know where we live."

The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air between them. Davies's face hardened, his decision made.

"You're a liability, Miles. Your unorthodox methods have compromised this entire investigation and put my officers at risk. As of this moment, you are officially suspended, pending a full inquiry."

The words hit Corbin like a physical blow. "Frank, you can't…"

"I can and I have," Davies cut him off sharply. "Hand over your case files. All of them. The official ones, and whatever nonsense you've been cooking up with Harris. You're done. We'll put a fresh team on it."

An hour later, Miles was at home, sitting in the dark of his living room. He was a detective with no case, a commander with no army. A fresh team would start from scratch. They would dismiss his theories, chase conventional leads, and walk straight into the same invisible web. More people would die.

He stared at his personal mobile, sitting on the coffee table. He had two choices: obey the order, go on leave, and let it happen; or commit career suicide and finish what he'd started.

It wasn't much of a choice.

He picked up the phone. The first call was to Harris.

"It's me," Miles said when the DC answered. "I've been suspended. Officially, you don't report to me. You are to hand over all your notes to the new SIO in the morning." He paused. "Unofficially… are you in or are you out?"

There was only a moment's hesitation on the other end of the line. "Where do we meet, Guv?"

The second call was to Dr. Reed. He explained the situation concisely: the hack, the message on the screens, his suspension. "They know we're onto them," he finished. "I'm continuing the investigation off-book. I need your expertise now more than ever."

Her reply was dry, entirely without surprise. "Of course you were suspended, Inspector. Bureaucracies are fundamentally allergic to imagination. They mistake it for madness." A rustle of paper came down the line. "The good news is that this confirms my theory. A reaction this severe means we've touched upon the truth. When do we start?"

The new incident room was colder and much quieter than the last one. It was the study of the late Arthur Pendelton. The police tape was gone, but the house remained empty, a silent memorial to the Puppeteer's cruelty. It was the perfect ghost headquarters: completely analogue, steeped in the history of their enemy, and the last place anyone would think to look for them.

Miles stood in the center of the room with Harris and Dr. Reed. The young DC looked nervous but determined. The academic looked entirely at home, her eyes alight with intellectual curiosity as she examined the titles on the bookshelves. They were a rogue unit now—the suspended cop, the loyal junior, and the eccentric scholar.

Miles's gaze fell upon the empty spot on the desk blotter where the Veridian Scribe pen had once rested, now sitting in an evidence bag miles away. They were blind, exposed, and fighting an enemy that could be anywhere. But they were free.

He looked at his small, strange team.

"Right," he said, his voice quiet but full of a new, hard-edged resolve. "They think they've shut us down."

A grim smile touched his lips.

"Let's show them what a ghost can do."