Crimson Ties

Monday, October 14, 2024

Solara, Solstice, Bog Bay City

Bog Bay Police Department Interrogation Room

The rain was pouring, the clouds obscuring the full moon, and the mist was thick in the air. Clack, clack—the sound of raindrops hitting the glass windows that shielded the interior of the interrogation room. Green walls surrounded the small, dim space, where a lone wooden table and two chairs stood facing each other. A flickering yellow lightbulb, hanging from above, cast a sickly glow that flickered from time to time, the only source of light in the otherwise dark room.

A woman sat there, smirking at the shadow in front of her.

She had a sharp, observant look, her blonde hair pulled back into a sleek, high ponytail that fell just past her shoulders, giving her an athletic edge. Her blue eyes—piercing and attentive—were framed by thin, rectangular glasses that lent her an air of quiet intellect. She wore a fitted, high-collared leather jacket in a soft charcoal hue, paired with a tailored white blouse that contrasted sharply against her dark attire. The blouse was buttoned neatly, though the top button left undone.

Her pants were well-cut, dark skinny jeans. Completing the ensemble were low-heeled ankle boots with subtle silver buckles. A black leather wristwatch perfectly fit her wrist.

So, Luna... Smith? 23 years old, freelance programmer, graduated from Bog Bay University, currently renting an apartment at 21 Harmony Heights. No criminal records, parents dead for a long time, no relationships. Am I right? The gravelly voice, laced with a hint of weariness, rose from the shadow.

From the darkness, a silhouette of a man slowly emerged. He wore a worn leather jacket, dark brown and faded from years of use. Underneath, a long-sleeved button-down shirt in deep blue—colors that allowed him to blend into the shadows. His durable, dark jeans were tucked loosely into well-broken-in boots. Around his waist, a simple belt held a few small utility pouches, subtly positioned to avoid attention. His minimalist watch was built for function, not fashion but still, elegance.

He slowly circled around the woman, his fingers tapping on the back of the chair. He leaned in, his voice rough.

Tell me, what were you doing outside that house?

With an indifferent voice, Luna replied, "I was just taking a walk after breakfast. Was that illegal?"

The man smiled, leaning back and taking a seat before her. "You know, for someone who was just taking a stroll, you were awfully fast. Very fast."

Luna's lips curled into a small smirk. "If you were me, you'd run too, when you see a pervert chasing you."

3 Days Ago, Friday, October 11, 2024

Solara, Solstice, Bog Bay City

Bog Bay Police Department (BBPD)

The BBPD headquarters loomed over Solara Street, a monolithic building of darkened glass and steel that seemed to absorb the rain and mist swirling around it. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old coffee and paper, the sound of muffled voices and typewriters clicking away in rhythm. The department was a labyrinth of worn-out desks, faded filing cabinets, and cluttered rooms where time seemed to stand still. In the bullpen, officers bustled about, but it wasn't the noise that caught Vince's attention; it was the eerie silence of his desk in the far corner—a forgotten corner of the department.

The flickering overhead lights cast harsh shadows over the grim faces that passed him by. Paperwork piled high in his inbox—cases unsolved, leads gone cold—but in his experience, things were never truly quiet. Vince had learned to trust the silence, to let the weight of it speak for itself. It was his refuge. His sanctuary.

He lit another cigarette, inhaling the sharp, bitter smoke, letting it fill his lungs. The haze clouded his thoughts, but he pushed it aside. Tonight, the Captain's case was the only thing on his mind.

Captain Simon Burke's office, at the back of the station, was a stark contrast to the rest of the department. The walls were lined with trophies—golden plaques, old commendations, and photographs that chronicled a career of military precision. Burke's desk was a mess of half-opened files, empty mugs, and a stack of fresh reports waiting to be signed. The desk lamp cast a yellow glow, illuminating Burke's weathered face as he sat behind it, reading a thick case file.

Vince walked in without knocking, his boots making a soft thud as they hit the floor.

"Captain," Vince greeted, his voice low and gravelly, but carrying the weight of authority.

Burke barely looked up from the file. "Vince. I need you on the Kensington case. The girl's missing, and we've got the parents breathing down our necks. They're desperate. You know how these rich people get when things don't go their way."

Vince leaned against the doorframe, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "You want me to babysit a missing rich girl? Why not send one of the new guys?"

Burke didn't smile. He never smiled. "You're the one who's dealt with the kind of people they are. The family's got connections—big ones. So, I need this handled delicately. No loud noises. I need this case solved yesterday."

Vince studied the captain for a moment, eyes narrowing. The man's face was etched with deep lines, his hair graying at the temples. It wasn't just age that gave him his tired look—it was the weight of years spent dealing with cases that ran deeper than most wanted to admit. The kind of cases that could break a man's soul.

"I'll get on it," Vince muttered, turning toward the door.

Burke's voice followed him. "You're going to the Kensington Manor first. Be careful. This family's not as clean as they make out."

Outside Kensington Manor

The Kensington Manor stood at the edge of a sprawling estate, far from the glitzy heart of the city, nestled between towering pine trees that stretched up like blackened sentinels. The estate was bordered by high stone walls, covered in ivy, with iron gates that creaked with age as Vince pushed them open. The long driveway was slick with rain, the gravel crunching under his boots as he approached the massive, dark stone house.

The manor was a relic of old-world wealth, with high, Gothic windows, ornate carvings along the walls, and a towering silhouette that seemed to overshadow everything around it. The stone was weathered, but the place was still immaculately kept, a grand testament to a family that had money and power stretching back generations. As Vince stepped closer, the mist seemed to cling to the stone, giving the place an almost haunting atmosphere.

Inside, the atmosphere was no less imposing. The grand foyer opened into a vast marble entryway, its high ceilings adorned with intricate chandeliers that shimmered in the muted light from the overcast sky. Ornate tapestries lined the walls, showcasing scenes of wealth and power—grand battles, hunts, and people who looked more like gods than men.

The scent of aged wood and perfume filled the air as Vince stepped through the threshold, his eyes scanning the opulent interior with cold indifference. The house felt like a museum—a hollow shell of former glory.

As he moved further in, a woman appeared at the top of the staircase, her heels clicking sharply against the marble as she descended. Vince didn't need to be told who she was. Margaret Kensington stood before him, tall and graceful, with a quiet power that commanded attention. Her long auburn hair framed her pale, delicate face, and her clothing—tailored, dark, and stylish—only enhanced her commanding presence.

"Detective Kane, I presume?" Her voice was soft, but there was an underlying sharpness to it.

"Vince Kane," he corrected, giving her a nod. "You must be Margaret Kensington. I'm here about your daughter, Hannah."

Margaret's violet eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of her daughter's name, a brief flicker of concern passing over her face before she quickly masked it with a practiced, polite smile.

"Please, come in," she said, gesturing toward the expansive hallway.

Vince nodded, stepping inside and briefly scanning the interior. The grandeur of the manor was undeniable, yet there was an unsettling stillness to it, as if the house had become too accustomed to silence. The hallway stretched long and wide, its marble floors polished to a reflective sheen. The walls were lined with family portraits, each framed in gilded gold, their painted gazes forever frozen in time. Some portraits dated back centuries, their subjects dressed in the fashion of long-past eras. There was a certain coldness in the air, a quiet austerity that screamed wealth, but at the same time, suggested something had been lost over generations.

Margaret led him through the hallway and into the living room. The room was vast, with a tall, arched window draped in rich velvet curtains that let in a soft, muted light from the late afternoon sun. Antique furniture—a pair of leather armchairs, a polished oak coffee table, and a few side tables with intricate carvings—stood around the room, creating an almost ceremonial space, one that seemed more for show than comfort.

The fireplace was cold, the logs untouched for what seemed like weeks. A large, dark bookshelf covered one wall, stacked with leather-bound volumes and old photo albums, the edges of the books slightly worn. Everything in the room had an aura of sophistication, but there was no warmth in the setting—no sense of family, only a house filled with things that once meant something.