Crimson Ties

"I have to get in, one way or another later" he thought.

Vince slipped his hands into his pockets, feeling the weight of the evening ahead settle on his shoulders. He needed somewhere to kill time, a spot where he could blend into the background and let the hours stretch until nightfall. That would be the only way he'd get back into Chrysalis Academy without a welcoming committee waiting at the gate.

Cosy Coffee came to mind instantly. It was his go-to haunt in Bog Bay—quiet, unpretentious, and open late enough for someone like him.

Friday, October 11, 2024

Solara, Solstice, Bog Bay City

Cosy Coffee

The rain had let up, leaving the streets glistening with a thin sheen that reflected the muted glow of streetlights. Vince parked his car nearby and walked the last few steps to the coffee shop, appreciating its unassuming charm. The place sat on the outskirts of the busier streets, tucked between a secondhand bookstore and a florist long past closing.

Cosy Coffee was easy to miss unless you knew to look for it—a narrow storefront with a simple wooden sign hanging above the door, lanterns softly illuminating the window where mismatched furniture and plants crowded together, giving it an eclectic but welcoming look. He pushed open the door, and the tiny bell above gave a soft, satisfying clink, like an old friend's greeting.

Warmth and the rich scent of freshly ground coffee washed over him as he stepped in. A handful of patrons were scattered across the small tables, their faces softened by the dim, amber glow of low-hanging lights. The walls were a mismatched array of local art, old maps, and faded photographs, all bathed in that cozy, lived-in warmth that seemed to breathe out of the shop's every corner.

Behind the counter, Bob—Cosy Coffee's owner and one-man show—looked up from where he was wiping down a mug. Bob was an older guy, wiry with a mess of gray hair and a knowing look that didn't miss much. His eyes met Vince's with a familiar nod. "As always?"

Vince gave a faint smile, a rare gesture. "As always."

Bob grabbed a well-worn cup, pouring out a strong, steaming black coffee with practiced ease. "Here you go," he said, sliding it over, no questions asked. Vince took the cup, appreciating its warmth against his hands as he moved to his usual spot in the corner. The chair there—a beaten-up leather armchair that had seen better days—fit him perfectly, like it had molded to his form over countless nights.

He leaned back, letting his gaze drift over the room. The subtle hum of an old jazz record wove through the quiet conversations around him, filling the silences like a heartbeat. Vines hung down from high shelves, their leaves swaying in the gentle draft each time the door opened. Vince took a slow sip, savoring the bitterness, the dark bite of it settling something restless inside him.

Then, a glint of metal near the window caught his attention—a newspaper dispenser, aged but polished, with a brass slot and a small plaque reading 1 Xent per Issue. Vince fished a single coin from his pocket, slipping it into the slot with a soft clink. The machine gave a slight shudder before releasing a fresh newspaper with a creak. He pulled it free and began flipping through its pages, "Moon Landing Celebrations", "A Walking Bicycle", "VitaCell Pharmaceuticals Unveils Groundbreaking Drug", his attention wandering—until a bold headline stopped him cold: Disappearing Girls Leave Families Distraught.

The article laid out the details in stark, impersonal typeface, the names of young women who had vanished over the past year—each case disturbingly similar to Hannah's. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he read, his grip tightening around his coffee cup.

This wasn't just another news story; this was a pattern. A pattern too familiar, too close, to ignore.

His eyes narrowed as he scanned the article, irritation simmering beneath his calm exterior. How had he not known about these cases before now? The thought gnawed at him, and he mentally kicked himself for missing it. Each disappearance had its own little paragraph, a cold summary of a life suddenly uprooted and left dangling, untethered. But one detail stood out—a majority of the missing girls were students at Chrysalis Academy.

"Why the hell am I only seeing this now?" he muttered under his breath, flipping back through the pages, searching for any prior mention he might've missed. The academy's name cropped up again and again, each time connected to a girl who had simply vanished into thin air.

A possible answer took shape in his mind, unpleasant as it was. Was it because Chrysalis was suppressing this from the press? The academy held a power over the community—a reputation that it would protect at any cost. With families who'd pour money and influence into keeping their daughters' names out of messy headlines, maybe they'd leveraged their reach to keep it all under wraps. Or maybe the headmistress herself, Evelyn Rhys, had found a way to quietly lean on anyone who threatened her school's pristine image.

He kept reading, sifting through the slim details, piecing together what he could. Each entry was eerily sparse: name, last known location, little more. The ages varied, but each was a young woman in the prime of her youth, with the kind of future the academy was so intent on cultivating.

As Vince continued reading, his concentration was broken by a hushed conversation drifting over from the next table, where two women sat nursing their coffees. Their voices were low, careful—but something in their words snagged his attention.

"I just don't feel safe with her there, not with everything going on," one of them murmured, her fingers nervously tracing the edge of her cup.

The other woman leaned in closer, her expression equally uneasy. "I know. But if I pull her out now, what does that say? The academy practically has the entire town under its thumb. And you know how they are about… appearances."

The first woman sighed, casting a quick glance around, as if wary of being overheard. "Maybe, but I'm thinking of transferring her. I mean… all those rumors about girls disappearing… if even half of it's true—"

The other woman nodded, checking her watch. "I know. But it's hard to know what's real and what's just… talk. Still, I've thought about it, too."

Just then, the distant sound of the chapel bell echoed softly from the academy's direction. They glanced at each other and stood up, gathering their things. "It's getting late. I'd better get going," one of the women murmured, glancing off toward the academy. "That bell rings almost every day… some days it goes on so long it gives me a headache." She gave a small, weary smile, brushing it off like an ordinary nuisance, and turned to leave with her friend.

Vince sat back, taking a slow sip of his coffee as he processed what he'd just heard. It wasn't just whispers among the students—some of the parents were uneasy, too, and it was clear no one felt quite comfortable bringing it all out in the open.

Vince lingered at the café for a while longer, half-listening to the murmurs and fragments of conversation around him, hoping to pick up another thread, another lead. But nothing caught his ear with the same urgency; most of the talk revolved around local gossip and trivialities, nothing that could help him untangle the mess at Chrysalis Academy.

Finally, he glanced down at his watch. The hour had crept into the evening—late enough that the academy should be locked up, its halls emptied. Time to move.

He left a 5 xents on the table, nodding a quick goodbye to Bob, and stepped out into the cool night air. The streets of Bog Bay felt quieter now, shrouded in a deeper silence, as he crossed to his car. Sliding into the driver's seat, he took a moment to check his tools.

In the glove compartment, he had his basic set: a slim lockpick kit, wrapped in worn leather; a small flashlight, perfect for the shadows he'd be moving through; and his reliable folding knife, nothing fancy, but sharp and discreet. Tucked into his coat pocket was a small recorder, just in case he needed to capture anything said in whispers. Lastly, a pair of thin, grippy gloves sat on the passenger seat—ideal for keeping his hands warm and his grip steady.

Satisfied with his gear, he started the car and pointed it back toward the academy, headlights piercing through the misty roads.