STEVEN BAFLIN'S HOUSE – DISTRICT II – DREAM CITY - NIGHT
Snow flurries swept across the street like dead flakes of ash, blown by the cold breath of a broken city. A flickering streetlamp buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow over the two officers stationed outside the cordoned-off property.
Officer Christopher Jones, young and stiff in his oversized coat, shifted awkwardly, breath misting in the air. Fresh out of academy, eager-eyed, and still carrying a sense of duty like it hadn't been wrung out of him yet.
Beside him, leaning lazily against the patrol cruiser, was Sergeant Hale, a grizzled, stone-faced veteran with a lopsided jaw and hollow eyes that had seen too much.
They watched the house.
"Feels quiet," Christopher said, rubbing his gloves together. "Too quiet for a murder scene."
Hale snorted. "Quiet's all you get when the body's gone."
Christopher turned. "You think we'll find her?"
Hale glanced at him, pulled a scanpad from his coat and flicked it on. A picture appeared—Steven Baflin, flagged in red: EX-BINETH PERSONNEL.
"You see this? That tag right there?" He tapped the label. "Means we stay far away from this sort of swiny."
"Then why are we here?" Christopher asked.
"Because the Commissioner's got a death wish that's what." Hale spat into the snow. "He keeps pokin' his nose into Retributor business. One of these days, someone's gonna put a bullet in that thick skull of his—and when they do, he'll drag us all down with him."
Christopher frowned. "He's just trying to help. If we keep playing the sidelines, the police'll never matter to the people again."
Hale chuckled, bitter. "Freshie talk. You know how many bullets I've got stuck in me? Seven. That's on the low count. Had more partners than a street swiny. Half of 'em didn't make it."
He looked around, voice dropping.
"You want the truth? We don't matter. Not anymore. Council starves us. No funds, no armor, half our tech's secondhand junk. You think it's fair risking your life for people who don't even know your name?"
He lit a cigarette, inhaled deep.
"But Butch? He's different. Got something personal with those swinies. Lies about it, but everyone in the precinct knows the story."
"What story?" Christopher asked.
But there was no time.
The front door swung open, and out came Commissioner Butch Hartman, a storm in a tailored trench coat. Thick shoulders, bald head gleaming under the lights, eyes sharp as razors. He looked like a war-era dad carved from stone—an American classic with a temper problem.
Flanked by detectives, he stalked down the porch steps. One of them held up a thermal scan.
"Confirmed. Thermal residue's heavy around the chair—she was killed here. Burnt. Her comm-links were tampered with too. We're pulling logs now."
Butch nodded, then raised his voice.
"Lock it down. Double perimeter. I want full scans across every inch."
One of the detectives hesitated. "Sir… what if this is retro-related? This might be out of our jurisdiction."
Butch stopped mid-stride, turned slowly, smiled—but there was nothing kind in it.
"Why do you think we're out here?" he asked. "The way I see it, those swinies have been losing ground lately. Public's tired of looking the other way. We don't sit back anymore. This city's ours. It's always been ours."
He looked toward the house, eyes glinting with something darker.
"This is a clean murder. But I don't believe in clean. Not when Bineth's involved. We'll find whoever did this. Retributors or not."
He turned to the whole team.
"This case changes the game. We force the Council's hand. We go full throttle—overtime for everyone!"
Some officers muttered. Others stiffened.
Butch didn't care. He couldn't help the grin crawling onto his face.
This was the case.
Three scientists—all ex-Bineth—dead in the last month. One had a heart attack. Another overdosed. The third—a car crash caused by a glitched android driver. Coincidence?
Until he paid for the intel. From Baflin's wife.
All three men had worked together on a classified moon base project. It was buried, scrubbed, long forgotten. But she knew. She tried to sell it—or maybe she just knew too much. And now she was gone.
Butch clenched his fists. This was his chance. To expose the Retributors. To shatter the Council's silence. His network had already spun the right narrative in the media. He just needed one more push.
This case was that push.
From afar, Christopher watched. The Commissioner looked like a savior. Like a man on a mission. But Hale shook his head.
"You see him?" he muttered. "Man's no saint. He's a devil dressed in good PR. Keep your trust where it belongs—nowhere."
Christopher didn't answer. He watched the officers bustle around the house, watched the commissioner barking orders with fire in his voice.
His father had been an officer once. Christopher had joined to follow that legacy. To serve and protect.
But this?
This wasn't what he imagined.
Too many turncoats. Too many coverups. Evidence disappeared, cases dropped, emergencies left unanswered. And now this mess—with Retributors, Bineth, and something far bigger than one missing wife.
Could he survive here?
He didn't know. All he knew was—he still wanted to try.
Even if the system was rotten to its core.