The mist rolled over Greystone Hollow like it had nowhere else to be. It draped itself over the narrow stone alleys and crooked rooftops, curling through the gaps in boarded-up shops and whispering against rain-speckled windows. Once humming with early vendors and shouting schoolchildren, the town had grown quiet in recent months. Too quiet. War had a way of stealing sound.
Even now, signs of it clung to every surface. A faded conscription poster flapped weakly on a lamppost. A bakery window cracked down the middle, displaying loaves behind iron bars. "For Ration Card Holders Only," the hand-painted sign read. Iris Miller passed it with a glance but didn't slow down. The smell of yeast and damp stone stirred something soft and hollow in her chest.
She trudged down the riverside trail after Jamie Parker, boots squelching through the mud as the rain began to patter against the ground. Her oversized cardigan clung to her sleeves, and her tote bag bounced at her side. "I'm just saying," she muttered, wrapping her arms tighter across her chest, "this is how ghost stories start."
Jamie didn't look back. "Fog is not inherently cursed."
"Says the man dragging me down a trail that smells like mildew and poor life choices."
He let out a short laugh, the sound sharp in the silence. "You exaggerate everything."
Rain picked up into a steady rhythm, speckling Jamie's shoulders. Iris sighed, reached into her tote, and pulled out a small navy umbrella patterned with faded constellations. With a practiced flick, she popped it open and held it over both of them.
Jamie glanced at it. "You always carry that thing?"
"I like being prepared. Some of us plan."
"Some of us don't expect sudden monsoons."
"Some of us live in Greystone Hollow," she replied, deadpan.
They walked for a while, the river beside them rushing faster than usual. Swollen from last night's storm, it roared softly in the background—low, insistent, like something angry that hadn't finished speaking.
Overhead, the trees formed a wet, broken canopy. Their bare limbs scraped the sky, branches slick with rain. Beneath them, roots twisted through the dirt, and puddles reflected the gray world like fractured glass. Iris picked her steps carefully.
"I don't know why you like this path so much," she said. "We could've cut through Main Street. Maybe even passed a shop that sells joy."
Jamie shrugged. "It's quieter this way."
"That's not comforting. Quiet gets you haunted."
Just then, something rustled in the brush. They both paused.
A silver fox padded across the trail ahead, its coat shimmering with moisture, eyes bright and strangely human. It paused, stared at them, and disappeared into the trees.
"I claim it," Iris whispered. "That's my omen."
Jamie chuckled. "You're more raccoon than fox."
"I'm clever and misunderstood."
"You dig through trash."
"I call it treasure hunting. Besides, have you seen my boutique's clearance bin? Gold."
Their laughter softened the edge of the morning. The trail curved again, and the river pressed closer, rushing just beyond the slope. Debris floated past—broken branches, a rusted tin plate, a torn strip of fabric clinging to a reed.
As they rounded the bend, a familiar sound cut through the drizzle—footsteps. Heavy, careless. Three figures emerged from the mist behind them.
Jamie tensed. Iris recognized them immediately.
"Well, well," called Officer Brant. His sneer was as oily as ever. "If it isn't Parker and the seamstress. What, patrolling for mud puddles?"
Gavin followed close behind, smirking. "Taking her out for one last stroll before the capital calls you up?"
Miles, the quiet one, just nodded slightly in greeting.
Iris rolled her eyes. "Wow. Three government salaries and still nothing better to do?"
Brant grinned. "We like to stretch our legs. Make sure the river rats aren't getting any ideas."
Jamie stepped forward. "We're not bothering anyone."
"No," Iris added, "but you sure are."
Gavin cocked his head. "Hey, I'm just saying—it's funny how things work. One minute, you're walking your beat; next minute, you're guarding supply crates on the eastern line."
A cold knot twisted in Jamie's stomach.
Iris narrowed her eyes. "Is that supposed to be a threat?"
Brant raised both hands. "Not at all. Just a reminder. Everyone's replaceable these days."
"You should remember that," Iris said. "You're all talk and no spine. Can't wait to see how fast you run if a transfer order ever lands on your desk."
Brant's smile faltered.
Miles muttered something about needing to file reports, and the group finally drifted away.
"Enjoy the mud," Gavin called over his shoulder. "Try not to drown."
When they were gone, Iris exhaled slowly.
"You didn't have to do that," Jamie said.
"I did." She looked at him, then up at the trail ahead. "Because you never do it for yourself."
The rain intensified. Small streams ran down the sides of the trail, carving grooves in the dirt. Iris adjusted the umbrella, shielding them both.
The river's roar deepened as it bent around a fallen tree, currents breaking around the trunk with force. Water slapped the rocks with sharp, cold sounds. A log floated past, spinning slowly, half-submerged.
Jamie glanced toward the water. "Still hate it?"
"I always will," Iris said.
He gave a slight nod. "I know."
She hesitated. "Do you remember?"
Jamie's face tightened. "You think I'd forget you almost drowned?"
She looked down. "It was stupid. I jumped in for someone else. Don't even remember their face."
"You were nine. You saved a life. That's not stupid."
"It was terrifying."
They walked in silence, rain dripping off the umbrella's edge.
Then Jamie stopped.
Iris stepped beside him and froze.
A shape in the water. Tangled in reeds. Pale. Still.
It was a man.
Or had been.
His body floated face-up, caught against the roots of a fallen tree, limbs twisted unnaturally as if he'd been thrown in like a broken marionette. His skin was ghost-white, stretched tight and shiny over bloated muscle and bone. Waterlogged and swollen, his arms floated limply, one hand still clutching something—dark and soaked through, like a scrap of cloth or ribbon.
His face was a horror in itself. One eye had collapsed inward, sunken into a hollow cavity bruised deep purple. The other was still open—cloudy, almost white, staring sightlessly at the sky. His jaw had been shattered and was now hanging off-center, teeth exposed in a macabre half-grin that was missing several molars. A long, jagged gash split his left cheek all the way to the ear, revealing raw flesh beneath. Deep bruises circled his throat—fingermarks, unmistakably—and blood had dried in thick, crusted trails from his nostrils and lips.
His dark hair, matted and sticky with blood, clung to his forehead in thick clumps. Rain mixed with the blood and river water, turning the wounds into streaks that ran down the sides of his neck, like the body itself was still weeping.
Once clearly tailored and expensive, the man's coat had been torn open at the chest, revealing a shirt shredded nearly to ribbons. A line of bruises trailed down from his collarbone, purple and yellow, fading into a patch of skin scraped raw. Medals still clung to the torn lapel by bent pins, spinning slightly in the current—silver, dull, one cracked down the middle like it had taken a blow. A small insignia pin near the collar was still fastened tight, its edges rusted red.
Rain pinged gently off his stiff jacket, forming tiny rivulets that trailed over his torso and into the river. Blood floated in slow ribbons around him, thin but steady, like the river was still draining whatever was left inside.
His legs were twisted beneath him, bootless feet sticking up at odd angles, the skin blistered and peeling from where it had soaked longest. The current pushed lightly against his body, bobbing him gently against the roots as if trying to free him—but the river wouldn't take him. Not yet.
The water moved fast and dark around him, but the corpse stayed trapped, like it wanted to be found.
Jamie exhaled. "This wasn't an accident."
"No kidding," Iris murmured.
He crouched, eyes scanning. "There's something in his hand."
A scrap of fabric balled up and soaked through.
He pulled out his phone. "This is Detective Jamie Parker. North Bend trail. South curve. A male body was found. Unknown ID. Possible homicide. Requesting immediate forensics."
He hung up. Looked back.
Iris hadn't moved.
"He's not from here," she said. "Nobody here dresses like that. Or dies like that."
Jamie nodded slowly. "Someone wanted him found."
She turned. "I'll go. You've got crime scene stuff."
"You sure?"
She nodded. "Yeah. But… tell me what they find."
"I will."
She gave him one last look, then disappeared into the fog.
Jamie stayed, staring at the ruined face, the medals, and the slow, lazy blood swirl in the river. The rain blurred the scene around him, falling harder, washing everything but the truth away.
This wasn't a random murder.
It was a message.
And someone had just delivered it.
The rain hissed in the leaves as the others arrived. Caution tape fluttered where they'd tied it between tree branches, dancing slightly with every breeze like a warning not meant to be read. The muddy earth churned beneath the boots of first responders, and the scent of wet soil, river rot, and faint blood filled the morning air. Iris had vanished into the fog, her umbrella disappearing like a quiet punctuation mark at the end of a long sentence.
Jamie stood still, unmoving, arms crossed, eyes locked on the bloated body tangled in reeds like an accusation.
Detective Elora Vance arrived first, her slick black coat plastered to her frame. Her boots sloshed slightly with each step. Behind her came Noah Greaves, the forensics tech, his camera swaying against his chest, and Officer Sera Lin, adjusting gloves with a snap as she knelt beside the corpse.
Vance swept the scene with her sharp eyes before speaking. "How long since you found him?"
Jamie's voice was steady. "Twenty minutes. I called it in as soon as I confirmed he wouldn't breathe again."
Greaves dropped to a knee. The camera clicked rapidly, strobe flashes stuttering against the corpse's ruined features. Each photo captured a new angle of horror—the collapsed eye socket, the shredded cheek, the split lips, and the slack mouth.
"Let's start logging," Vance said without emotion. "Bag everything. I want full samples—clothing, skin, fibers. Sera, kits."
Sera Lin moved efficiently, flipping open her case to reveal a row of instruments—cold metal catching the dim gray light. There was a scalpel, swabs, and test tubes.
The body stank. Rain and decay had created a thick, organic film that clung to the man's skin. Jamie had seen death, had watched life fade from people's eyes. But this? This was brutal. Personal. Cruel.
Greaves spoke between camera clicks. "Advanced bloating. Stage two skin slippage. Livor mortis settled and fixed. We're looking at a time of death between thirty-six and forty-eight hours, maybe longer depending on water temp."
Vance crouched, her breath ghosting against the rain. "Fractured jaw. Blunt force trauma to the left cheek. He didn't drown. Look at these ligature marks. Manual strangulation. Strong grip. Whoever did this meant to watch him go out slowly."
"Defensive wounds, too," Lin added, her gloved hand gently lifting the corpse's arm. "Deep gouges under the fingernails. Knuckle abrasions. There was a struggle."
Greaves adjusted his lens. "And this—" he pointed to the lapel. "This insignia pin. It's real. First Division. Capital forces."
Vance stiffened. "Council protection?"
Jamie nodded grimly. "Looks like it."
The driver pressed on, current surging past roots and stone like it was trying to wash away the scene. The body bumped slightly with the movement but didn't shift—caught tight in the tangle of broken branches and twisted reeds. His once-pristine coat hung heavy, waterlogged, and stained with deep, rust-colored splotches where the blood had mingled with the silt.
The medals pinned to the chest clanked faintly with the river's rhythm, dulled and cracked, like relics of a forgotten war. One was split straight down the middle.
Vance leaned in, clicking on her flashlight. She pointed at a dark smear along the man's cuff. "What's this?"
Lin swabbed it. "Could be blood. It could be oil or dye. I'll run it back at the lab."
Jamie stepped to the opposite side and crouched. "There's something in his hand."
Rigor mortis had frozen the fingers around the fabric. Lin used tweezers to ease it free. It resisted. Then, with a slight pull, it came loose—a scrap of deep navy cloth threaded with fine gold strands. The weave shimmered faintly, even in the rain.
"Bag that separately," Jamie said.
They were all silent for a moment.
Then Greaves stood, knees creaking. "We've got what we can from the scene. Let's move him."
They unfolded the black body bag on the ground with a plastic slap.
Jamie backed away slightly as Lin and Greaves braced themselves. They rolled the body gently, but even soaked, it was heavy. Dead weight. Bones shifted under slack flesh. His feet, bare and white, dragged slightly, the skin beginning to slough from the soles.
The bag zipped closed with a harsh hiss.
Officers Ben Ortega and Lyle Darnell came down the slope carrying the stretcher. As they approached, their boots slipped in the mud.
"Got him?" Darnell asked. His voice was light. Too light.
"Yeah," Greaves answered. "Let's be careful. He's not holding together well."
Ortega snorted. "Maybe the guy was cheating. Took a swim and forgot how to surface."
"Or maybe his wife found out he lost the family savings at a gambling hall," Darnell added, smirking. "Classic."
Jamie didn't speak. He was used to this—deflection disguised as humor. But today, it scraped raw.
Greaves said nothing as he packed up his tools. He looked back once, muttering, "Poor bastard didn't even get to die clean."
As Ortega and Darnell climbed the trail, the stretcher wheels sank with every step.
Jamie checked his watch. Nearly an hour. Iris was likely already pacing.
He could imagine her now—standing near the door of her boutique, arms crossed, foot tapping, face unreadable but annoyed. She hated waiting, especially in the rain.
Vance adjusted her collar. "We'll take it from here. Meet us back at the lab once you've changed. You look like hell."
Jamie barely nodded.
He lingered a moment longer, watching the river.
The current had carried away most of the blood, but not the feeling.
Something about it still hung there. Heavy. Pressing.
He looked down at the mud where the man's head had rested. A shallow indent. The shape of a life ended.
Without a word, Jamie turned and followed the others up the path, the drizzle falling harder now, swallowing the sound of their steps as the trees closed in behind them. Not at the body. Not anymore.