"No I''m not going to waste time sugarcoating this," Cookie began, his deep voice dragging each word as though measuring the edge of a knife before use. "I''m not here with alley gossip or the whispers that the rats scurry about in the sewers. I''m here because I heard something last night that''s worth more than everything you''ve all scraped together so far in this damn case."


    Wilson frowned immediately, irritated, and made no effort to hide his annoyance as he interrupted.


    "Ash?" he spat like a spitball. "And now who the hell is Ash?"


    Cookie barely turned his head toward him, exuding a calm that only absolute contempt for another’s opinion can give.


    "That raccoon''s offspring," he replied without changing his tone. "Russell gave him that name. I picked him up last night. He''s at his place… alive, for now."


    The silence that followed that clarification was heavy, almost suffocating. No one uttered a single word, but Perkins, true to his role, lowered his gaze and jotted down the name in his notebook.


    Reynolds let out a short, almost imperceptible sigh.


    "Continue," he ordered, his voice devoid of inflection.


    Cookie nodded slowly and resumed with that tone that suggested he had no hurry to get anywhere.


    "The birds…" he finally said. "Last night, while the town slept and no one watched the sky, they let their tongues loose. Not with me, of course. I’m not so stupid as to think any would speak to me face-to-face. But among themselves…" he leaned forward a little… "among themselves, they don’t keep quiet. And I know when it’s worth standing still to listen."


    Wilson clicked his tongue, annoyed, yet he didn’t dare interrupt. Something in Cookie’s tone warned him that it was best to let him continue.


    "I heard them say it," continued the cat, his voice growing lower as if the words weighed heavier upon leaving his mouth. "They didn’t say ''a'' beast. They said The Beast. As if everyone knew what they were talking about… except us."


    Perkins halted his pen in mid-air, his gaze fixed on Cookie as if savoring every word before deciding whether it deserved to be written down.


    Reynolds rested his elbows on the table, his eyes fixed on the feline.


    "What else did they say?" he asked, his voice dry as cracked earth.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Cookie allowed himself a small pause before releasing what he knew was the hook.


    "Not much… but enough," he settled back, letting the tension take on flesh. "They said it had returned. That the massacre would break out again… like before."


    No one spoke. Not even a sigh. Cookie let the words fall like a hammer, then fell silent, allowing the weight of the phrase to settle into every corner of the room.


    "The wind stole part of what they said," he added with a shrug. "But I swear something to you… it didn’t sound like rumor or a drunkard’s legend. It sounded like those stories you hear as a kid and laugh at… until you start recounting dead bodies."


    Wilson snorted, fed up.


    "And that''s it? You come here to plant us with a half-finished story?"


    "No," Cookie''s voice turned into a tense whisper, laden with venom. "I haven’t finished. One of those damn birds… let slip something more. Something that changes this whole game."


    He turned just slightly toward Perkins and Reynolds.


    "They mentioned the place where the next crime will be committed."


    The pen in Perkins''s hand trembled for the first time. The silence was so thick anyone would have sworn time itself had stopped.


    "Where?" Reynolds’s voice was little more than a grunt.


    Cookie smiled, a slow, dark smirk.


    "Ah…" he purred, "that''s where my favorite part begins. Because that information… comes with a price."


    Reynolds clenched his jaw but didn’t move. The tension in the room tightened like a noose around their necks.


    Wilson straightened up, his eyes as sharp as blades.


    "We''re not here to negotiate with a city cat," he snapped. "If you''ve got something useful, spit it out. If not, get out the way you came in."


    Cookie laughed slowly, a hoarse and empty sound.


    "Sure…" he said, "because the life of two old has-beens in some random house was a priority, wasn’t it? But now… now we have business."


    Perkins lowered his gaze but did not let go of the pen. It wasn’t his war.


    Reynolds rubbed his face with his hands, tired, his voice laden with a weariness he couldn’t hide.


    "I''m not going to get my hands dirty with your deals, Cookie. Nor am I going to sell this town to a cat who doesn’t even have the nerve to live here."


    Cookie shrugged, as if none of that mattered.


    "It''s not for me," he clarified. "It''s for my owner. But that doesn’t change anything… The one who keeps looking back as if the past will save him is going to end up buried in his own land."


    Wilson opened his mouth to retort, but then the door burst open.


    Harper stormed into the room, agitated, his eyes red and glassy from the hangover still gripping his skull.


    "Sheriff…" he spat in a broken voice. "They need you to come. Now. The square… it’s filling with people. There’s a commotion. They say there’s… something weird."


    Reynolds sprang to his feet as if he had been waiting for that very excuse to end this damn game.


    "Perkins, with me. Mason too. Let’s go!"


    Wilson stayed in his place, his eyes fixed on Cookie.


    "And you?" he asked disdainfully. "Aren’t you coming to see what’s happening?"


    Cookie stretched lazily, his tail sketching through the air as if nothing mattered.


    "I''ve got my own business, Wilson," he finally said. "I''ve spent more time here than I should have. If you care about what I know… you already know where to find me."


    Wilson grunted but said no more. He just watched as Cookie turned and, with the inherent elegance of his kind, slipped out the back door.


    "Good luck with your Beast…" the cat murmured before disappearing through the rear exit.


    And so the room was left. Empty, smelling of cold coffee and that damned promise no one wanted to sign… but that, sooner or later, someone would be forced to collect."