"Mason..." Reynolds''s voice came out rough—not so much from the cold as from the tension. "What the hell is going on here?"


    Alexander Mason turned slowly. The square before him still vibrated like a swarm on the verge of exploding. Shouts cut through the air, and high above, black birds echoed a dry, cruel caw that pierced to the bone.


    "Fear, sir..." Mason replied, jaw clenched. "Western was the spark... and now everyone wants to lynch the mayor."


    Reynolds muttered a curse under his breath as his gaze swept the area.


    "Where the hell is Harper?"


    Mason nodded toward the side with his chin. Harper was huddled next to the bushes surrounding the central square, retching with dry heaves, lost in the collective panic that had gripped the place.


    He had sunk into that fear like a child overwhelmed by a world too vast to comprehend.


    "Harper, damn it..." Reynolds spat, his mind racing through what needed to be done before the mob descended upon them.


    Perkins, ever meticulous, closed his notebook and approached with his head bowed. He dared not speak aloud—the air was so charged that one extra word might set the square off. Leaning in, he whispered something into the sheriff''s ear.


    Reynolds listened, took a deep breath, and nodded with the look of someone who knew there was no room for error.


    "Wilson..." his voice came out like a final order. "Go get the mayor. Now. Tell him what''s happening and have him ready... the people are coming for him."


    The "cat" nodded silently and slipped through the crowd, moving as agilely as a shadow unnoticed amid the tumult.


    "Perkins... Harper," Reynolds continued, turning without losing his resolve. "Head to the station. Bring whatever you have, whatever you can find—rifles, shotguns, flashlights... anything. And if you see the other officers, I want them in the car and at the mayor''s house in ten minutes."


    Perkins swallowed hard and nodded, knowing that the line between control and disaster was now as thin as a nearly snapped thread.


    "Mason..." Reynolds fixed his gaze on him. "You''re coming with me. We''re going to try to calm this shit down before any blood is shed."


    Mason nodded but did not move immediately. For a moment, his gaze drifted over the mass of people roaring before them. The violence wasn’t in the air... it was already in every one of those faces.


    And he knew it. He felt it with that certainty that sometimes crept up like a chill down the spine: if someone didn’t step in, GreenTown would never be the same again.


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    "Let’s go..." he murmured more to himself than to the sheriff. "Or this will drag us all down."


    And so, the two plunged into the tide, while the wind carried the dry cawing of birds—cruel witnesses to what was about to unfold.


    Mason and Reynolds advanced to the old dry fountain, where Western Brooks still stood, trembling, his eyes vacant and his mouth twisted in an expression that was neither a smile nor a cry, but a poisonous blend of both.


    The icy wind carried the sour smell of sweat and disturbed earth. The entire square seemed to hold its breath.


    "Western!" Reynolds roared. "Enough of this shit! Lower your voice before this gets out of hand!"


    Western slowly raised his head, as if the words reached him from far away. His vacant stare granted him one more second of silence from the crowd, but then he let out a hollow, broken laugh.


    "Enough?" he spat in a rough voice. "Enough, you say? Now you want to silence me... when death already walks among us? Now?"


    "You''re drunk, Western," murmured Mason, raising his hands in a calming gesture. "You don''t know what you''re saying. Look around... you''re going to drag everyone to hell."


    Western looked at him, and for a moment, a spark of sanity flashed in his eyes.


    "Of course I know what I''m saying..." he whispered. "Because I saw it! I saw that thing watching us! And it wasn’t a man, or an animal! It was something else!" He turned back to the square. "Tell me, don’t you feel it? Don’t you hear it? That damned thing laughs at us... laughs because it knows we are broken."


    "Western, listen to me..." Mason tried again. "You''re not gaining anything by this. If you want justice, let us do our job."


    "Justice?" Western spun around abruptly, his face contorted. "What justice, damn it? Yours, Mason? The sheriff''s, who buries everything under paperwork? That mayor''s, the damn mayor who sold us out like cattle?!"


    The name hung in the air like a shot.


    Reynolds clenched his fists.


    "I warn you, Western... do not cross that line."


    "What line, sheriff?" Western''s laugh broke. "The one the Hudsons crossed before dying like dogs? Or the one we all crossed the day we let this town turn into a cesspool?"


    The people began to move. Just a step, a brush of shoulders—enough for the tension to snap like a dry twig.


    Western surveyed the crowd and then dropped the final spark:


    "Who brought the Beast to GreenTown?" His voice was no longer a shout; it was a whisper that cut into everyone''s flesh.


    A murmur answered back. First faint, barely a rustle in the air.


    "The mayor..."


    "Who must pay?" Western insisted, his eyes gleaming with madness.


    "The mayor..." the chant grew, fueled by fear and hatred.


    Reynolds stepped forward.


    "Enough! This ends here!"


    But no one listened.


    The voice of the mob grew louder, multiplied.


    "Who brought the Beast?" — "The mayor."


    "Who must pay?" — "The mayor."


    Mason felt his heart pounding in his chest.


    "Sheriff..." he whispered, barely audible. "We''ve lost control."


    Western turned to them one last time.


    "You don''t understand..." he said, almost sadly. "This is no longer mine... nor yours. This belongs to the people. And the people want blood."


    The chant became unstoppable.


    A dark prayer. A judgment without judge or law.


    "Who brought the Beast?" — "The mayor."


    "Who must pay?" — "The mayor."


    The tide broke. The mob surged forward.


    Mason closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at Reynolds.


    "What do we do?"


    "Follow them," growled the sheriff. "If someone''s going to die today... we''ll see it with our own eyes."


    And so, while the black birds cawed overhead, GreenTown marched toward its own abyss.