《Predators in the Mist》


 Chapter 1 - A Rat鈥檚 Truth

    The sun rose gently over the horizon, reclaiming the celestial throne it yielded to the moon each night. Golden rays spilled generously across the sprawling forests and shimmering rivers, waking every creature to another harmonious morning. Birds lifted their voices in a symphony only they fully understood; deer trotted elegantly through fields soaked with dew, their grace unrivaled. Yet, beneath this daily serenity lay a darker truth¡ªthe predatory instincts of the world lingered patiently at its edges, silently waiting for the right moment to unleash their savage nature.


    Nature, in all its beauty and balance, was a constant dance between life and death. Predators lurked unseen, eyes glinting hungrily from shaded corners, ready to strike without hesitation, without mercy. This was the silent agreement, accepted by all creatures who walked the earth, flew the skies, or swam the rivers. But humans had long forgotten their part in this ancient pact, comfortable behind walls, believing they had tamed the wilderness.


    GreenTown stood at the precipice between the simplicity of village life and the complexity of becoming a city. Dirt roads, lined with humble houses, mingled strangely with newly paved streets where mechanical beasts¡ªautomobiles¡ªrumbled impatiently. Change was happening, undeniable and swift, but not without resistance. Traditions died hard here, clinging stubbornly to the old ways, refusing to yield to progress without a fight.


    But GreenTown was more than just a quaint village caught between two worlds. It was special¡ªpeculiar even¡ªfor in GreenTown, animals and humans conversed freely. It was a gift taken for granted, an everyday wonder that had woven itself deeply into the fabric of daily life. Humans chatted leisurely with their pets, consulted wildlife on trivial matters, and relied on animals for companionship, information, and advice. Yet, amidst this harmonious coexistence, one species stood apart: the birds. They remained perpetually silent, observing humanity with an unreadable caution. Their refusal to speak had long been a mystery to GreenTown¡¯s residents.


    On that particular morning, an unnatural quiet settled heavily over a modest house at the edge of town, overshadowed by ancient oak trees. This home belonged to the Hendersons, an elderly couple beloved by everyone. Known for their kindness and gentle hearts, their absence from their usual morning routine immediately drew suspicion from a delivery man who stood impatiently at their door, parcel in hand.


    The delivery man knocked twice, three times, the rhythm growing impatient, each unanswered knock amplifying his unease. Just as he considered leaving the package on the doorstep, a quiet, sharp whisper reached his ears.


    ¡°They won''t answer,¡± a tiny voice said gravely. The delivery man turned abruptly, expecting to find another person, but instead, he spotted a small rat staring upward, its tiny eyes sharp and solemn.


    ¡°They''ve become a feast for flies,¡± the rodent continued, voice disturbingly calm, carrying a cold certainty.


    He wanted to laugh off the rat''s words as a cruel joke. Rats, after all, were known for their deceit. But then, a wave of nauseating stench seeped beneath the door, confirming his deepest fears. Terror gripped him, and without another thought, he fled down the dirt road toward the town center, shouting desperately for help.


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    Within minutes, GreenTown had erupted into anxious chaos. Neighbors emerged hurriedly, whispering and speculating wildly as news spread rapidly. Before long, a cluster of townspeople gathered at the Henderson home, gazing anxiously at the tightly shut door.


    Sheriff Reynolds arrived swiftly, stepping out of his vehicle, brow furrowed with concern. Officers quickly established a perimeter, holding back the curious crowd now murmuring nervously among themselves.


    Inside the home, the grim truth unfolded brutally. Furniture was scattered and overturned; photographs once filled with happy memories lay shattered, glass fragments reflecting the sunlight harshly. In the middle of the room lay Mr. and Mrs. Henderson, eyes wide with a final, fearful surprise, expressions frozen eternally by death. Their cherished pets¡ªalways lively and vocal¡ªhad vanished without a trace, leaving only empty cages, eerie reminders of innocence lost.


    Outside, frightened whispers grew louder:


    "Who could commit such evil in our peaceful town?"


    "Perhaps it was an outsider?" a woman whispered anxiously, clutching her small dog protectively against her chest.


    "No," argued a stern voice from the crowd. "An outsider couldn''t silence the animals."


    Indeed, the strange silence among the animals became apparent. Birds perched silently on rooftops, eyes staring intently, yet revealing nothing. Even the dogs, normally loyal and friendly, kept their distance. The unusual quietness was deafening.


    Above them all, concealed within the dense foliage, an old owl observed the scene intently. His wise eyes narrowed with sadness and an ancient burden of knowledge. This owl rarely spoke to humans, believing their hearts often incapable of understanding truth. But today, watching the town he loved tremble under a shadow of dread, the owl resolved that the moment might soon come when silence must be broken.


    Sheriff Reynolds shook his head, clearly troubled. "Someone knows the truth," he murmured softly, eyes flickering toward the animals quietly scattered around. But none stepped forward to speak. The animals remained silent, their voices muted by fear.


    Later, in the glow of twilight, a young officer stood at the edge of the perimeter, watching silently. His name was Alexander Mason¡ªa local man, only three years in the force, but his heart carried a passion for justice unmatched by most. He wasn''t tasked with handling a case this delicate; such responsibility belonged to the seniors. Yet something about this crime tugged at him. Alexander felt the air thickening, a disturbing heaviness settling over the town, and he knew, somehow instinctively, that GreenTown would never be the same again.


    Darkness descended gently, wrapping GreenTown in its chilling embrace. Animals retreated silently into shadows, humans locked their doors, and the moon reclaimed the heavens, indifferent to the fear below. And in that cold silence, a chilling realization rippled softly through the hearts of all: the thin line separating humanity from savagery had been crossed. GreenTown had been invaded by predators¡ªnot the beasts of the wild¡ªbut something much darker, hidden among them.


    Two truths became undeniably clear beneath that cold moonlit sky. A brutal murder had shattered GreenTown¡¯s peaceful innocence, and, for perhaps the first time ever, a rat had spoken truthfully.


    The world was changing. Or perhaps, GreenTown was merely awakening to the darkness that had always lain beneath.


    Now, predators prowled openly, and no one¡ªhuman or animal¡ªwould ever feel safe again.

 Chapter 2 - No Safe Haven

    In the distance, the rattling of the tracks announced the arrival of the train. For years, that sound had been part of GreenTown¡¯s routine, marking precisely eight in the morning. Its arrival brought passengers from the city and saw off merchants traveling to the capital to sell their goods. The town¡¯s economy depended on craftsmanship and agriculture, but technological advancements threatened to transform that reality. The morning newspapers spoke of progress, urban expansion, and how, sooner or later, modernity would reach even the most remote corners.


    But that morning, the headline dominating the front page wasn¡¯t about technology or economics.


    Sheriff Reynolds flipped through his newspaper while stirring sugar into his coffee. The bitter, warm aroma usually accompanied his mornings as reliably as the train¡¯s rattle, but this time, none of his routines could erase the unease churning in his stomach. In bold, striking letters, the local newspaper¡¯s headline screamed:


    "MACABRE CRIME SHAKES GREENTOWN ¨C AN EFFECT OF PROGRESS?"


    Reynolds clenched his jaw. Since when were murders blamed on modernization?


    ¡°What nonsense!¡± he exclaimed, slamming the newspaper onto the table. ¡°A crime like this shakes the town, and the first thing they say is that it¡¯s progress¡¯s fault?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t blame them,¡± said his companion, Perkins, sitting across from him. ¡°We¡¯ve never seen anything like this in this town. Poor Hudsons¡­ dying in such a grotesque way.¡±


    Reynolds sighed, not responding immediately. The memories of the crime scene still clung to his mind like a persistent shadow.


    ¡°It looked like a nightmare,¡± he finally admitted. ¡°Anyone would think a wild animal was responsible for that.¡±


    Before Perkins could respond, the diner door swung open violently, and a furious figure stormed inside.


    The mayor.


    His heavy footsteps echoed against the wooden floor, and without a word, he snatched the newspaper from the sheriff¡¯s hands, quickly scanning the headline.


    ¡°This is unacceptable!¡± he bellowed, his face red with anger. ¡°I want everyone in this town interrogated! Humans, rodents, four-legged animals¡ªI don¡¯t care!¡±


    The murmurs in the diner fell silent immediately.


    ¡°If necessary, I want those damn birds to sing for the first time in their lives.¡±


    Reynolds pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the pressure of an imminent headache.


    ¡°That will be impossible, Mr. Mayor,¡± he responded patiently. ¡°We know that birds have never spoken to humans. Not even to other animals, except those of their own kind.¡±


    ¡°Nonsense!¡± the mayor growled. ¡°What privilege do they think they have? If dogs, cats, raccoons, and even fish can answer us, what makes them think they can stay silent?¡±


    ¡°Flight, obviously,¡± Perkins said disinterestedly.


    The mayor scoffed, crossing his arms.


    ¡°Humans can fly too,¡± he said arrogantly.


    The black cat raised his gaze with a bored expression and responded with a half-smirk.


    ¡°Yes, in iron cages that barely stay in the air.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not listening to someone who can¡¯t even open a can of tuna,¡± the mayor grumbled. ¡°And since you¡¯re here, tell me, have you discovered anything about our killer?¡±


    The cat yawned, stretching lazily before answering.


    ¡°Nothing conclusive,¡± he said. ¡°The domestic animals claim to know nothing. The Hudsons lived in the old part of town, almost abandoned. They spent their last days in one of the first houses built here¡­ no one usually visited them.¡±


    ¡°And the rats?¡± the mayor asked skeptically.


    The black cat let out a sigh, as if the question was a waste of time.


    ¡°They say they saw something¡­¡± he answered indifferently, stretching again. ¡°But you know how they are. They always exaggerate.¡±


    ¡°What did they say?¡± the mayor insisted.


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    The cat tilted his head with a mocking gesture before continuing:


    ¡°They claim to have seen a figure as tall as a bear, with eyes slanted like a fox¡¯s and a wolf¡¯s mouth. They say it had panther claws, sharp and black as the night.¡±


    The mayor scoffed, crossing his arms.


    ¡°Nonsense!¡± he spat in disdain. ¡°What¡¯s next? That it flew and breathed fire?¡±


    ¡°They didn¡¯t mention anything about flying,¡± the cat said with a sly grin. ¡°But they did say it walked without making a sound, as if the shadows carried it.¡±


    An uncomfortable silence settled over the table. Perkins raised an eyebrow at the sheriff, while Reynolds stroked his chin with a thoughtful expression.


    ¡°A typical rat story,¡± the mayor finally said with a dismissive gesture. ¡°They only exist to spread fear with ridiculous tales.¡±


    ¡°Yes, surely it¡¯s a lie,¡± the cat nodded with an astute look. ¡°But it¡¯s curious, isn¡¯t it? For a lie¡­ it seems the rats saw it far too well.¡±


    The mayor clenched his fists in frustration.


    ¡°Perfect!¡± he exclaimed. ¡°We have nothing. And meanwhile, a killer is out there, ready to strike again whenever they please.¡±


    Reynolds couldn¡¯t shake the weight of those words. GreenTown had never known fear¡­ until now.


    The mayor, with nothing more to add, stormed out of the diner with the same fury he had entered with. Before leaving, an aide approached him and whispered something in his ear. Reynolds caught two words before the door closed behind him:


    "His son returned."


    The sheriff watched as the mayor¡¯s silhouette disappeared down the street. He sighed, placed some coins on the table, and stood up. He still had paperwork to take care of, and with that in mind, he headed to the station.


    OFFICIAL REPORT ¨C SHERIFF REYNOLDS


    Case: Hudsons'' Homicide


    Date: 06/14/1952


    Report Time: 2:20 PM


    Author: Sheriff Daniel Reynolds


    <h4>1. Notification and Deployment</h4>


    10:23 AM ¨C An emergency call was received from a mailman identified as Thomas Wilkins. The individual reported a foul odor emanating from the Hudsons¡¯ residence, located in GreenTown¡¯s old district. The witness stated that he knocked on the door multiple times without receiving an answer, which raised his suspicions.


    10:30 AM ¨C A police unit was dispatched to the scene to verify the situation.


    10:40 AM ¨C Officers arrived at the scene and established a security perimeter. Additional support and forensic personnel were requested.


    <h4>2. Crime Scene</h4>


    Location: Hudsons'' residence, main street of the old district.


    Exterior Conditions:


    <ul>


    <li>


    Front door closed with no visible signs of forced entry.


    </li>


    <li>


    Windows shut; no signs of breakage.


    </li>


    <li>


    No movement detected inside.


    </li>


    </ul>


    Interior Conditions:


    <ul>


    <li>


    The house showed signs of struggle:


    <ul>


    <li>


    Overturned furniture.


    </li>


    <li>


    Picture frames shattered on the floor.


    </li>


    <li>


    Walls deeply scratched.


    </li>


    </ul>


    </li>


    <li>


    Strong smell of blood and decomposition throughout the house, most intense in the master bedroom.


    </li>


    </ul>


    <h4>3. Main Findings</h4>


    Body Locations:


    <ul>


    <li>


    The bodies of William and Margaret Hudson were found in the master bedroom, lying on the floor.


    </li>


    <li>


    Both exhibited clear signs of extreme violence.


    </li>


    </ul>


    Condition of the Corpses:


    <ul>


    <li>


    Both bodies displayed multiple wounds indicative of torture.


    </li>


    <li>


    Eyes removed; empty sockets with signs of hemorrhaging.


    </li>


    <li>


    Mouths sewn shut with thick thread, preventing an initial assessment of possible internal injuries.


    </li>


    <li>


    Clothing torn, though no evident signs of sexual assault.


    </li>


    <li>


    Hands clenched, possibly in a defensive attempt.


    </li>


    </ul>


    Status of Household Pets:


    <ul>


    <li>


    The family''s two adult Labrador dogs were missing.


    </li>


    <li>


    No remains of the animals were found, nor any signs of forced escape.


    </li>


    <li>


    Neighbors confirmed that the Hudsons were never apart from their dogs.


    </li>


    <li>


    Birds in the vicinity observed the scene but remained eerily silent.


    </li>


    </ul>


    <h4>4. Ongoing Investigation</h4>


    Autopsy:


    <ul>


    <li>


    The bodies have been transported to the morgue.


    </li>


    <li>


    A detailed forensic report is expected within 24-48 hours.


    </li>


    <li>


    Preliminary examinations suggest that the wounds were inflicted by a sharp object, though the depth and shape of some cuts appear unusual.


    </li>


    </ul>


    Potential Suspects:


    <ul>


    <li>


    No eyewitnesses.


    </li>


    <li>


    Nearby residents reported no unusual activity on the night of the crime.


    </li>


    <li>


    An unconfirmed source (rodents) described the presence of a large figure near the house. No evidence supporting this claim has been found.


    </li>


    </ul>


    Investigation Lines:


    <ul>


    <li>


    Blood samples collected from the scene will be analyzed.


    </li>


    <li>


    Merchants frequently passing through the old district will be questioned.


    </li>


    <li>


    The disappearance of the dogs remains unresolved and will be further investigated.


    </li>


    </ul>


    Provisional Conclusion:


    The crime exhibits unusual characteristics for GreenTown. The brutality of the attack and the disappearance of the dogs suggest a highly atypical modus operandi. The motive behind the murders remains unknown.


    Given the level of violence and lack of witnesses, the possibility of an attack by a wild animal cannot be ruled out, although there have been no prior reports of large predators in the area. As a precautionary measure, surveillance will be increased around the nearby forests and less-traveled areas of the town.


    Residents are advised to remain vigilant and strengthen security in rural areas, as the perpetrator has not yet been identified.


    Sheriff Daniel Reynolds


    GreenTown Police Department

 Chapter 3 - Buried Secrets

    The Stillwater River descended serenely from Bluecrest Mountain until it emptied into a crystalline lake that shimmered peacefully under the GreenTown sun. Everyone knew that if someone wished to chat with a fish, they only had to sit by the shore and wait patiently. Fish were not the brightest creatures, but they harbored an ancestral courtesy that was slowly disappearing with each new generation.


    There, by that calm stream, rested Alexander Mason. His morning patrol shift had been longer than usual since that macabre crime had shaken the heart of the town. Alexander absentmindedly dipped his feet into the cool water, trying to clear his mind of the horror he had witnessed days ago.


    "Who could be capable of something so atrocious?" he asked himself bitterly. He had been born in GreenTown, and for as long as he could remember, it had been a simple paradise where violence seemed inconceivable. He knew every inhabitant, both human and animal alike. In reality, they were only a few hundred, a quiet community where nothing extraordinary ever happened. Until now.


    As he watched the small ripples formed by his feet, Alexander reflected on how GreenTown was slowly heading toward modernity. The dusty streets of his childhood were gradually being replaced by gray pavement, and the sound of car wheels was beginning to drown out the peaceful trot of horses and their carriages. Would this progress inevitably be accompanied by cruelty? He shook his head; no, human evil needed no excuses to emerge.


    After a few minutes, he decided to get moving again. He had promised to keep this small community safe, especially now that he was expecting his first child. GreenTown was his home, and he would not allow fear to devour it from within.


    On his way back, Alexander passed by the Hudsons'' house, still cordoned off and guarded by other officers. The scene remained steeped in an unsettling tension, a strange, dense, and suffocating silence. The most striking thing was the unusual behavior of the birds that still lingered there, motionless, watching from the power lines and nearby trees. That immobility was strange, even disturbing. Birds never stayed in one place for so long, especially not near humans.


    Alexander recalled the many theories about these creatures. Some said they couldn''t talk, others swore they had heard fragments of conversations between them, and a few suspected they simply despised the rest of the land creatures for being unable to fly. The only clear thing was that no one had ever heard a single word spoken directly by a bird to a human.


    He stopped for a moment, carefully observing how those birds remained perched, unmoving, as if mourning deeply. For a moment, his detective instinct, cultivated since childhood through Sherlock Holmes novels, kicked in. With a barely perceptible smile, he murmured:


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    "Of course, now I understand. They have been so terrified by what happened that they forgot how to fly. Or perhaps they are silent witnesses, incapable of narrating the horror they have seen?"


    The gruff voice of Officer McKorny abruptly pulled him from his thoughts.


    "Hey, Alex! Could you cover for me for a few minutes?"


    "Something wrong?" Alexander asked, turning to his colleague.


    "I need to drop off an urgent package at the post office before they close. If Reynolds finds me away from my post, I¡¯ll be in deep trouble. I¡¯d really appreciate it, I won¡¯t take long."


    "Alright," Alexander responded with resignation, "but hurry up. My shift isn¡¯t over yet, and I need to keep patrolling."


    McKorny nodded quickly, disappearing in a rush toward the town center. Alexander sighed, hoping he wouldn¡¯t take too long. He felt uncomfortable being alone in front of that desolate house, still impregnated with the nauseating stench that reminded him of the brutality that had occurred.


    With slow steps, he began to circle the property. The old wooden house, with its worn-out doors and neglected windows, was one of the town¡¯s first constructions, now deteriorated and forlorn. Alexander gazed at an old tree in the small backyard, recalling his childhood, when it was still common to see squirrels, birds, and rodents peacefully coexisting in its branches.


    As he walked that improvised perimeter, he noticed unusual movement near the tree. A rat was frantically digging into the ground, throwing small piles of dirt behind it. Upon seeing him approach, the rodent stopped and stared at him defiantly.


    "Hey! You shouldn¡¯t be here," Alexander exclaimed, frowning. "This is a restricted area, a crime scene."


    "Who are you to tell me where I can or can''t go?" the rat replied defiantly.


    "I¡¯m the law in this place; animal or human, everyone must obey."


    "Go to hell!" the rat snorted before disappearing quickly into some nearby bushes.


    Alexander shook his head in disbelief. This was the last straw. However, looking down, he noticed something strange. The soil beneath his feet seemed freshly disturbed, forming a small mound right where the rat had been digging. His police instinct made him crouch cautiously, slowly moving the dirt with his hands.


    The smell, suddenly stronger, caused immediate nausea, but he kept digging until his fingers brushed against something hard and cold. His heart stopped for a second.


    It was them. The Hudsons'' Labradors lay buried, motionless and grotesque in their final rest. A wave of horror and sadness washed over Alexander as the world darkened around him. As he lifted his gaze, the birds, silent spectators throughout the day, simultaneously took flight, as if they had been waiting precisely for this moment to leave.


    The sound of flapping wings resonated violently in the air, leaving behind an absolute silence. Alexander remained kneeling in that yard, surrounded only by emptiness, now knowing with terrible certainty that the horror stalking GreenTown had only just begun.


    There, under the heavy silence of the evening, Alexander Mason grasped a bitter truth. Something darker and more dangerous than any animal had taken residence in his beloved town, something capable of cruel acts beyond imagination. And now, as the only living witness in that desolate place, Alexander would have to face it, knowing that GreenTown¡¯s peace might be gone forever.

 Chapter 4 - Rusty Comes Home

    The auditorium was packed. Excited young people awaited the sound of their names echoing through the speakers, nervous, proud, and ready to face the future. This day, marked by emotions and fulfilled dreams, was even more special for one young man in particular: Russell Toddman, a native of GreenTown, was about to receive his veterinary degree.


    ¡°Russell Toddman,¡± the solemn voice of the rector resonated through the speakers.


    Russell stood up, walking toward the stage amid scattered applause, his heart pounding. As he received his diploma, he felt that he had finally taken a big step toward his dream: returning to his hometown to help the animals who had been his most loyal companions since childhood.


    The rector concluded the ceremony with words that deeply resonated with Russell:


    <blockquote>


    ¡°Progress and knowledge have always gone hand in hand. Before me, I see not only well-prepared professionals, but also dreams, hopes, and the bright future of this nation. From the bottom of my heart, I wish you success and happiness in your lives. May this be just the beginning of great stories.¡±


    </blockquote>


    After the event, Russell quickly wrote a letter to his father to inform him of his return. However, knowing his own forgetful nature, he was sure he would arrive before the letter did. He grabbed his luggage and headed to the train station, his heart filled with nostalgia and expectation.


    Upon arriving, he asked a guard how to find the correct platform. With a tired smile, the man pointed toward a cat resting nearby.


    ¡°Follow the cat; he will show you the way.¡±


    Russell greeted him kindly:


    ¡°Hello, my name is Russell.¡±


    The cat, with deep eyes and a relaxed demeanor, calmly replied:


    ¡°Nice to meet you, human. Come with me.¡±


    They walked briefly until they stopped at the indicated platform.


    ¡°I suppose this is my train,¡± Russell remarked as he observed the tracks. ¡°Thank you for bringing me here.¡±


    ¡°You''re welcome. Have a good trip,¡± the cat replied before silently departing.


    The train soon arrived, taking Russell back to his home in GreenTown. During the journey, he watched familiar landscapes quickly fade away, feeling his heart race with the excitement of reunion.


    When he finally got off the train, no one was waiting for him at the station, but that did not discourage him. On the contrary, he took the opportunity to walk and rediscover his hometown. Many things had changed since he had left years ago. The dirt roads were now paved avenues, with automobiles instead of the horse-drawn carriages he remembered from his childhood.


    As he walked, he noticed that other things remained unchanged. The candy store was still there, with the same worn facade of years gone by. At the entrance, an old German shepherd lay asleep.


    ¡°Good evening, old friend,¡± he greeted softly, kneeling beside the dog.


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    The animal slowly lifted its head, its gray eyes nearly clouded by age. Suddenly, it recognized his voice and its tail began to wag happily.


    ¡°Oh, Russell, little Rusty!¡± it exclaimed tenderly. ¡°You have returned to town¡­¡±


    ¡°Hello, old friend,¡± Russell replied affectionately. ¡°How have you been?¡±


    ¡°Old age isn¡¯t very kind to me,¡± said the dog, letting out a deep sigh. ¡°Now I only rest; I no longer sell sweets as I used to. I can barely see you clearly.¡±


    ¡°Rest, my friend,¡± Russell whispered sadly. ¡°I promise to visit you soon.¡±


    He continued his walk and soon encountered other animals that recognized him with joy. A raccoon, sitting atop a pile of wood, waved at him amicably.


    ¡°Well, if it isn¡¯t young Russell! Are you really a veterinarian now?¡±


    ¡°Yes, indeed,¡± he answered with a proud smile.


    ¡°Excellent, finally we will have someone to take care of us properly,¡± the raccoon replied with laughter before disappearing into the darkness.


    He kept walking until he reached the central park¡ªa place filled with countless memories of childhood games and laughter. He carefully observed the trees, many of them unchanged, silent witnesses to the relentless passage of time. On a branch, he noticed a small sparrow watching him intently.


    Russell slowly approached and, in a soft voice, tried to greet it:


    ¡°Good evening, little one. My name is Russell, and what¡¯s yours?¡±


    The sparrow remained silent, staring at him with deep, dark eyes. Russell waited patiently, but received no answer. The seconds stretched into an eerie tension that felt eternal. For some reason, that silent gaze filled him with discomfort. A strange mix of sadness and alarm slowly grew in his chest.


    A firm tap on his shoulder broke the tension.


    ¡°But look who it is! Rusty Toddman!¡± shouted a familiar, cheerful voice.


    Russell turned, relieved, to find the smiling face of his childhood friend, Western Brooks, now an adult.


    ¡°Western,¡± he responded with relief, ¡°I just got back today. How have you been?¡±


    ¡°Much better now that I see your face around here. Come on, we have a lot to celebrate!¡±


    They soon arrived at the old cantina they remembered from childhood¡ªa place that had seen generations grow amid conversations and laughter. They took a seat and ordered whiskey.


    ¡°But if it isn¡¯t Russell Toddman! When did you return?¡± the bartender asked excitedly.


    ¡°Just a few hours ago. I think I already missed this place too much,¡± he said.


    The night advanced quickly, filled with stories, jokes, and anecdotes. Russell listened intently as Western, his best friend since childhood, commented on the changes in town¡ªdiscussing heated debates about the arrival of progress, technology, and the potential consequences for GreenTown. Amid laughter, Western suggested:


    ¡°Hey, Rusty, why don¡¯t you run for mayor? Everyone here adores you, even the animals respect you. You¡¯d surely win easily.¡±


    Russell laughed heartily, shaking his head.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t know how to run a town, let alone a city. Besides, I came here to fulfill my dream of becoming a veterinarian, not a politician.¡±


    ¡°Waste of talent,¡± Western replied with a laugh, though slightly disappointed.


    Hours later, as the conversation dwindled along with the whiskey, Russell finally decided to head home. As he crossed the central park again, he once more felt the silent presence of birds watching him from the shadows. He looked up at the trees, and there, high on a branch, he clearly recognized the old town owl, its deep eyes seeming to pierce him.


    For an eternal moment, their eyes met in complete silence. Russell vaguely recalled having seen that bird in his childhood¡ªalways quiet, always watchful. But that night, there was something different about its gaze: it seemed to tell him it knew something he still did not.


    Finally, the owl slowly spread its wings and disappeared into the dark night sky, leaving Russell with an unsettling feeling that behind that silent look lay a warning yet to be understood.


    The GreenTown to which he had returned was not exactly as he remembered. The changes went beyond paved streets or modernized shops. Something in the air was different¡ªa subtle yet persistent feeling, as if the town had learned to keep certain stories untold.


    Russell wasn¡¯t sure what it was, but it didn¡¯t really matter. He had returned by his own decision, not because of a premonition or an unnamed shadow. Now he had a clear purpose: to take care of his own, just as he had always wanted. Everything else¡ªthe silent gazes, the whispered secrets in the corners, the eerie stillness of the night¡ªhe would address in time if it ever demanded his attention.

 Chapter 5 - The Predator鈥檚 Smile

    "Officer Mason, let''s review the facts once again," said Sergeant Wilson, a black cat with a severe gaze, sitting comfortably in front of Alexander. "You claim to have seen a rodent suspiciously digging in the backyard of the Hudsons'' property, is that correct?"


    Alexander sighed, slightly uncomfortable with the idea of being interrogated by a cat¡ªalthough Wilson was no ordinary cat; he was Sergeant Wilson, a key figure in GreenTown¡¯s police force long before Alexander was born.


    "That¡¯s right, Sergeant. I was on patrol at the property when I observed the rodent disturbing the soil behind the house. As I got closer, it immediately fled, but when I inspected the area I found something... disturbing."


    Wilson slowly nodded, his large green eyes fixed intently on him.


    "Continue."


    "I found the bodies of the two labradors buried in the yard. The strangest part is...," Alexander hesitated for a moment, "they were missing their eyes."


    Sergeant Wilson tensed slightly, his tail flicking through the air.


    "Unsettling, indeed. A clear warning, or perhaps a macabre signature," Wilson murmured. "Tell me something more, Mason. Did you notice anything odd aside from the rat digging?"


    "The birds... they were unusually still, as if waiting for me to uncover the bodies. As soon as I unearthed them, they all took flight at once. It was as if they had been expecting that very moment."


    Wilson narrowed his eyes with deep seriousness.


    "Birds have always been strange creatures, but even they act oddly at times. Thank you, Officer Mason; you may withdraw. I will inform the sheriff immediately."


    Before leaving, Alexander couldn''t hold back one final question that had been weighing on him for years:


    "Excuse me, Sergeant Wilson, I''ve always been curious. What exactly is your role in the police force?"


    Wilson paused his self-grooming, observing the young officer with a mysterious smile.


    "My task, Officer Mason, is to maintain harmony between humans and animals. When an animal refuses to cooperate with humans, I step in. Who better to handle an animal than another animal?"


    "Never seen anything like that, Sergeant? Not even in the past?"


    Wilson slowly shook his head, now with a profoundly unsettling gesture.


    "Never, and believe me, I have witnessed disturbing things. But this surpasses anything I''ve encountered before. You may go now, Alexander."


    The young officer left the office deep in thought. Just as he was crossing the hallway, he heard Sheriff Reynolds¡¯s booming voice from down the hall, demanding immediate answers:


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    "Wilson, tell me what the hell is going on here!"


    Alexander discreetly paused near the door, listening intently to the conversation between the cat and Sheriff Reynolds.


    "Sheriff, according to Mason, the Hudsons'' pets were also brutally killed and buried in the backyard. It appears to be a clear and direct message," Wilson replied gravely.


    Reynolds let out a weary sigh, betraying all the pressure he had accumulated over the past few days.


    "This is worse than I imagined. Now we have not only human murders, but also cruelty against innocent animals. Do you have any clues as to who it might be?"


    "None yet," Wilson answered. "Mason observed that the birds were acting very strangely. I''m sure they know something, but..."


    "But they have never spoken to us," concluded the sheriff in frustration. "Damn proud creatures!"


    Suddenly, Perkins burst in, abruptly interrupting the meeting with obvious urgency on his face.


    "Sheriff, the mayor demands to see you immediately. You know about the dogs buried in the Hudsons'' backyard, and he''s furious. He demands immediate answers."


    Reynolds exhaled impatiently.


    "Of course he does. Bad news always arrives first at the mayor''s office."


    Before leaving, Reynolds noticed Alexander standing at the door and called out with authority:


    "Mason, come in."


    Alexander, slightly embarrassed for having been eavesdropping, entered and took a seat.


    "Sheriff, with all due respect, I want to play an active role in this investigation. As an officer, I have the duty to protect this community. I grew up here and know both the people... and the animals very well. I want to help."


    Reynolds stared at him for a few seconds, seriously considering his request.


    "Officer Mason, this case is extremely delicate and dangerous. You lack the experience..."


    "And who here has experience with something like this, sheriff?" Wilson interjected unexpectedly. "This case is new for everyone, human or animal. I believe we should welcome all help, especially from someone truly committed."


    Reynolds pondered once more, finally nodding in resignation.


    "Alright, Mason, you will collaborate on the investigation, but under certain conditions: do not make any reckless moves on your own; any clue or suspicion must be communicated directly to me or Sergeant Wilson. The murderer is still at large, and they could be more dangerous than we imagine."


    "Thank you, Sheriff. I won''t let you down."


    With an approving gesture, Reynolds left with Perkins to meet with the mayor. Wilson looked at Alexander with a hint of complicity.


    "You¡¯re brave, Officer Mason. But remember: brave does not mean reckless. Be careful, because this city we love is now more dangerous than you think."


    With those words, Wilson too exited the office, leaving Alexander alone with his thoughts. He knew perfectly well what it meant to get involved in such a case, yet the image of those mutilated dogs would not leave his mind. GreenTown was his home, and protecting it was a responsibility he felt more strongly than ever, especially now that he was expecting to be a father.


    As he returned to his night patrol, Alexander gazed at the moon shining high above, indifferent to the chaos on the streets. He thought about the birds and their strange silence, about the animals hiding secrets, and the terrified humans. For the first time, he clearly felt how the town''s peace had been stolen, violently ripped away by something monstrous.


    Outside, the streets of GreenTown slumbered in an apparent tranquility, but Alexander knew it was just a facade. Beneath the calm surface, dark secrets remained buried, patiently waiting for the right moment to emerge into the light.


    There was more than just buried bodies in that yard: there were secrets, mysteries, and shadows that were only beginning to reveal themselves. And he, Alexander Mason, would not rest until every secret was brought to light, no matter the cost.


    Because in GreenTown, not only was the truth hidden underground, but so was the danger¡ªlurking silently, ready to strike again.

 Chapter 6 - A Bird鈥檚 Watch

    GreenTown had existed for more than a century. It was founded in the 1910s, during a time when the country¡¯s economic prosperity drove many to leave the city behind in search of a life closer to nature. In those years, the countryside was seen as a refuge¡ªa dream attainable for those who longed to live off the land, far from the smoke and noise of big cities.


    Over time, many of these villages grew into small towns or became absorbed by large metropolises. Others simply disappeared, abandoned and reclaimed by the very nature they once promised to respect. GreenTown, however, was caught between these two fates. It survived, but without fully modernizing.


    This was hardly surprising, considering most of its inhabitants were descendants of the peasants who had founded it. From the very beginning, the vision was clear: to build a home for both rural and urban folks who sought to embrace nature rather than conquer it. Life in GreenTown always felt disconnected from the rest of the world¡¯s progress.


    The town was born on the banks of a mighty river that, back then, marked the boundary between civilization and the wild. The first houses were built along its shores, constructed of wood and stone. Over the years, the town expanded towards the nearby hills and mountains, yet it never lost that rural essence. Even today, walking upstream can lead one to the ruins of old structures that nature has long reclaimed. There, among rubble and roots, lies the true origin of GreenTown.


    As with any community, time brought growth. The arrival of the railway forever changed the town¡¯s dynamic. The tracks connected GreenTown with other villages and cities, facilitating the flow of people, ideas, and customs. With this also came tensions.


    The town¡¯s elders¡ªthose who remembered the original purpose of GreenTown¡ªviewed modernization with skepticism. To them, every new meter of track, every brick laid, was a reminder that their refuge was slipping away. The mayor of that time saw things differently. He promised progress and delivered it, but at a high cost. Machines arrived, cement covered the earth, and over time, the dream of coexisting with nature began to fade.


    It wasn¡¯t only humans who felt the impact. The forest animals started to reclaim their ancient territories, the very ones that man had dared to conquer. Where nature once reigned, cement now poured in, leaving behind only memories of what had been. Even the animals, which had lived in the town for generations, sensed the change. The tranquility was replaced by the noise and bustle of a city they had never dreamed of becoming.


    Yet there was one group that never raised their voice or showed any sign of discontent: the birds. Always watching from above, they remained utterly silent. They never spoke in favor of or against what was happening. That silence was a mystery to everyone, even to one of the oldest animals in town, Sergeant Wilson.


    Wilson was a Siamese cat crossed with a Burmese, with grayish fur and a penetrating gaze. He had been born and raised in GreenTown, and for as long as he could remember, the birds had never uttered a single word¡ªnot a song different from their own, nor a greeting, nor a complaint.


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    He even remembered asking his father about it when he was just a kitten.


    ¡ª¡°Father, why don¡¯t the birds talk like we do? Why don¡¯t they speak to anyone?¡± he had asked with the innate curiosity of a young cat.


    The old Siamese had paused for a few seconds before answering.


    ¡ª¡°I don¡¯t know, son. Ever since I was born, it¡¯s always been that way. My father and his father before him never heard a single word from those winged creatures.¡±


    It was a simple answer, yet it was enough to soothe young Wilson¡¯s curiosity. Still, the memory of that conversation would return to him at the most unexpected moments.


    But Wilson didn¡¯t have time to linger on thoughts of the past. Now, as an officer of the law, he had a job to do. He was on the trail of the killer of the Herdson family, a well-known family in town. The crime had shaken the entire community, and everyone was demanding answers.


    His first step was to visit Chop, a Great Dane who lived a few blocks from the Herdson residence. Given his size and keen sense of smell, Chop should have seen or heard something.


    ¡°Chop, are you home? It¡¯s been a while since we talked, old friend,¡± Wilson called from the entrance of the house.


    There was no answer but silence. It was odd. Despite his size, Chop was notorious for being a coward. He barely ventured out when his owner, Mrs. Miller, took him for a walk. And he rarely failed to respond when called.


    Wilson hesitated for a moment, but then he remembered his duty. As an officer of the law, he had every right to enter if he suspected something was amiss.


    He pushed the door open and stepped inside.


    ¡°Chop, don¡¯t tell me you hid on the couch again,¡± Wilson joked, even though no one was around to hear him.


    The surprise was less than he had expected. There, in a small handwoven bed made by Mrs. Miller, lay Chop, sound asleep. Wilson always found it ridiculous that such a large dog had such a tiny bed, as if his owner had forgotten the true size of her pet.


    He approached and brushed his tail against Chop¡¯s face to wake him up.


    ¡°Wake up, Chop. I was just about to call a mouse to come wake you up,¡± he said sarcastically.


    ¡°A mouse? Where?¡± Chop leaped up, visibly frightened. ¡°If Mrs. Miller sees me running from a rat again, she¡¯ll take away my dessert!¡±


    ¡°Relax, it was just a joke. But now that you¡¯re awake... I need you to tell me if you¡¯ve seen, smelled, or heard anything unusual lately.¡±


    Chop took his time. He scratched his ear thoughtfully.


    ¡°Wilson... you know those things scare me. I¡¯d die if I dreamed of mice.¡±


    ¡°Focus, Chop. This is important.¡±


    The Great Dane sighed.


    ¡°Well... strange, strange... Last night I dreamed I was a bird, flying. Can you imagine? Me, flying. It was the first time I ever dreamed such a thing.¡±


    Wilson huffed, losing his patience.


    ¡°Chop, I¡¯m talking about real events. Did you see any stranger? Or any unusual creature around here?¡±


    ¡°No, no, no... If I had seen anything like that, I¡¯d already be hiding. You know how I am.¡±


    ¡°I thought so. You¡¯re even more cowardly than I remembered. In the end, you¡¯ll be afraid of your own shadow. But listen: if you see, hear, or smell anything, get to the police station immediately. Understood?¡±


    ¡°Understood, Wilson...¡±


    The conversation seemed to end there. But just as Wilson turned to leave, Chop paled. His eyes locked on the window and, without saying another word, he bolted to hide under the couch.


    ¡°A rat with wings!¡± he shrieked in terror.


    Wilson frowned and looked toward where the dog had pointed. At the window, a strange bird was watching them intently. He wasn¡¯t sure how long it had been there, but its presence unsettled him.


    When the bird noticed that Wilson had seen it, it took off into the sky and vanished.


    Without hesitation, Wilson chased after it. Something in his gut told him that this creature knew more than it appeared. Perhaps, just perhaps, he was about to find the very first real clue in the case.

 Chapter 7 - The meeting at the station

    The night had completely closed in when Wilson arrived at the train station. The air was dense and cold, as if the moisture itself refused to dissipate. Each breath weighed on his chest after the futile pursuit.


    He had followed the bird for hours, or at least that¡¯s what he felt. They crossed the central square, where the streetlamps barely managed to extract any light from the worn stone; they skirted the dry cornfields, with their broken stalks like old bones; they passed in front of the police station, where only the drowsy silhouette of an officer scratching his neck in the half-light remained.


    The bird never lost sight, but it also did not allow Wilson to catch up. It flew low, brushing the ground at times, as if deliberately guiding him. There was neither hurry nor fear in that pursuit¡ªonly a game of patience. And Wilson, inwardly cursing himself, had taken the bait.


    But everything changed at the station. The creature suddenly took off and disappeared into the overcast sky, swallowed by darkness. Without warning. Without reward.


    Wilson stood still, stewing over his defeat. They had used him. He didn¡¯t even need to think much. It was obvious. He sank onto one of the wooden benches on the platform and remained staring at the tracks, his jaw clenched and his tail twitching with irritation. He felt his legs heavy, his body aching from the tension of having followed a shadow throughout that damned town.


    The station was deserted. The last train had long departed and no one remained. Only the wind, dragging dust and dry leaves, sliding along the rails with that hollow whistle that always announced solitude.


    Wilson closed his eyes for a moment. He wasn¡¯t trying to sleep. He just wanted to let fatigue pass over him for a few seconds. His breath came out slowly, as if the air weighed more than usual.


    The silence was broken by the subtle sound of claws sliding over the wood.


    ¡°Well, well¡­ if it isn¡¯t Sergeant Wilson in person. What is a cat like you doing here alone at this hour?¡± purred a voice laden with mockery.


    Wilson didn¡¯t need to look to know who it was. That damn voice could only belong to one animal in the entire town.


    ¡°Cookie¡­ How strange to see you here. Didn¡¯t you miss the train back to the city?¡± growled Wilson, not bothering to hide his irritation.


    Out of the shadows emerged Cookie, elegant and clean, as if the dirt of the world couldn¡¯t stick to his fur. He walked with that infuriating nonchalance of those who never hurry.


    ¡°The last train already left, Sergeant¡­ but tonight I wasn¡¯t planning on leaving,¡± he replied with a sly smile. ¡°The night has its charm. Although not everyone knows how to see it.¡±


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    Wilson scrutinized him out of the corner of his eye.


    ¡°You never do anything without a reason. What the hell are you doing here?¡±


    Cookie let out a short, dry laugh.


    ¡°Always so direct, Wilson. You offend me¡­ but you¡¯re right. I¡¯m not here by chance.¡±


    Wilson straightened up abruptly, his fatigue forgotten for a moment.


    ¡°What do you know? Speak already.¡±


    Cookie raised a paw, as if asking for calm.


    ¡°Easy. Not now. Not here. Before I tell you what brought me to this dump¡­ there¡¯s something else you need to see.¡±


    Wilson, alert, followed his gaze to a pile of old boxes where something small was moving. He frowned.


    ¡°What the hell is that?¡±


    ¡°A baby raccoon,¡± replied Cookie with a sigh. ¡°I found it alone, hungry and injured. It lost its family days ago, or so I suppose. It probably had been hiding in a carriage and no one noticed until it was too late.¡±


    Wilson looked at him incredulously.


    ¡°And you¡­ helping a baby? Since when do you care about anything that isn¡¯t your own hide?¡±


    Cookie smiled, but his gaze lost that mocking glimmer for a moment.


    ¡°Not everything is black or white, Wilson. In the city¡­ I¡¯ve seen things that you can¡¯t even imagine here. The misery over there doesn¡¯t hide. It crawls through the streets and clings to you like mud. Sometimes¡­ sometimes one gets tired of looking the other way.¡±


    Wilson mumbled something that didn¡¯t quite reach his lips. Cookie¡¯s tone unsettled him.


    ¡°Don¡¯t look at me like that. Even if you see me as a lowly animal, I still have some dignity left. I wasn¡¯t going to let the baby die out in the open. Not today.¡±


    An awkward silence fell. Wilson came close enough to see the small furry bundle, trembling, with eyes shining with fever and fear. Cookie covered it with his tail, as if he could protect it from everything out there.


    ¡°And so what? Did you bring me here to tell me that now you¡¯re playing adoptive father?¡± grumbled Wilson, tired.


    ¡°No,¡± replied Cookie, and this time his voice sounded more serious. ¡°There is something more. Something I heard. Something that interests you¡­ a lot. But not tonight. Not here.¡±


    Wilson frowned.


    ¡°Why the hell not now? What game is this, Cookie?¡±


    Cookie lowered his gaze to the baby.


    ¡°Because, believe it or not, there are other lives to save. You chase shadows¡­ I try to keep this little one breathing until tomorrow. Everyone has their own problems, Wilson. And in the big cities¡­ believe me, they are much bigger and much uglier than anything you¡¯ve seen here.¡±


    Wilson watched him in silence. Something in those words didn¡¯t sound like a lie. Perhaps for the first time, he saw Cookie as something more than an opportunist.


    Cookie continued, his voice lower:


    ¡°The truth¡­ I came because I didn¡¯t want the little runt to die alone on this goddamn platform. And because¡­ yes, I heard things. But I¡¯m not going to let it all out while he dies of cold. Tomorrow¡­ I¡¯ll find you.¡±


    Wilson stood still, weighing the response. In the end he nodded slightly.


    ¡°You¡¯d better not waste my time.¡±


    ¡°I never do, Sergeant¡­ never do I.¡±


    Wilson got up and, without looking back, left the platform. As he walked away, he thought about how easy it was to judge from a distance, how quickly one forgot that even the vilest animal could have its reasons.


    Behind him, Cookie remained silent, with the baby trembling under his coat. The wind blew among the beams of the station, carrying with it the dust and grime of a town that, little by little, began to show its cracks.

 Chapter 8 - A Cat鈥檚 Request

    Toddman Residence, Velgrado Street, at the intersection with Wilston Avenue. There lived the veterinarian that Cookie was seeking, hoping to secure help for the little raccoon.


    "Stay here, little one," Cookie whispered. "I''ll find the veterinarian to help us."


    The raccoon nodded timidly and disappeared into the overgrown garden, trembling yet obedient.


    With an agile leap, Cookie crossed the street and slipped through the old wooden fence. The paint was worn, and the boards creaked under his weight, but he didn¡¯t stop. He moved across the neglected, grassy yard and climbed the stairs, sniffing the air for any sign of life.


    The house appeared welcoming. The windows were large, the kind that allowed the morning light to pour in, though at that moment they only revealed shadows. Cookie edged along the wall and peered through the first window. It was empty.


    He thought that maybe the veterinarian would be in the kitchen, so he jumped again and clung to the next window frame. Inside, the housekeeper was preparing breakfast, her hands moving with the routine of someone who had repeated the same gestures for years. But there was no sign of Russell.


    "Still asleep?" Cookie thought with irritation as his eyes scanned the interior.


    He leapt once more to the window overlooking the living room. There, at last, he saw him. Russell Toddman was seated in his favorite armchair, the newspaper spread out in his hands. The headline read what everyone feared to see: "The Beast of GreenTown Remains at Large."


    Cookie approached and tapped the window with his right paw¡ªa sharp sound, enough to attract attention.


    Russell looked up, surprised by the visitor. Recognizing him, he calmly stood and opened the window.


    "Cookie... what a surprise. What brings you here so early?" he asked while holding his cup of coffee.


    "I''m here to request your services," Cookie replied bluntly. "I have a little friend who needs your help."


    Russell raised an eyebrow.


    "Really? And where is he?"


    "I left him outside, hidden in the bushes. I didn¡¯t want to bring him in without warning you."


    Russell sighed and took a sip of his coffee.


    "All right... let¡¯s go see him. You caught me right before breakfast, but what can you do... duty calls."


    Russell exited through the front door while Cookie hurried off to find the little one. Upon reaching the bushes, he spoke in a low voice.


    "You can come out, little raccoon. Help is on its way."


    The little one emerged slowly, ears drooping and eyes lost.


    "Oh... thank you very much, Mr. Cat," he whispered. "I really appreciate it."


    "You¡¯re welcome," Cookie replied gently. "My name¡¯s Cookie, in case you¡¯d forgotten."


    "Right... I had forgotten."


    Russell approached, looked at the little one, and knelt down.


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    "So this is our patient," he said softly. "Come on in, little one, I¡¯ll take you inside."


    He took out a small transport cage and placed it before the raccoon, who hesitated for a moment before entering. Cookie nodded reassuringly.


    Once inside, they walked back to the house. The housekeeper had already served breakfast, but Russell asked her to set it aside for later and bring him another cup of coffee.


    "Would you like something, Cookie? Or your little friend?" she asked.


    "If you have any tuna, I¡¯d love some," replied the cat. "And for him... some nuts or berries, if you have any."


    Russell nodded.


    "Bring him the tuna I got from the city," he ordered the housekeeper. "And check in the backyard; there should be some dried fruits stored away."


    The woman left without a word. Russell placed the cage on the table where he usually examined his patients and sat down in front of the little raccoon.


    "How are you feeling, little one?"


    The raccoon looked at him with fear, its ears trembling.


    "Afraid... it¡¯s the first time I¡¯ve spoken with a human. Are they dangerous?"


    The question hit like a stone. Russell opened his mouth, but it was Cookie who answered.


    "They¡¯re as dangerous as any animal," he said without embellishment.


    The little one shrank, almost on the verge of tears. Cookie looked at him and lowered his voice.


    "But they can also be just as kind. That... that always depends on whom you approach."


    The raccoon blinked, confused.


    "How is that possible?"


    Cookie sighed.


    "Because there isn¡¯t much difference between them and us. It¡¯s like asking whether cats are cruel or kind. It will always depend on whom you¡¯re talking to."


    The little one looked at him with a hint of admiration.


    "Are you a good cat, Mr. Cookie?"


    Cookie let out a brief, sad laugh.


    "I don¡¯t know. I¡¯m grey... and nearly everything in this world is. There are good and bad things, places where one prevails over the other."


    The raccoon pondered for a few seconds before speaking again.


    "You¡¯ve been to many places, haven¡¯t you, Mr. Cat? Is this... is this a good place?"


    Cookie hesitated. He looked around and then at Russell, who was silently watching them.


    "It used to be a good place," he admitted. "But lately... something is changing. Maybe it¡¯s becoming dangerous. We don¡¯t know yet. But for animals, it¡¯s still better than the city... unless you¡¯re one of those who were born to live in a house, like me."


    The little one lowered his head, thoughtful.


    "Could I... could I be a pet?"


    Cookie looked at him seriously.


    "I doubt it. I haven¡¯t seen many humans care for a raccoon until the end of its days. Maybe someone... with strange tastes," he paused and reconsidered, "Well... with very peculiar tastes."


    The little raccoon lowered his head, slowly chewing on those words¡ªas if that ¡°peculiar¡± was just a polite way of saying "no one will ever love you."


    It was then that Russell approached, gently placing his coffee cup on the table.


    "Not everything is as rigid as it seems, Cookie," he said in a calm voice. "Pets are not chosen by species... they are chosen by a bond. And sometimes, you don¡¯t know who you end up caring for until it¡¯s too late."


    The raccoon looked up, surprised by those words. Cookie snorted with a half-smile, as if it were hard for him to accept that the human had a point.


    "What¡¯s your name, little one?" Russell asked, crouching in front of him.


    "I... I don¡¯t have a name, sir."


    Russell paused for a second, then gently patted his head.


    "That needs to be fixed. I can¡¯t heal or care for you if I don¡¯t even know what to call you."


    He thought for a few seconds and smiled slightly.


    "I¡¯ll call you Ash. For your color... and because sometimes, from the ashes comes something worth keeping."


    Ash blinked, as if not entirely understanding the meaning, but he liked the sound of it.


    "Ash?" he repeated softly.


    "Ash," affirmed Russell. "And while you¡¯re here, that¡¯s what you¡¯ll be. A patient... and a friend."


    The housekeeper returned with the tuna and a handful of nuts on a small plate. Cookie moved ahead, sniffing.


    "You¡¯d better hope that name doesn¡¯t condemn you," he joked, though without venom in his voice.


    Russell barely smiled.


    "You brought Ash... so in a way, he¡¯s your responsibility too."


    Cookie stretched, downplaying it.


    "My responsibility ends here. Now I must go... I have a matter to attend to at the precinct. I can¡¯t miss that appointment."


    "Go in peace," Russell agreed. "I¡¯ll take care of him here."


    The cat turned toward the door and, without another word, vanished out the yard, leaving behind the warmth of the kitchen and the unspoken promise that, for a moment, things were in their proper place.


    Russell arranged the little raccoon on a blanket and sat beside him as the house filled with the scent of coffee and freshly served breakfast.


    The morning remained cold in GreenTown, but inside that house, for a while, all was calm.

 Chapter 9 - A Cat鈥檚 Decree

    The alarm sounded precisely at eight in the morning. By that time, Perkins had already been awake for five minutes, staring at the ceiling and mentally counting the seconds until the clock went off.


    When the buzzer stopped, he rested his feet on the cold wooden floor. His room was small and functional¡ªa single bed, a bedside table, a closet stocked with the same usual clothes: neatly pressed trousers, neutral shirts, and his clean uniform, ready since the night before.


    It never took him more than ten minutes to be ready. He dressed without thinking, following the routine he had repeated for years. At midnight he¡¯d fall asleep, at eight he¡¯d get up, and the cycle repeated without fail.


    As he tied his shoelaces, he polished his badge with his sleeve. He looked at it for a few seconds, as he did every morning, then put it away. He grabbed his comb and, on his way out, placed it next to his keys on the entry shelf.


    If Perkins had led another life, perhaps he would have been a surgeon. The idea of having absolute control over every movement and decision was appealing. But he was in law enforcement¡ªbecause someone had to do the dirty work.


    He descended the stairs of the apartment he rented from a relative. He didn¡¯t greet anyone. There was no one.


    His first stop was always the same: the corner diner. The cashier didn¡¯t even ask him how he was. He paid the exact amount for the usual: black coffee, a turkey ham sandwich, and the local newspaper.


    He ate breakfast standing, in silence. He took two bites of his sandwich¡ªjust enough to swallow half and leave one hand free for his coffee. While walking toward the precinct, he read the newspaper. Every day, the same headlines. Every day, the same quiet town.


    But now, the front page carried a different tone.


    "The Beast Remains at Large. Police with No Leads."


    Fifth sip of coffee. Seventh. By the tenth, he was already in front of the precinct. He tossed the empty cup in the trash and left the newspaper on the common table. He didn¡¯t like to carry things he didn¡¯t need.


    As always, he was the first to arrive. Or at least the first human. Because Wilson, that damned cat, already lived there.


    ¡ª "Punctual as always, Perkins," said Wilson without looking up, knowing that the only one who ever arrived on time was him.


    Perkins didn¡¯t respond. He left his jacket on the coat rack and placed the newspaper on the common table for anyone else who might be interested in reading it.


    ¡ª "By the way, Perkins, today we might have a guest. He says he has information about the beast we¡¯re looking for."


    Perkins remained silent. He went to the task board¡ªno changes, no new developments¡ªand sat at his desk, for he was the one in charge of documenting everything that happened, from the most absurd to the most serious.


    Soon enough, Officer Harper arrived, still with his eyes half-closed after a night of drinking¡ªa common sight from him. Behind him came Mason, always pondering whether one of his deductions would crack the case, preparing for his daily patrol. Others followed, and finally, the sheriff arrived¡ªthe last to come but also the last to leave. You didn¡¯t have to see him to know he was there; his demands were unmistakable as that brief calm began to stir.


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    The morning advanced slowly, dragging along the dense air left by the cold nights in GreenTown. Perkins reviewed the task board for a second time. Nothing had changed. Nothing ever changed.


    Until the door opened.


    He didn¡¯t turn around. It wasn¡¯t his habit. He waited, attentive to the sound of footsteps. They weren¡¯t heavy boots or worn-out officer soles. They were light, almost inaudible. As if the owner of those paws hesitated to enter or simply didn¡¯t weigh enough to be noticed.


    Wilson was the first to lift his gaze. He said nothing¡ªjust a slight grimace, an almost imperceptible gesture at the corner of his muzzle.


    Perkins turned his head just enough. And then he saw it.


    A cat.


    But not one of those stray cats that slithered through alleys or roamed the square begging for scraps. No. This one walked differently. As if the street were his own. As if the entire precinct belonged to him and the others were intruders.


    He stopped in the middle of the room. He looked around slowly, unhurried. He dedicated barely a second to each man, measuring and weighing them. He wasn¡¯t seeking recognition; he was seeking hierarchy.


    When his gaze fell on Perkins, there was no greeting. Nor was one needed. He simply measured him and moved on.


    The cat advanced until he reached Wilson and sat down. He didn¡¯t meow. He didn¡¯t speak. He didn¡¯t need to. He just waited.


    ¡ª "I knew you¡¯d show up," murmured Wilson, without bothering to greet him.


    Silence spread throughout the room. Harper, slouched over his desk, let out a hoarse laugh.


    ¡ª "And what about this one?" he said, his voice slurred from a hangover. "Did the circus lose its way and the cat came asking for a job?"


    Perkins said nothing. Comments like that were unnecessary. He just observed.


    The cat turned his head toward Harper¡ªa quick glance, enough to freeze him in his tracks¡ªand then returned his gaze to Wilson.


    ¡ª "You are not the sheriff," he purred, his voice deep and measured. "And that one over there," he indicated Harper with his eyes, "even less so. Your breath gives you away... and your poorly worn uniform."


    Harper shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing. He was out of strength.


    The cat continued.


    ¡ª "Not an office clerk either," he said, now looking at Perkins. "Those who sit upright and strive to appear as part of the furniture¡­ are usually the ones who take notes. The ones who listen more than they speak."


    Perkins held his gaze. He didn¡¯t blink. After a few seconds, he nodded¡ªnot out of courtesy, but simply because the analysis wasn¡¯t far from the truth.


    Finally, the cat turned toward the door.


    At that moment, Reynolds was crossing the threshold.


    ¡ª "And you¡­" the cat¡¯s tone changed, lower and heavier¡ª"you do seem to carry the weight of an entire town on your shoulders."


    Reynolds stopped. He looked him over from head to toe, then at Wilson.


    ¡ª "And this one?" he asked flatly.


    ¡ª "His name is Cookie," replied Wilson, in a quiet tone. "And he says he has something to tell us."


    Reynolds snorted. He removed his coat and placed his hat on the table.


    ¡ª "Then let him speak."


    Cookie didn¡¯t move. His eyes narrowed as he calculated each word.


    ¡ª "With you and with Wilson," he clarified, his voice firm. "Not to slight the others¡­ but what I know isn¡¯t something to be written down. Not yet."


    Perkins twirled his pen between his fingers without taking his eyes off the scene.


    Reynolds thought for a second and abruptly interjected:


    ¡ª "Perkins as well."


    The cat lifted his head, irritated.


    ¡ª "I said only you and him."


    ¡ª "And I say Perkins is coming along," Reynolds replied quietly. "Someone needs to document this if it becomes official. And if not¡­ forget it. But I¡¯d prefer for him to be here."


    Silence grew thick.


    Cookie held the sheriff¡¯s gaze, but didn¡¯t argue. In the end, he lowered his ears just slightly.


    ¡ª "As you wish."


    Reynolds turned to the rest of the room.


    ¡ª "Everyone else, step aside. Continue with your business."


    Without adding another word, Reynolds walked toward his office. Cookie followed, tail low but head held high. Wilson trailed behind them, calm.


    Perkins rose, took his notebook, and silently followed.


    The door closed behind the four of them. Outside, the precinct returned to its usual murmur.


    Inside, the real matter was only just beginning.

 Chapter 10 - The Offer

    "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.


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    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."

 Chapter 11 - Paranoia

    The birds did not sing that morning in GreenTown. They didn¡¯t chirp sweetly, nor did they trill gentle melodies like the sparrows or pigeons that once populated the power lines at dawn. No. Those birds cawed, harsh and hard, like rusty knives scraping over worn stones. It was a disquieting, dry sound that echoed in every corner of the square, bouncing off the old brick walls and sinking into the bones of those who heard it.


    Everyone in the square felt that cawing as an unbearable weight, a cruel, silent mockery from above. No one mentioned it yet, but every soul present in that crowd was sure of one thing: the birds were laughing. They laughed from their elevated perches, their bodies black and gaunt, their eyes small and bright like burning embers in the darkness. Yet no one dared break the heavy silence that had settled like a shadow at the heart of the town.


    It was then that Western Brooks appeared, staggering from a corner as if he had been wandering through nightmares for days. His pants were muddy, his shirt unbuttoned and wrinkled, his face pale and drawn. He looked like a corpse risen from the earth to torment the living. And perhaps, in a way, that was exactly what he represented.


    He stopped beside the old, dry fountain in the middle of the square, slowly raising his head with an unsettling tremor in his jaw. The town watched him with a mixture of expectancy and pity, for they knew Western talked a lot but rarely said anything that mattered. Yet something in the way he trembled sent shivers down their spines.


    ¡°I saw her!¡± he suddenly shouted, his voice broken and eyes wide with terror. ¡°I saw the Beast! That damn thing everyone speaks of in their homes but no one dares name out here! It wasn¡¯t a man, nor an animal¡­ it was something else! A huge shadow with eyes like glowing embers¡­ and it¡¯s watching us! It watches us like it watched the Hudsons before tearing them apart!¡±


    A chill ran through the entire square. No one openly admitted the existence of that Beast, but deep down everyone feared the same thing. GreenTown was a town that had grown too fast. Progress had come at the cost of something older and darker, something that slept beneath the ground and in the deep roots of the trees that were now being mercilessly cut down.


    ¡°It was us who brought her!¡± continued Western, his eyes wild, fixed on nothing in particular. ¡°Every damned tree we cut down, every stone we lifted from virgin soil, every new piece of cement¡ªit was all like calling her forth at the top of our lungs! And now she is here, stalking, ravenous!¡±


    The murmurs slowly spread, a rising wave of uncertainty and fear. Some hands clenched, seeking solace in the warm flesh of those nearest to them. No one moved. No one dared leave, trapped by the same sick fascination that had drawn them to the square from early morning, lured by whispered rumors, spoken hastily and with fear on every corner.


    And once again, the birds cawed, louder, darker, and someone finally uttered the phrase that everyone had clutched in their throat:


    ¡°They¡¯re laughing¡­¡±


    Then the silence shattered, torn apart by uneasy, trembling voices, questioning what those strange black birds¡ªones they had never seen before in GreenTown¡ªwere. They were no ordinary birds. They were not pigeons, sparrows, or swallows. They were living shadows, thin and grotesque, watching from above as if they had been waiting for that precise moment to appear.


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    ¡°They¡¯re not from here¡­¡± murmured a woman, holding her child close in despair.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never seen them in my life,¡± added another man, his voice broken and choked with fear.


    Western let out a smile that froze the soul of everyone watching him. A smile that knew too much, a smile that seemed to confirm all their worst nightmares.


    ¡°Of course they¡¯re not from here,¡± he replied with a terrible calm. ¡°They came with her. They are the heralds, the messengers who come to announce the arrival of the hunt.¡±


    No one dared move. Some began to pray softly, others made the sign of the cross. The fear was palpable, thick as a black fog that even obscured the sunlight.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you feel it?¡± roared Western, pointing accusingly at the sky with a trembling finger. ¡°Everything is waiting! The air, the earth, the wind! The Beast is already here, watching us just as it watched the Hudsons¡­ before tearing them apart!¡±


    A collective shiver ran down every spine, every heart. The glances turned paranoid, suspicious, poisoned by the words of the madman or prophet that was Western Brooks.


    For a moment, everything was silent. But as if Western¡¯s words had cracked open a fissure, the first voice emerged from the crowd, broken by fear.


    ¡°It¡¯s the sawmill workers¡¯ fault!¡± accused a trembling man. ¡°You were the first to cut down the forest, to awaken that thing!¡±


    ¡°What are you saying, you idiot?!¡± another shouted. ¡°We were only following orders! The fault lies with those who signed the permits!¡±


    ¡°The merchants, those who brought in those outsiders! They were the ones who brought progress to this town!¡±


    ¡°And you didn¡¯t say a word when you were paid well for the wood!¡± came a retort from another. ¡°Don¡¯t act innocent now!¡±


    Accusations flew like stones in the air. Names began to be mentioned, direct accusations, old grudges mixing with recent fear. Families who had known each other all their lives began to look at each other with distrust.


    ¡°And don¡¯t forget the Herdson¡¯s!¡± bellowed a man from the back, his face flushed with fury. ¡°They always thought they were better than everyone else! They filled their pockets with the lands they sold to the mayor and those outsiders!¡±


    ¡°Look at how they ended up!¡± spat another. ¡°The Beast ripped them from this world as if they were nothing! And that¡¯s what will happen to all of us if we continue letting the ones on top play with our lives!¡±


    ¡°The Beast comes because of the same old culprits!¡± someone shouted. ¡°Those who have been fattening their pockets while the rest of us swallow the earth!¡±


    Western smiled, showing yellow, crooked teeth, as chaos grew.


    ¡°See?¡± he spat. ¡°I didn¡¯t even need to come to tell you! You already knew¡­ you always knew. The Beast did not come alone. You brought her here¡­ with every brick and every damned coin that filled the mayor¡¯s pockets.¡±


    The name resonated like a dry toll. For a second, the crowd fell silent. And then, as if everyone had been waiting for that permission, the tide turned.


    ¡°The mayor!¡± someone screamed. ¡°He sold us out to the devil for four coins!¡±


    ¡°He promised us progress, and all he brought was death!¡± roared a woman.


    ¡°Let him come and face us!¡± howled another. ¡°Let him stand here and tell us what the hell he brought to GreenTown!¡±


    The entire square roared now, voices merging into one desperate, furious shout. The birds cawed from above, as if celebrating men¡¯s downfall in their own trap.


    The cawing resounded again, even deeper¡ªa sentence from on high. And at that very moment, GreenTown left behind what little sanity it had, plunging into the absolute darkness of deepest fear. It no longer mattered whether the Beast was real or merely a figment of imagination.


    Because now, the fear in GreenTown had taken on a life of its own.


    It had learned to walk alone.

 Chapter 12 - The Beast

    "Mason..." Reynolds''s voice came out rough¡ªnot 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¡ªthe 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¡ªrifles, 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¡ªcruel 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¡ªenough 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?" ¡ª "The mayor."


    "Who must pay?" ¡ª "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?" ¡ª "The mayor."


    "Who must pay?" ¡ª "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.

 Chapter 13 - The mayor

    The serenity of the office remained intact, as if the thick walls were enough to isolate the mayor from the rest of the world. Inside, everything continued its course: the soft creak of old wood, the dull sound of ice melting in a whisky glass, and Rachel¡¯s firm voice reading the day¡¯s agenda.


    ¡°Tuesday, meeting with the regional commissioner, sir. He wants the detailed report on the progress of the urbanization,¡± she recited without looking up.


    The mayor took a slow sip. The whisky burned his throat, but not enough to draw a grimace.


    ¡°And the federal permits?¡± he asked, unhurriedly.


    ¡°Pending approval,¡± Rachel replied, leisurely flipping through a folder of papers. ¡°The Smiths requested a meeting. They want to discuss selling their lands to the south.¡±


    The mayor sighed, sinking further into his worn leather chair. The Smiths¡­ one of the founding families of the town. Old, stubborn ones, the kind who still called the neighborhood where the asphalt now ran ¡°ci¨¦naga.¡±


    ¡°What do they want? More money?¡±


    ¡°They didn¡¯t say¡­ but it goes without saying,¡± Rachel responded, with that neutral tone of someone who could read between the lines. ¡°They say circumstances are forcing them to make decisions.¡±


    The mayor nodded slowly, unsurprised. Deep down, he¡¯d seen it coming. Urbanization had brought more than paved roads and light poles. It had opened the door to the inevitable: the end of a town that had once believed itself eternal.


    ¡°You know what I sometimes think, Rachel?¡± he murmured, not expecting an answer. ¡°That the worst part of this job isn¡¯t dealing with outsiders¡­ it¡¯s watching our own people give up. How they surrender¡­ and sell what they built.¡±


    Rachel remained silent. She knew he wasn¡¯t looking for words of consolation. He only needed to speak.


    ¡°This project wasn¡¯t even mine,¡± the mayor continued. ¡°It came from above, with seals and promises. And here we are¡­ watching as the very foundations of it all begin to crack.¡±


    The ice clinked in the glass, a small, distant sound.


    ¡°Should I reschedule the meeting with the Smiths?¡± asked Rachel, calmly.


    ¡°No,¡± he replied firmly. ¡°Let them come. I want to hear them. And if they decide to leave¡­ let them go in peace. I¡¯m not going to hold anyone here by force.¡±


    Rachel nodded. The pen brushed against the paper with that decisive stroke that characterized her.


    The mayor stayed for a moment looking out the window. Outside, the city went on its way. Cars slowly crossed the main avenue, stores opened sluggishly, and the air smelled of damp wood and turned earth.


    For a moment, he allowed himself to remember when everything was different. When he was a child and the town was nothing more than a handful of wooden houses, dirt roads, and a river running clean under the sun.


    ¡°Do you regret it?¡± Rachel suddenly asked, without looking up.


    The mayor smiled, without joy.


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    ¡°No. I just¡­ feel the weight of it.¡±


    Rachel nodded, understanding more than he had said.


    ¡°Urbanization always comes like this,¡± she added, almost to herself. ¡°First as a promise¡­ then as an impossible debt to pay.¡±


    The mayor looked at her with a certain respect. Not for what she said, but because she said it without bitterness.


    ¡°Prepare me another whisky, Rachel¡­ and leave the door ajar. The day isn¡¯t over yet.¡±


    Rachel rose without haste. The pen was left on the table, beside the agenda. As she passed by the window, she paused for just a moment, looking out at the street. It was then that she saw it.


    A gray shadow streaked across the courtyard with feline speed and, without warning, Wilson darted through the open window, clumsily landing on the carpet. Rachel recoiled, letting out a soft, stifled cry.


    ¡°What the¡­?¡± she managed, clutching her chest.


    The mayor sprang to his feet, frowning.


    ¡°Wilson! What the hell do you think you¡¯re doing? Breaking in through the window like a damn animal?¡±


    The cat panted heavily, its chest rising and falling violently. It lifted its head, locking its eyes on the mayor.


    ¡°There wasn¡¯t time,¡± it panted. ¡°I couldn¡¯t circle around¡­ I needed to get in, now.¡±


    The mayor gritted his teeth, furious, yet something in Wilson¡¯s gaze held him back. He hadn¡¯t come out of whim.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± the mayor insisted, his voice dry. ¡°What the hell is happening out there?¡±


    Wilson swallowed hard, his paws trembling from the effort.


    ¡°They¡¯re coming¡­¡± he finally managed. ¡°They¡¯re coming for you.¡±


    Rachel looked at him as if she couldn¡¯t quite understand.


    ¡°What? Who¡¯s coming?¡±


    Wilson turned toward her and then back to the mayor. He took a deep breath, trying not to collapse right then.


    ¡°The town, mayor. The square is packed. They¡¯re shouting your name¡­ blaming you for everything. They say you brought the Beast.¡±


    The whisky glass in the mayor¡¯s hand trembled slightly before returning to the table.


    ¡°No¡­ that¡¯s impossible,¡± he shook his head. ¡°Who is pulling them?¡±


    Wilson shook his head slowly.


    ¡°There¡¯s no one pushing this. It all ignited on its own¡­ Western Brooks dragged them in, but that doesn¡¯t matter anymore. The Beast, the dead¡­ everything is your fault now. They want to see you dead.¡±


    Rachel paled, but remained steadfast. The mayor fell silent, his gaze lost in the worn wood of the desk.


    ¡°And the sheriff?¡± he asked in a softer voice.


    ¡°He¡¯s doing what he can¡­ but this is out of control now,¡± Wilson stated. ¡°I saw them, mayor¡­ and it¡¯s not just a rumor or an impromptu mob. It¡¯s the entire town.¡±


    The office fell into a silence that seemed eternal. Only the heavy breathing of Wilson and the distant hum of the city could be heard, as if the world was waiting for the next word.


    And then, in the distance, the sound of a patrol motor broke the air, speeding toward the building.


    Rachel was the first to move, running to the window.


    ¡°It¡¯s Perkins¡­ and Harper is coming with him.¡±


    The mayor did not react. He seemed carved from stone.


    Seconds later, the door burst open and Perkins stormed into the office, his notebook clutched tight, his face tense and eyes laden with urgency.


    ¡°Sir¡­ there¡¯s no time,¡± he said directly, breathless. ¡°They¡¯re almost here. We have to get you out!¡±


    Harper appeared behind him, pale and unable to look anyone in the eye. Behind, a third young officer stood at the main door, a shotgun pressed against his chest and fear etched on his face.


    ¡°Which way?¡± the mayor asked, unmoving.


    ¡°The back alley¡­¡± Perkins proposed. ¡°Get up now. We cover you.¡±


    But no answer came.


    From the street, like the roar of something living and furious, the first scream was heard.


    Then another.


    And another.


    Rachel slowly turned toward the door, her face ashen.


    ¡°They¡¯re here¡­¡±


    Wilson¡¯s ears drooped. Perkins clenched his fists.


    The mayor closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.


    ¡°It¡¯s too late¡­¡± he murmured. ¡°They¡¯re here.¡±


    The roar of the mob thundered against the walls of the town hall.


    Perkins swallowed hard and raised his voice:


    ¡°Even so¡­ we must try.¡±


    But the mayor did not move. He knew in that instant: there was no escape possible. There was no salvation.


    The office filled with that heavy silence, broken only by the murmur of the approaching crowd, like a dark tide.


    And so, as the entire town converged upon the front door, the mayor of GreenTown prepared to face what was coming¡­ without heroes, without redemption. Only the inevitable end of a place that no longer belonged to him.

 Chapter 14 - Draft

    Not from an earthquake nor from the distant clatter of a train. It trembled from the inside out, like bones shaking when the body can no longer contain fear. The streets, which until a few days ago were quiet, predictable paths, now vibrated as if something deep and buried had awakened and was advancing from below, forcing its way through the roots and cracks, pushing to the surface everything that calm had long tried to hide.


    There were no bells ringing nor shots fired into the air, but the echo of the mob was worse than any alarm. It was a living murmur, a dense, muffled buzz that seemed to arise from every corner of the town. A deep, guttural roar, laden with pent-up fury, ancient guilt, frustrations that no longer fit in the bodies that held them. It was the town breathing in unison¡­ as if everyone shared the same inflamed chest of hatred.


    Windows closed in its wake. Curtains trembled. Locks were turned by trembling hands. No one wanted to look, yet everyone knew. No one wanted to be part of it, yet everyone was in it up to their necks. That human tide would not stop until something broke. Or someone.


    The square, which hours before had been a cauldron of shouts and accusations, now lay empty. Deserted, yet still vibrating. Like a body that had just let out a scream and had not yet recovered its breath. The dry fountain still stood in the center, a witness to another era, mute in the face of the present. The empty benches, the abandoned stalls¡­ everything seemed to await a denouement that had been foretold long ago.


    Above, on the power lines and rooftops, the black birds had returned to their place. They no longer cawed. They did not chirp. They made no sound at all. They only watched. With those round, shining eyes, cold as wet stones. They were mute sentinels, invisible judges of a sentence that was already being carried out.


    The air had a strange weight. It was not the weight of the storm, but of fury. A rough density, laden with hot breath and agitated respirations. Along the avenues, figures moved ever more compactly. People advanced with slow, rhythmic steps, like a single body beating with a common intention. Some carried sticks in their hands. Others, with work tools. A shovel, a pitchfork, an old machete forgotten in the barn. And there were also those who carried real weapons, rusty shotguns inherited from grandfathers who had once hunted in the now-felled forests.


    But the most terrifying was not what they carried. It was the way they carried it.


    Not as someone defending themselves. Not even as someone attacking. They carried it as part of their very being. As if violence were already a natural extension of themselves.


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    And everyone said the same thing. They repeated that name with the cadence of a dark prayer.


    ¡ªThe mayor¡­


    It was not a title. It was not a person. It was a beacon. A symbol. The figure that now condensed everything the town hated, feared, and no longer knew how to explain. It didn¡¯t matter who he really was. What mattered was what he represented.


    The culprit.


    The one who brought the Beast.


    In the alleys, stray dogs hid among the garbage and shadows. Cats merely watched from above, their eyes glowing like embers amid the dust. No animal dared to intervene. Even the rats, eternal inhabitants of the underground city, did not come out. Everyone knew that what roamed the streets that night was not just the town.


    It was something more.


    It was a monster made of flesh and rage, with a thousand voices and a single thought: punishment.


    On the corner of the old hardware store, a group argued at the top of their lungs without caring that everyone could hear them. There were no more secrets.


    ¡ªHang him from the tree! ¡ªone shouted, pointing to the oak at the west corner¡ª. Right where the town¡¯s festivals were held!


    ¡ªBring him out of his house and bring him here! Let him look us in the face!


    ¡ªEnough with the speeches! We want justice!


    Others, further back, only nodded. They did not speak. They only gripped tightly whatever they had at hand. A hammer. A log. A chain. Whatever was enough to make noise or break down a door.


    Some cried.


    But not out of sadness.


    They cried from impotence, from accumulated rage, from knowing there was nothing left to lose.


    From atop the hill, the town hall rose like an inhabited ruin. There were still lights. There was still someone inside. A few officials, an assistant, the mayor.


    And then, it happened.


    A shot.


    A single detonation. It was not known who fired it or from where. Perhaps it was a mistake. Perhaps it was a warning. Perhaps it was the desperate impulse of a nerve that could no longer hold on.


    It didn¡¯t matter.


    Because that shot was enough.


    It was the order that no one gave, but everyone had been waiting for.


    And the mob erupted.


    Like a violent wave, they surged toward the building. Shouts filled the air. Doors were pounded, windows shattered, glass broken, and wood splintered under the weight of bodies and fury. Smoke began to rise. Not yet from fire, but from a collective exhale, from stirred-up earth, from things falling and not rising again.


    The birds, from above, cawed.


    A single caw.


    Deep. Long. Like a war drum.


    The church closed its doors. The priest lowered the shutters and turned off the lights. No one would pray that night. Houses sealed their entrances. The youngest, those who did not yet know that mistakes have their price, went out to join the crowd. The others watched from the shadows.


    No one said stop.


    No one asked why.


    The Beast was no longer a legend.


    It was not an entity among the trees, nor a shadow on the rooftops.


    It was the town.


    It was hatred made flesh. It was the sum of every broken promise, every ignored injustice, every unexplained death.


    GreenTown had become its own executioner.


    And that night, justice no longer wore a uniform. It wore torches.

 Chapter 15 - Hiatus

    The sun rose gently over the horizon, reclaiming the celestial throne it yielded to the moon each night. Golden rays spilled generously across the sprawling forests and shimmering rivers, waking every creature to another harmonious morning. Birds lifted their voices in a symphony only they fully understood; deer trotted elegantly through fields soaked with dew, their grace unrivaled. Yet, beneath this daily serenity lay a darker truth¡ªthe predatory instincts of the world lingered patiently at its edges, silently waiting for the right moment to unleash their savage nature.


    Nature, in all its beauty and balance, was a constant dance between life and death. Predators lurked unseen, eyes glinting hungrily from shaded corners, ready to strike without hesitation, without mercy. This was the silent agreement, accepted by all creatures who walked the earth, flew the skies, or swam the rivers. But humans had long forgotten their part in this ancient pact, comfortable behind walls, believing they had tamed the wilderness.


    GreenTown stood at the precipice between the simplicity of village life and the complexity of becoming a city. Dirt roads, lined with humble houses, mingled strangely with newly paved streets where mechanical beasts¡ªautomobiles¡ªrumbled impatiently. Change was happening, undeniable and swift, but not without resistance. Traditions died hard here, clinging stubbornly to the old ways, refusing to yield to progress without a fight.


    But GreenTown was more than just a quaint village caught between two worlds. It was special¡ªpeculiar even¡ªfor in GreenTown, animals and humans conversed freely. It was a gift taken for granted, an everyday wonder that had woven itself deeply into the fabric of daily life. Humans chatted leisurely with their pets, consulted wildlife on trivial matters, and relied on animals for companionship, information, and advice. Yet, amidst this harmonious coexistence, one species stood apart: the birds. They remained perpetually silent, observing humanity with an unreadable caution. Their refusal to speak had long been a mystery to GreenTown¡¯s residents.


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    On that particular morning, an unnatural quiet settled heavily over a modest house at the edge of town, overshadowed by ancient oak trees. This home belonged to the Hendersons, an elderly couple beloved by everyone. Known for their kindness and gentle hearts, their absence from their usual morning routine immediately drew suspicion from a delivery man who stood impatiently at their door, parcel in hand.


    The delivery man knocked twice, three times, the rhythm growing impatient, each unanswered knock amplifying his unease. Just as he considered leaving the package on the doorstep, a quiet, sharp whisper reached his ears.


    ¡°They won''t answer,¡± a tiny voice said gravely. The delivery man turned abruptly, expecting to find another person, but instead, he spotted a small rat staring upward, its tiny eyes sharp and solemn.


    ¡°They''ve become a feast for flies,¡± the rodent continued, voice disturbingly calm, carrying a cold certainty.


    He wanted to laugh off the rat''s words as a cruel joke. Rats, after all, were known for their deceit. But then, a wave of nauseating stench seeped beneath the door, confirming his deepest fears. Terror gripped him, and without another thought, he fled down the dirt road toward the town center, shouting desperately for help.