Why do certain case files get transferred to departments that don't officially exist, and what's behind the chief's reluctance to patrol the warehouse district? Which holding cells remain locked even when empty, and why do officers work overtime shifts they're not paid for? What's stored in that evidence room that requires multiple keys to access?
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― H.P. Lovecraft
Detective Silas Korven had worked the graveyard shift for three years, but tonight felt different. The precinct hummed with an electric tension that made his teeth ache, and the fluorescent lights flickered in patterns that seemed almost deliberate.
It started with the radio calls---reports of disturbances that led to empty lots, missing persons who were never actually reported missing, and witnesses who hung up the moment dispatch answered. Each dead lead felt like a piece of a puzzle Korven couldn’t quite grasp.
The evidence room door stood ajar, though he distinctly remembered locking it hours earlier. Inside, between the tagged bags and manila folders, sat a small wooden box that wasn’t listed in any inventory. Its surface was smooth, unmarked, and warm to the touch despite the room’s chill.
When Korven opened it, he found thirteen brass buttons, each engraved with a badge number. His blood ran cold as he recognized the numbers---they belonged to officers who had transferred to other precincts over the past decade. Officers he’d never bothered to follow up on. Officers who, he realized with growing dread, might never have reached their destinations.
The precinct’s walls seemed to pulse around him as he clutched the box, and somewhere in the distance, he could hear the faint sound of a radio crackling with voices that spoke in languages he didn’t recognize, reporting crimes that hadn’t happened yet.
As dawn approached, Korven carefully placed the box back where he’d found it, locked the evidence room, and submitted his resignation letter. Some mysteries, he understood now, were meant to remain unsolved.