CHAPTER 273: ECHOES OF JUSTICE

The precinct sat quietly behind rusted metal gates. No flickering bright lights, no sheen of polish — just a worn brick building showing its age. I paused at the entrance, feeling the same weight I’d felt two years ago, wearing the face of Mr. Dust rather than Mr. Fox.

I’d stood here twice before: once during the interrogation of Cipher’s accomplice, and once when Logan—later revealed as Cipher—burst into the streets and I needed backup. Both times, I’d been in disguise.

Today, I didn’t need the mask.

Pushing through the door, I was met by the low hum of chatter. Officers in crisp uniforms paused mid-step, eyes flickering with curiosity. It might’ve been my past or my title, but still.

I tucked my hands into my coat pockets and made my way to the bullpen.

Officer Grant was there — the same man who’d taken a bullet during Cipher’s last stand, the man I’d went into the forest with before losing consciousness and waking up in a stranger’s hideout. He’d pulled through, and it’s clear that time had sharpened him but not broken him.

"Mr. Vale?" he greeted me from behind a cluster of desks, voice steady. He rose and offered a firm handshake. His arm moved without hesitation now — no hint of injury.

"Officer Grant," I answered. "It’s been a while."

"Too long." He nodded to a nearby desk. "Last time I saw you were wearing a mask... Coffee?"

"Black," I replied, only half-joking.

He returned with two cups — the kind that never come from premium machines. I sipped, scanning the room. No old faces I recognized, which was a relief.

We stepped into a small meeting room, walls pinned with failed leads and cold case photographs. He closed the door behind us.

"Your know,ast time I saw you was... chaotic," he sighed, sliding into a chair. "You remember how tight everything was?"

I nodded. "Cipher was good. Always that step ahead until the evidence piled up."

He rested a hand on mine. "We’re still digging to make sure we got all buildings that he trapped, but I wanted to see you — not as the broadcast hero, but as the detective who helped bring him in. You okay?"

"I am," I answered. "Stronger now—physically, mentally, but... scars don’t just heal overnight."

He nodded with empathy. "Fair. But that was a chase none of us forget."

I studied the cluttered mug of coffee in my hand. The station felt... unfinished. Gutted of closure but alive with routine. Officers moved in organized chaos — paperwork, phone calls, surveillance footage on dull screens.

Grant cleared his throat. "So... about those posters."

I looked up. He offered another coffee cup to a junior officer passing by — a silent handshake.

"I’ve been putting them up," he said, voice low. "Wanted posters. No face, no name."

I raised an eyebrow. "In low-income areas?"

He nodded, leaning forward. "Yeah. I think there’s a connection between the kidnappings and burglaries in those neighborhoods. Most dismiss them as petty crime — random lootings, stray kidnappers who panicked and fled. But someone’s coordinating things. Someone’s using empty apartments as drops or traps."

His words landed heavy.

"What makes you think it’s the same person?"

His eyes locked on mine. "The patterns. Three kidnapping reports: all low-income neighborhoods, all targeting single mothers or kids. No ransom demands, no publicity. And burglaries: always hit within an hour of sunrise, selective — electronics, IDs, rare items. Not random. Purpose. We’re missing something."

I listened. My detective instincts hummed beneath the surface. Absent of disclaimers or skill triggers, but still... reacting.

"You didn’t want to go public with it?"

He shook his head. "Command didn’t want mass panic. Politics. Budget. They think it’s not worth it. I couldn’t just let it go."

So he took matters into his own hands.

I folded back when he said that. "But if you’re right..." I paused. "That person could be dangerous."

"Exactly," he said flatly. "And with no photo or name, at least we’re alerting neighbors. Maybe get a tip."

I set down the coffee. "Grant, I can help."

He paused, eyes searching mine.

"I can dig into connections, I have... resources now. Not mention that I’m still an S-rank detective."

He gave the slightest half-smile. "Thats the future World President for you. The best in a fields they participate in. You sure you wanna do it?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, I want a break from all this government stuff anyways."

He leaned back. "Alright. But tomorrow — I’ll share what’s coming in. Act locally first."

I nodded. "Fair."

He pulled a sheet from under a pile — "Three incidents. Kidnapping of single mother. Another where they grabbed a teenage kid. Local burglary. Patterns line up. All from this week."

I studied the list. "Alright."

He tapped the table. "Glad you came."

I accepted that I had to be back tonight anyway.

As I stood to leave, I saw the world beyond the small room again. Turning back, I asked, "Grant... let me ask. How are you doing? Mentally, I mean."

His jaw clenched briefly. "Better than last year. But... I still jump at sudden noises. My wife is supportive, but the kids are young. I can’t let them see fear."

I nodded. "I get that."

"Thanks for this," he said, voice quiet. "For being here."

I touched his shoulder. "Always."

Back in the bullpen, I quietly passed by desks. Nobody stared. Even in a precinct, fame quietly faded. And that was fine.

The poster question haunted me. Not because I thought it was me — Grant said he thought local criminal. But because it tapped something deep in me. That instinct. That faint signal in my mind that led me to libraries in the past. It was telling me to pay attention.

I stepped outside, the door clicking behind me. Evening was creeping in — the city lights igniting in waves. I spotted a similar poster pinned to a telephone pole a block away — torn at the bottom, corners curling.

I stopped.

Looked.

Everyone else just walked on by.

My eyes gazed on the surface:

WANTED: INDIVIDUAL POSING SIGNIFICANT THREAT

No photo. No name.

If you recognize them, report immediately. If you do not, trust your instinct.

My heart thumped low. Not fear. But recognition.

Not of the person — of the danger in the unknown.

...perhaps it’s time for Mr. Dust to return.