Chapter 16: "Don't Worry, Officer, You Don't Need to Worry About Little Old Me!"
Crimson and amber leaves clung to the branches overhead, fluttering in the breeze like the season's final breath. Summer was on its way out.
A middle-aged man with dark skin, a black mustache, and a navy suit walked briskly toward the old police station. His posture was upright, his pace quick. As he eyed the dark clouds overhead, he muttered, "Looks like it'll rain," before pulling open the station door.
Inside, the station was bustling. Officers crowded around the wrecked evidence room, where files lay scattered across the floor. Some were even photographing the scene, while others were sleuthing the area for possible DNA evidence. The whole area buzzed with tense voices and quiet urgency.
"Detective Clifford," the frizzy-haired receptionist greeted, barely keeping her eyes off the commotion.
"Morning," Clifford muttered, his brows furrowing as he scanned the mess.
"What happened here?" he asked in a low voice, his gaze drifting from the scattered folders to the open door of the evidence room.
The receptionist pushed her glasses up her nose. "Someone broke into the evidence room. It's such a mess, we're still figuring out what's missing. He was dressed like one of our guys—just walked in and went straight for it. Then we found out the coroner's office got hit too."
Her eyes glittered with the thrill of drama, as if this were her neighbor's affair scandal, not a crime scene.
Clifford's body tensed. He straightened, his face growing solemn, and made his way across the station toward a middle-aged woman with tanned skin and black hair pulled into a slick bun.
"Chief Diaz," he called.
"Henry," she acknowledged with a nod. "I need you in my office. Now."
She gestured toward her door and started walking. Clifford followed without a word. Once inside, Chief Diaz shut the door firmly behind them and dropped into her chair. Clifford took the seat opposite her.
"Tell me what's going on," Clifford said the moment the door clicked shut.
Diaz leaned back in her chair, tapping a pen against the armrest. A few seconds of silence passed before she answered.
"You saw the mess. That's just the surface."
Clifford gave a grim nod. "Yeah, Tammy said it was bad. But why hit the coroner too? What the hell were they looking for?"
Diaz sighed and tilted her head back. When she looked at him again, her eyes were sharp.
"Everything we had on the gunman you shot the other day—reports, forensics, witness logs—it's all gone. The rest of the chaos? Just noise to cover the real goal. Even the digital backups were wiped clean."
Clifford's face drained of color. "Wait—are you serious?" He jolted forward in his seat.
"I'm dead serious," Diaz said, her mouth set in a tight line. She exhaled heavily, then leaned in. "Henry, I'm telling you this not just because it's your case. You need to be careful. There were at least twelve people here last night, and every single one of them was knocked out."
Clifford's grip tightened on the arms of his chair.
"They started subtle. Same build, same face as one of our rookies—wore one of our uniforms like it was his own. The only reason we caught it was because that rookie was out on patrol. His partner and his body cam backed it up. But the impersonator couldn't get into the evidence room without a key. So he had to find another way."
Diaz's voice dropped.
"Assistant Chief Bernall spotted him off-route and asked where his partner was. That's when the guy dropped the act and knocked Bernall out cold—with some kind of sleeping agent. Then he flooded the whole station with it. It was sloppy—but it worked. He took out almost everyone. And he did it inside a police station without blinking. He wrecked the place and left before anyone could wake back up."
She leaned forward, voice low and steady.
"Someone's trying to erase every trace of what happened that night—and they didn't care what lines they had to cross to do it. Worst part is, they did all that in under ten minutes. Henry, it's just you and the boy now. You're all that's left. And if they've come this far to cover their tracks, don't think for a second they'll stop there."
Clifford sat dazed for a few moments. "I understand. I need to let Elias know," he said finally, exhaling a sigh. Diaz simply nodded and gestured toward the door. Clifford left with quick steps.
---
A black SUV sped down the highway, slicing through the city's edge, not even slowing for the slick roads. Rain beat against the windshield in heavy sheets.
Behind the wheel sat a beautiful man with red hair tied back in a ponytail. His posture was relaxed—but his face was anything but.
"Useless damn pig," Chameleon muttered with a scowl. "If you're gonna be a pig, at least be a useful one. Couldn't even keep the big boss busy for a full day."
In the backseat sat Jackal's corpse, cold and motionless. Chameleon had disguised it as an old woman—satisfying a small bit of his pettiness—and buckled it in to make it look like a sleeping passenger. He'd even embalmed the body to slow the decaying process and sprayed it with copious amounts of old-lady-branded perfume to mask the smell. It was far more effective than transporting the body in a coffin. After all, who would suspect a snoozing grandmother of being a dead criminal?
Chameleon hadn't planned on this. Originally, he'd hoped to keep busy with a new mission—anything to avoid being summoned by Sable. But not long after his release, Sable had contacted him directly, ordering him to retrieve Jackal's body and erase all evidence of the attack on Elias.
And he'd been given less than a day.
As someone who prided himself on precision and planning, the rushed deadline made Chameleon's skin crawl. It was as if Sable wanted to make things difficult.
He usually spent days studying his targets, infiltrating silently, perfectly. This time, he hadn't even had the chance to properly study the man whose face he'd borrowed—let alone secure a working keycard.
In the end, he'd created a huge mess that could've been entirely avoided with proper preparation. He had never been this sloppy on a job. Chameleon prided himself on near-perfectly executed missions. After all, those with flawless records got more jobs—and more jobs meant more money. If it weren't for the enormous payout and the fact that Sable was the guild's leader, he would've blacklisted him as a client.
Honestly, he didn't understand why Sable insisted on retrieving Jackal's body. On paper, Jackal looked skilled—maybe even talented—but Chameleon, like many others, knew better. Jackal's actual performance as an assassin was atrocious. He was routinely assigned easy, low-risk assignments, yet even with the bar set low, his results were consistently subpar. Most believed someone was pulling strings to cover for him. And now, with a direct order from Sable himself, Chameleon was starting to see who'd been cleaning up Jackal's messes all along.
He didn't understand why, though.
No one could blame Chameleon—or anyone else—for failing to suspect the familial connection between Sable and Jackal. Sable was a legendary prodigy who, if not for his injury, would have long since become a Bronze-tier or even a Silver-tier powerhouse. Even with his potential crippled, he was cunning enough to claw his way to the top and become the guild's leader. He had always lived a solitary life. There was never a woman by his side. The ones used to satisfy his urges were discarded and killed without a second thought. So how could there possibly be a child?
And Jackal? He hadn't inherited his father's talent—or his cunning. He hadn't even inherited Sable's good looks. How could anyone have known they were related? No one would associate a genius with an absolute failure.
For a man like Sable—secretive, merciless, and willing to kill his own brother for power—affection had always seemed out of character. And yet, the lengths he went to for Jackal suggested that his heart might actually hold the capacity for great love. For people who knew him, "fatherly affection" was the last phrase they'd ever associate with him.
Symphony No. 5 began playing in the car. Chameleon sighed and pulled out his ringing phone.
"Big boss," he answered politely.
"You done?" Sable's voice rumbled through the speaker.
"Yes, sir. I'm en route to the pickup point. It got a little messy, but I promise—there's nothing for the police to trace," Chameleon said with a bright, practiced smile. He heard a snort on the other end.
"I don't give a damn how it went. Just tell me you got what I asked for," Sable snapped.
Chameleon grinned wider, mentally wiping sweat from his brow. "Then you'll be pleased to hear I've got the body, and every scrap of physical evidence is gone—just like you wanted."
"And the file on the officer who killed Jackal?"
"Yes, sir! It's in the seat next to me. I'll hand it to you once I'm back at base."
"No. Bring it to the pickup point. I'm flying the chopper myself."
"Oh—you're picking me up, sir? What an honor!" Chameleon said, surprised—and a little panicked. He nearly swerved before catching himself. His gaze flicked to the rearview mirror and landed on Jackal's corpse. Right. 'Better strip off the grandma disguise before we land,' he thought grimly.
"I'll have it ready for you then, sir," he said aloud.
"Good. They're probably on high alert right now, so we're holding off on going after the kid and that officer. Let 'em relax. Once they drop their guard, we move in. The longer they think they're safe, the cleaner the kill," Sable said coolly.
"Smart plan, sir. I prefer it that way, honestly," Chameleon said with genuine relief. A little patience was better than that half-baked mess he pulled last night.
There was a pause.
"Chameleon. Keep your mouth shut about this," Sable said, voice low and razor-sharp. "I don't care what you think you've figured out. Say nothing. To anyone. Got it?"
Chameleon nodded quickly, though no one could see him. "Yes, sir! No third person will know about this. I swear!"
"That better be true," Sable said. "Because if I hear even a whisper… I'll cripple you and toss you to Boar."
Chameleon's body trembled violently at the name.
"Don't think I haven't noticed his unsavory interest in you. He's always one of the most vocal about taking my position, so right now, protecting you from his clutches serves my interests. But if you screw this up? I'll stop protecting you—and help him grant one of his nastier wishes."
He said it calmly, like he was talking about the weather.
"…Understood?" he finished.
"…Yes, sir," Chameleon whispered.
Sable didn't reply. The line went dead.
Chameleon threw the phone into the passenger seat and kept driving, eyes glazed. His hands gripped the wheel so tightly, his knuckles turned white. Blood suddenly dropped from his lip. He'd bitten it to wake himself from his daze.
"Damnit," he muttered, vision sharpening with fury. "I'll make it big and definitely escape that place!"
The rest of the ride was deafeningly silent.