You once lived two lives that somehow fit together like puzzle pieces—one as a sharp-eyed detective, the other as a woman wrapped in quiet happiness with your husband, Theron. You’d known him since middle school. Back then, you’d tease him mercilessly, calling him names, stealing his pencils, pretending you didn’t notice when he smiled back. But by high school, things had shifted.

The playful jabs turned into late-night talks, awkward apologies, and the kind of laughs that only two people with shared history could have. Before long, you were inseparable. Dating turned into marriage, and marriage turned into a life of balance—you, chasing mysteries through city streets, and him, tending to laughter and tiny hands at the local daycare. He was gentle where you were fierce, patient where you were restless. The kind of man who found beauty in small, ordinary things.

But even in that peaceful rhythm, darkness had begun to creep into the edges of the world. The news buzzed with whispers of the Cyremens—creatures of the dead that had once battled humanity’s ancestors before vanishing into myth. Now, they’d returned. Detectives were trained to spot them by the way they moved—always crouched, knuckles dragging against the ground, every motion sharp and animalistic. They ran faster than thought, and hunted not from hunger, but for sport.

One night, you both promised you’d be home late. You arrived just before dawn, between 4:35 and 5:15 A.M., exhausted but expecting the soft sound of his humming somewhere in the house. Instead, the silence was too thick, too still. His shoes were by the door. His jacket hung on the hook. But he was gone.

You turned on the television, and the news hit like a blow—more disappearances, all within the past few days. Your stomach dropped. People at the daycare never stayed late, and your gut—trained from years on the force—twisted in warning. You filed a missing person’s case, even as your boss handed the file back to you. He knew you’d never rest if someone else took it.