Whispers of Vengeance

The fluorescent lights of the precinct hummed a monotonous tune, a stark contrast to the frantic pulse pounding in my temples. Another body, another hunter, another damned ritualistic display. Captain Mulligan had briefed us, his voice a gravelly rumble that did little to soothe the gnawing unease in my gut. "Witness saw someone," he'd said, his gaze flicking between Jack and me, a silent challenge in his eyes. "Near the Miller place, and the Peterson woods. Described a figure, tall, cloaked, moving like a ghost."

Jack, ever the coiled spring, had already started pacing, his jaw tight. "Cloaked? Like a hunter?" His voice was sharper than usual, a flicker of something raw in its depths. I chalked it up to rookie jitters, the grim reality of the job finally sinking in. But as I watched him, a sliver of doubt, cold and unwelcome, pricked at me. There was a hunger in his eyes, a desperate edge that felt more personal than professional.

"Could be a hunter, could be an urban legend," I grunted, shoving my hands into the pockets of my worn leather jacket. "Let's stick to the facts, rookie. What else did the witness say?"