“KRP-709… ten years ago… you didn’t check the trunk.”

Then it came.

Lena’s blood iced. Her hand jerked off the mic. She hadn’t transmitted anything about a girl. There was no girl. She was on a routine patrol, no calls, no accidents, no reports.

She turned the recorder off. Her hands were steady. But her heart—her heart was making that wet, rhythmic sound. Just like the noise.

The static crackled like frying bacon, a sound Officer Lena Marsh had known for twelve years. But tonight, each hiss and pop felt different. Sharper.