The city buzzed like it always did—restless, gray, and pulsing with noise. Buildings stretched into the sky like crooked teeth, and the sky above was a dull sheet of concrete. It had been raining on and off all morning, just enough to smear the filth across the sidewalks and fog the windows of his cruiser.
Officer Ryan Keller sat alone in his patrol car, idling at the edge of 37th and Maple, a steaming styrofoam box of lo mein balanced on the dash.
Chopsticks clicked in his fingers. The noodles were cold, but he didn't care. Lunch was lunch—lukewarm carbs and thirty minutes of silence. That was more than most days gave him.
The city outside was moving like it didn't know how to stop. Pedestrians shuffled under umbrellas. A guy in a faded hoodie argued with a parking meter. Somewhere, a dog barked behind a chain-link fence. Just another Tuesday.
Ryan leaned back in his seat, eyes flicking to the rain-smeared windshield, chewing absentmindedly.
Ten years ago, I thought I'd be catching bad guys like in the movies. Big shootouts, justice, a badge that meant something. Funny how reality likes to water that down to noise complaints, paperwork, and watching the city rot from the front row.
He watched a pigeon hop across the sidewalk like it owned the damn world.
Sometimes I wonder if the city knows I'm still here. Like I'm just another ghost in uniform, waiting for something that'll never come.
Then it came.
A red blur whipped past the cruiser. Tires screamed. Sirens of other police followed.
Ryan blinked once, dropping his chopsticks.
The radio flared to life:
"Unit four-zero-six in pursuit, suspect vehicle heading northbound on Maple—requesting backup!"
He sighed, shoved the takeout container onto the floor, and flipped on the sirens. Red and blue light splashed across wet pavement as his cruiser roared to life.
"Guess break time's over."
The chase was short, violent, and messy.
The car zipped through the streets, narrowly avoiding pedestrians and other drivers. Over the radio Ryan hears mentions of a stolen car. The car goes left, then right, then left again, Each turn risking someone's life.
The driver is speeding down a narrow alley now until–BOOM–a garbage truck rammed into the side of the suspects car out of nowhere with a loud boom and some metallic screeching noise as the paint scratches and the metal frame bends and breaks.
Ryan was the first to the window, gun drawn, heart pounding. As he approached the car he noticed the driver was just a kid sitting behind the wheel and couldn't have been older than nineteen. Hands shaking. No weapon. Just fear.
Paperwork took three hours when he brought him to the station. Along the way he was crying about his parents and being grounded and some other stuff too. Typical teenager stuff. He had to take statements, analyze breathalyzer results, and do debriefs. By the time Ryan dragged himself back home, the sun was setting behind the city skyline, casting orange light through the dirty windows of his apartment.
He dumped his gear by the door, kicked off his boots, and collapsed onto the couch like a sack of bricks.
Then his phone buzzed.
A voicemail.
He didn't recognize the number at first. But when he pressed play, the voice pulled him upright like a ghost whispering from the past.
"Ryan? Yo, man—it's Derrick! Yeah, that Derrick. I know, long time. Listen, I'm calling because… well, I'm throwing something. A little reunion. Big private island kind of thing. I know you're probably still all about duty and the badge and blah blah, but come on, man—it's been what? Eight years? We're overdue. Plane leaves Friday. I'm sending you the ticket. Be there."
Click.
Ryan stared at the screen. Derrick Harper. High school quarterback, rich kid, always the one with big dreams and bigger ego. He hadn't heard that name in years.
He leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"The island."
He remembered the rumors about it. Derrick's family had bought it a while back—some old government property, supposedly. Leftover buildings, maybe even an abandoned research facility or two. Sounded like the setup for a horror movie.
But still…
"Eight years. Maybe a break wouldn't kill me."
Friday — Early Morning
The airport was quiet.
Ryan boarded the private charter plane, already yawning as the engines whined to life. A flight attendant offered him a drink. He waved it off and found his seat near the window.
The others were already there—half-asleep. There was a quick chatter and hugs between old friends he hadn't seen since they were kids. Laughter drifted down the aisle, warm and familiar. Emily sat two rows up. Ryan's heart thumped when he saw her. Same smile. Different woman. Time had changed them all.
But before he could say a word…
Sleep took him.
The hum of the engine. The softness of the chair. The weight of the week.
As the plane lifted above the clouds, heading toward something unknown, Ryan Keller closed his eyes.