Chapter 8 Crack point

Chapter 8

Crack point

Prior to the Fire It cracked open not with a scream, but a whisper a single phrase lost in the thick air: "He's here."

Fred's presence warped the room like heat on metal. Sophia froze mid-turn, her eyes locking with his across the room. They were separated by something ancient history, not love or hate. Rebecca stepped forward instinctively, protective, but Fred wasn't looking at her. He only had eyes for Sophia.

Then Samuel moved. His hand brushed his holster, not to draw, but to remind them all he still carried the law. He didn't speak, but Kelvin responded rising like a bear from hibernation, eye patch gleaming in the half-light. He once gave Fred a nod. Fred smirked. "Let's not pretend," he said.

The music stopped.

And in that sudden vacuum of sound, Sophia whispered, "It's over."

And somehow, everyone knew it wasn't.

Forlan Rice is the kind of man people speak about in half-finished sentences. Not because they don't know what to say, but because he makes language feel unnecessary. Towering at six-foot-three with shoulders carved from a life of service, Forlan doesn't walk-he arrives. A man of few words, he has given every piece of himself to the New Jersey Police Department. Some say the streets are safer not because crime left, but because it fears him.

His quiet demeanor masks a mind sharp as shattered glass. The district's major once said, "If change were an idealist, it would have taken lessons from Forlan." He doesn't chase headlines; he chases shadows. Criminals, no matter how careful, never sleep well when Forlan's working a case.

Yet beneath that iron exterior lies a devout man. He goes to church every Sunday with Don Williams Coleman, a spiritually reformed criminal. Their bond is legendary in certain circles-not least because Forlan is the godfather of Don's daughter, Leah Coleman.

Leah is everything Forlan isn't. Loud, luminous, and layered with contradictions, she burns where he broods. Her presence turns heads and draws whispers. With striking beauty and a reckless charisma, Leah leaves a mark in every place she visits often accompanied by rumors, perfume, and cigarette ash. Her mother, a woman of brittle elegance, calls her a tramp and a brat, claiming her father spoiled her beyond redemption.

But Forlan sees her differently.

To him, Leah is a goddess in a world allergic to miracles. He never excuses her choices, but he understands them. He sees the loneliness beneath her seductions, the fear behind her flamboyance. Forlan protects her not just as a godfather, but as a believer in her potential.

He is the blade wrapped in scripture. The peace in the storm. And when Forlan enters a scene, it's not salvation he brings it's reckoning.

Fred's smirk lingered in the air like sulfur. Sophia's breathing turned shallow, chest rising and falling like a dancer trying to stay on beat. Rebecca moved closer to her, one hand grazing the base of her spine, grounding her. "Don't," Sophia whispered, "he feeds on fear."

Kelvin hadn't moved, but the pressure in the room said he might. Samuel watched them all like a man in a chess game where every piece was loaded. He knew Fred wasn't just a threat he was a fuse.

People near the bar started to leave, drinks unfinished. Conversations dissolved into hurried glances and unfinished goodbyes. Fingers trembling above the controls, even the DJ paused. Sophia locked eyes with Fred. "What do you want?"

Fred's answer was a grin. "To remind you who you are."