Chapter One began on a 10 p.m. patrol shift inside a Super-Mart in District Five, a place where the hour read 22:14 and the light never softened into anything human. At night the store’s illumination turned surgical, cold, artificial, and unforgiving, bleaching skin to the color of wax while sharpening every edge of every object as if the world had been cut from glass.
Time seemed to lose meaning beneath the towering ceiling where thousands of fluorescent tubes buzzed in a monotonous chorus, and along the north wall the enormous freezer system rumbled without rest, a low mechanical growl that never quite faded into the background. Even the air felt manufactured, pushed through industrial filters and carrying a distinctive blend that announced commerce had gone to sleep, because the scent of floor polish mixed with the stale roasted chicken lingering near the food counter, the pungent bite of cleaning chemicals drifting from stall twelve, and the sweet-salty trace of fabric softener hanging in the aisles combined into something that felt like emptiness itself.
Sergeant Jonah Keane hated late shifts in big-box stores, and it wasn’t because nothing happened there or because the hours dragged on with boredom; he hated them because of the silence. Silence gave the mind space to roam, and Jonah loathed any environment that invited his thoughts to wander, because when they did, the memories arrived like an old scar reacting to rain, aching in a way that was both persistent and intimate.
He tried to keep his voice low as he broke that hush, leaning slightly toward his partner and murmuring, “Easy, Atlas,” while they moved through aisle four, the cereal and breakfast corridor laid out like a brightly colored canyon. At his side paced a Belgian Malinois in disciplined rhythm, claws tapping clack-clack-clack against pristine white linoleum in a steady beat that almost felt hypnotic, and Atlas’s muscular frame sat tightly packed inside a short tan-and-black coat, the dog dressed in a sleek black K9 uniform with “POLICE” printed in bright yellow reflective lettering that flashed whenever the harsh lights caught it.
Unlike Jonah, Atlas did not fear quiet, because the dog inhabited a louder world than any human could perceive. Atlas’s ears, two erect triangles that moved like independent radar dishes, caught sounds Jonah would never hear, such as the screech of a struggling refrigerator compressor at the dairy counter, the scurry of mice threading through ceiling ventilation ducts, and the frantic heartbeat of a cashier three aisles away.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
