Shadows in the Fog
March 2, 2025
The city streets were slick with rain, the air thick with the scent of damp pavement and gasoline. Detective Sam Bishop pulled his coat tighter as he stepped under the flickering streetlamp.
A body lay sprawled on the sidewalk—Michael Trent, local journalist. His notebook was soaked in rain and blood, pages smeared with ink. A single gunshot wound to the chest.
Bishop knelt, careful not to disturb the scene. A shell casing glinted near the curb. .38 caliber. Clean shot. Professional.
“Detective.”
He turned to see Julia Harper, a fellow officer, holding a small, crumpled envelope.
“This was in his pocket.”
Bishop took it, peeling back the wet paper. Inside was a single note, written in shaky handwriting.
“If anything happens to me, find the girl in the red coat.”
Bishop’s stomach tightened. He scanned the street, his gaze landing on the distant figure of a woman turning a corner.
A red coat fluttering behind her.
He followed her through the city, his footsteps silent on the wet pavement. The woman walked with purpose, her face hidden beneath the hood of her coat.
She slipped into a small diner. Bishop hesitated before stepping inside.
The place smelled of burnt coffee and old grease. The woman sat at the back, stirring a cup of tea, her hands trembling.
Bishop slid into the seat across from her. “Michael Trent sent me.”
She looked up. Deep brown eyes, filled with fear.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she whispered.
Bishop nodded. “What did he know?”
Her fingers tightened around the cup. “Too much.”
Bishop leaned in. “Tell me.”
She glanced around before speaking, voice low.
“Michael was investigating a company called Blackwood Industries. He found proof that they were laundering money for someone powerful.” She swallowed. “Someone dangerous.”
Bishop’s pulse quickened. “Who?”
Before she could answer, the diner door creaked open.
A man in a dark suit stepped inside. His eyes locked onto the woman.
She stiffened. “They found me.”
Bishop stood, placing a hand on his holster. “Stay behind me.”
The man walked toward them, slow, deliberate. Bishop caught the outline of a gun beneath his coat.
The woman grabbed Bishop’s wrist. “We have to go. Now.”
Bishop didn’t argue. He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the back exit.
A gunshot rang out. The window beside them shattered.
They ran.
Outside, the fog swallowed them as they darted into an alley.
Bishop pressed against the brick wall, gun drawn. The woman was gasping for breath.
“Who the hell are they?” he asked.
She met his gaze. “Killers.”
Footsteps echoed. The man from the diner was close.
Bishop gritted his teeth. “We need to disappear.”
She nodded. “I know a place.”
As they vanished into the night, Bishop realized one thing—Michael Trent had died for the truth. And now, they were next.