CHAPTER 304: DUST AND ASHES

I woke up before the alarm could scream, the low hum of the city outside Sector 47 already in my ears as I pushed myself out of bed, the band Alexis gave me snapping lightly against my wrist when I rolled my shoulders.

A reminder.

The morning was dull, the clouds resembling sheets of icy ash spread across the sky as I stepped into the corridor. Sienna’s vacant cup rested on the kitchen counter, a tea bag bobbing in the chilled water. Evelyn had put up a note on the fridge, reminding everyone to buy groceries. I walked past them, the sound of the ventilation system syncing with the beat in my mind as I fastened my coat and secured my boots.

Today was the day we hunted him.

The man with no name.

The bus into Sector 47 felt longer than usual, the weight of the city pressing down with every passing block, each station a reminder of how sprawling everything was. Each sector wasn’t just a street or two; they were entire cities layered atop each other, microcosms of chaos, people living and dying in concrete mazes while neon lights flickered promises that never delivered.

I got off three stops before the border, deciding to walk the last few blocks. The streets were busy with early traffic, people spilling out of apartment towers, the morning market vendors dragging crates of bruised vegetables and blackened fish into place, the smell of old oil and smoke curling through the damp air.

As I turned a corner, approaching the official entryway into Sector 47, a patrol officer stepped forward, one hand resting on the hilt of his baton.

"Hold up," he said, scanning me up and down with tired eyes, the scanner in his other hand humming quietly as he aimed it at my chest. "ID."

I pulled out one of my many ID cards, flipping it open so he could see the government-issued emblem, the designation: Reynard Vale, Detective (B-Rank).

Huh? I’m S-rank now...Should I update it? There isn’t much benefits, besides unwanted attention.

His eyebrows lifted slightly. "Sorry, sir. Gotta check everyone coming into 47 now."

I nodded, letting him scan me, the device beeping green after a moment.

"What’s going on?" I asked, shifting my weight as I glanced down the crowded street.

The officer sighed, glancing over his shoulder before lowering his voice. "Lockdown. Sectors 45 through 50. No one leaves, no one enters without getting checked. Orders came down last night."

Locking down entire sectors was no small thing. Each was the size of a small city—like Dorval or Côte Saint-Luc back in Montreal, only stacked, cracked, and humming with the desperation of too many people pressed into too little space.

"Thanks," I said, sliding my ID back into my pocket.

"Stay safe, Detective."

"Yeah," I murmured, stepping forward as the line behind me shuffled, the officer turning to the next person in line, the scanner humming again.

Sector 47’s precinct was tucked in an older building with flaking paint and security drones perched like silent birds on the roof corners. The inside smelled like coffee that had burned too long on the heater and paper that had been left damp and then dried again, wrinkled and curling in the corners.

Grant was behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, hair pushed back, eyes bloodshot but clear as they flicked up when I walked in.

"Reynard," he said, pushing away a stack of folders. "You’re here early."

"Anything?" I asked, ignoring the empty chairs as I stopped in front of him.

Grant rubbed the back of his neck. "We’ve got the lockdown in place. Sectors 45 through 50. No one’s getting in or out without a scan and a check. It’s absurd, really, with how big these sectors are, but it’s the best shot we’ve got."

"Other precincts working on this too?"

"Yeah," he said, nodding. "Everyone’s eyes are on this now. Our suspect’s racked up quite the list these past few days. Multiple break-ins, kidnapping, stalking, assault, resisting arrest, attempted murder. The whole kit."

I let that sink in, the words feeling heavy in the air between us.

"It’s good," I said quietly. "Means he’s cornered. Restricted."

Grant snorted. "If you can call half the city being shut down ’restricted.’"

"It’s something," I replied. "Grant, listen. He has no name. No record. That means he can’t own property, can’t rent, can’t do anything on the books. He’s living somewhere that doesn’t require paperwork."

Grant blinked, then nodded slowly. "Abandoned buildings."

"Yeah." I adjusted the band on my wrist, snapping it lightly. "And that motorcycle he used to get away... it’s probably stolen. Everything he uses is likely unregistered."

Grant’s jaw tightened, and he stood, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. "Alright. Let’s do it."

The abandoned homes in Sector 47 were ghosts of a time when people thought these blocks would be lively and thriving. Cracked brick, vines crawling up the walls, windows boarded or shattered, doors hanging off hinges. Dust coated everything, thick enough that even the air felt heavy with it.

The first few were empty, so obviously empty that I could tell without stepping more than three feet in. Layers of dust undisturbed, spider webs hanging like ghost curtains across hallways, rotting furniture that hadn’t been touched in years.

"We’re wasting time," Grant muttered, wiping a cobweb off his shoulder as we stepped out of the fourth one.

"No," I said, scanning the street with practiced eyes. "We’re narrowing it down."

We kept going.

One building had a door that squealed when I opened it, the hinges protesting. Inside, I found an old, broken chair, a few empty cans, and the rotting remains of what might have been a sleeping bag.

I took one look around and shook my head. "Nothing."

The next was smaller, an old duplex with paint peeling off the walls like dry skin. I stepped inside, pausing as the air shifted, memories hitting me like a blow to the chest.

I knew this place.

My old home.

It had been a while since my last visit, but the layout was burned into me: the small kitchen where Mom used to hum while she cooked, the living room where Dad would toss me into the air before he left for another shift at NovaCore, the narrow hallway that led to the room where I’d sit by the window and watch the lights flicker outside.

I walked in further, my boots creaking on the old floorboards, dust swirling in the shafts of light cutting through the broken windows.

"Reynard?" Grant’s voice was quiet behind me.

"No one’s here," I said, my voice flat, eyes scanning the familiar shadows. "Let’s go."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." I turned on my heel, moving past him, the air of the house clinging to me like old ghosts. "I’m not interested in reminiscing."

We checked out six more places, each increasingly disheartening, the stench of mildew and decay sticking to us as we returned to the sunlight each time. It was beginning to seem pointless, the burden of the city bearing down with each vacant structure, each quiet space that provided only recollections and the reminder of how quickly individuals could vanish into the crevices of this location.

"One more," Grant said, glancing at the list on his pad.

"Yeah," I muttered, rolling my shoulders as I adjusted my gloves.

The last building was on a corner, two stories with a collapsed roof over one section, graffiti tagging the walls, the porch sagging under its own weight. A man was asleep on the porch, wrapped in a dirty blanket, an old cap pulled down over his face, his breathing steady.

We paused, glancing at each other before stepping around him, pushing the door open with a groan of rusted hinges. The inside was better kept than most, likely because the man outside used it to sleep when it rained. But it was empty. No hidden signs of recent movement, no scuff marks that would indicate someone running in or out, no tech scattered in corners or hidden in crates.

Nothing.

We stepped back out, the sun lowering behind the gray clouds as the streetlights began to flicker on, buzzing softly in the heavy air.

"Well," Grant sighed, wiping sweat from his brow, "that’s another one down."

"We’ll keep looking," I said, though my voice was tired. "He’s out here somewhere."

Grant nodded, glancing down the street, the empty houses stretching out like silent watchers.

As we turned to leave, a voice spoke up behind us, rough and dry from sleep.

"Having trouble finding someone, huh?"

We turned.

The homeless man on the porch was awake now, pushing himself up on one elbow, his eyes squinting at us under the cap.

"What?" Grant asked, cautious.

The man adjusted his cap, a smirk curling at the corner of his cracked lips. "I might be able to help you."

The wind rustled through the empty street, carrying the smell of damp concrete and rain that hadn’t yet fallen. I felt the band on my wrist snap lightly as I flexed my hand, eyes locking onto the man’s weathered face.

"Yeah?" I said, stepping closer, the city holding its breath around us. "And how’s that?"