The warped: Dark seed saga

The whiskey sat untouched on the table.

Garrison hadn't ordered it for the taste. He'd ordered it because people expected him to. Because sitting alone in a bar nursing a drink made him look like just another tired, broken man trying to drown something in alcohol.

But he wasn't here to drink.

The neon glow from the beer signs flickered against the rain-streaked windows, casting warped shadows across the walls. Outside, the storm raged, turning the streets into a glistening maze of reflections. But Garrison barely registered any of it. His focus was locked on them.

Three men near the entrance. Me Kanta Tanas. Low-level thugs. Known associates of the Mexican cartel. Laughing, relaxed, talking too loud about money, women, and the next job.

They didn't know.

Didn't know his family had been butchered in their own home. Didn't know that his wife's blood was still staining the floorboards, that his two little girls would never wake up again. Didn't know that his stepdaughter, Marisol, was missing, and that every second that passed without her was a blade carving through his gut.

Or maybe they did.

Maybe they were laughing about it right now.

His fingers clenched around the whiskey glass, the ice shifting inside, but he didn't drink. He hadn't planned this—hadn't planned any of this—but now that he was here, now that they were here, he couldn't ignore the burning need clawing at his chest.

He needed answers.

He knew he shouldn't be doing this. He should just stop now and go.

But he couldn't.

Not after what they did.

He didn't believe in coincidences. And if he was right, this was retaliation for a bust his unit had pulled off a few months back.

And someone was going to tell him the truth.

The bartender walked past, wiping down the counter. "You sure you don't want another?"

Garrison barely glanced at him. "I'm good."

The three men finally stood, tossing cash onto the table like kings of the damn world. They headed toward the exit, stepping into the downpour, oblivious to the storm coming for them.

Garrison followed.

The rain turned the pavement slick under his boots. Lightning flashed, illuminating the cracked bricks and overflowing dumpsters of the alleyway behind the bar.

The thugs were halfway down when Garrison spoke.

"Where is she?"

The words cut through the storm like a gunshot.

The three men spun, their laughter dying instantly.

"Who the fu—"

Garrison moved first.

The first man barely got a breath out before Garrison's fist crushed his nose, the wet crunch echoing over the rain. Blood splattered across the alley as the guy crumpled, clutching his face with a strangled scream.

The second reached for something—maybe a gun, maybe a knife—but Garrison was faster. He grabbed the thug by the collar, slamming him against the wall so hard the man's head bounced off the bricks.

The third—the one with the snakeskin boots and a gold chain—was smarter. He backed up, hands raised in a placating gesture.

"Easy, man. You got the wrong guys—"

Garrison pulled his gun and shoved it against the guy's forehead.

The thug froze.

Garrison's voice came low, dangerous. "Tell me where she is."

The thug swallowed hard. "I—I don't know who you're talking about."

Wrong answer.

Garrison cocked the hammer.

"You helped the cartel slaughter my family," he snarled. "You took my daughter. You think I'm gonna let you walk away?"

The thug's eyes darted to his unconscious friend, to the other struggling to get to his feet. "Look, man, I swear we had nothing to do with that!"

Garrison ignored him.

He pressed the gun into the man's chest and counted.

"Three."

The thug's breathing turned ragged.

"Two."

Sweat mixed with the rain on his forehead.

Click.

The gun was empty.

The thug flinched so hard he almost collapsed.

But Garrison wasn't done.

He pulled the gun back, cocked it again, and shoved it back into place.

"Three."

The thug whimpered. "Jesus Christ—"

Click.

Garrison's pulse roared in his ears.

"Two."

Tears mixed with the rain on the man's face. "I swear, man, I don't know anything—"

Click.

Garrison cocked the gun again.

"One."

Lightning split the sky.

The thug broke.

"We didn't take her!" he sobbed, hands up, shaking. "We—we heard something, okay? Some kind of weird shit—but I swear it wasn't us!"

"Tell me," Garrison's grip tightened.

"I swear to God," the thug pleaded. "This real freaky shit, man! Some f'in cannibals—up on turnbull. They say—"

"Cannibals really!?" Garrison snapped

His phone rang.

Aiden.

Garrison's finger hovered over the trigger.

He wanted to pull it. Desperately.

The guy was guilty of something. If not this, then something else. They all were.

But his phone kept ringing.

Garrison inhaled sharply, yanked the gun away, and in the same motion, pistol-whipped the thug across the head.

The man crashed to the ground, unconscious before he hit the pavement.

His aimed the gun back at the thug instinctively. He wanted to pull the trigger. He almost did.

His phone rang again.

Garrison exhaled, shaking, barely grounding himself in the present before answering. Breathing heavy, he answered the call. "Tell me you got something."

Aiden's voice was too damn calm. "I was about to ask you the same thing."

Garrison wiped the rain from his face, looking down at the men scattered at his feet. "Nothing solid. Just a bunch of scared bastards who wet themselves the and start spitting nonsense."

Silence. Then—Aiden exhaled.

"Come back."

Garrison laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "I'm fine."

"You're not. I'm telling you I need your help with this."

Garrison's jaw clenched. He looked at the bodies. At the blood on his knuckles.

He wanted to argue.

Wanted to tell Aiden to let him handle this his own way.

But Aiden's voice cut through the static in his head.

"I need you to do one more sweep of your house."

Garrison froze.

"What?"

"I think we missed something," Aiden said. "I can't explain it, but I need another set of eyes on it."

Garrison hesitated.

Aiden wasn't the type to chase ghosts. If he was saying this, it meant something felt wrong.

"Fine," Garrison muttered. "But if I don't find anything, I'm coming back here and putting bullets in all of them."

Aiden sighed. "I get it you're grieving."

Garrison almost smirked. "Dont."

"Just meet me at the precinct okay."

Click.

The call ended.

Garrison exhaled, wiping the rain from his eyes.

He holstered his gun and stepped out of the alley, rain washing the blood from his hands.

One last chance.

Then, he was going to burn everything down.