Chương 1: Pilot

On the dusty fringes of Lantern City, a quiet California town with secrets buried in its soil, police cruisers and state trooper SUVs skid to a halt along a rugged dirt road. Officers spill out fast, flashlights snapping on like sparks in the dark, dogs lunging forward, barking into the night. Beams slice through the thick forest, this isn't routine. This is a hunt. Deep in those shadowed woods, something's wrong.

But just beyond the tree line, tucked beneath a curtain of swaying oaks, a two-story house breathes in the stillness. Upstairs, a window flung wide lets in the breeze, and the quiet focus of sixteen-year-old Crimson Croft. Shirtless, lean, fingers moving with precision, he weaves laces through the head of a lacrosse stick, crafting a perfect diamond weave. It's slow, meditative work, the kind that keeps his mind off everything else.

He knots the final loop, lifts the stick like a weapon reborn, and snatches a ball from the floor to test it. A spin, a flick, crash. The ball smacks a lamp mid-sentence.

"Crimson, I'm heading out! Dinner's in the fridge!" his mom calls from the hall.

"Glue's in the cabinet!" she adds, already halfway gone. Aqua Croft peeks in as he crouches over shattered glass.

"Thought you quit lacrosse."

"I didn't quit," he mutters.

"I just… don't play."

"You ever think about actually quitting? I want you happy, Crimson. High school's supposed to be fun. You should be chasing girls, chasing, not catching." Her voice is soft, but the words land like stones.

"Well," he says, voice tight, "not winning any awards in that department either." She winces.

"Okay, time to bail before I ruin your entire future. Sophomore year's better. Promise." Alone again, he cleans up, then moves to the doorway pull-up bar, three quick reps, before brushing his teeth. But just as he rinses, a sharp crack freezes him mid-spit. The front door creaks open. Bat in hand now, Crimson steps into the yard, pulse high, breath locked. Every sense fires. Then, silence. He stops cold. Knuckles white on the bat, eyes scanning the house… until a shadow drops from above.

A face, upside down, swings into view.

"Churro, what the hell?"

"You weren't answering your phone." Dangling from the trellis like a bat himself, Churro grins, completely unfazed.

"It's late, but you need this. My dad got called out twenty minutes ago. Every cop in Lantern, and state troopers, are flooding in."

"Why?"

"Two joggers found a body in the woods."

"A dead body?"

"No, a lake named Body. Yes, idiot, a corpse." He said as he yanks himself free, lands lightly in front of Crimson.

"Like… murdered?"

"No one knows. But it was a girl. Twenties, maybe. And get this..." Churro leans in, eyes blazing, "they only found half of her."

Under the hush of night at Lantern City Preserve, a battered jeep screeches to a stop before the locked gate. Churro leaps out, flashlight in hand, already moving. Crimson stumbles after him, heart pounding, not from exertion, but dread.

"Are we really doing this?" he hisses, glancing back like the law might materialize behind them.

"You're the one always whining that this town's dead," Churro fires back, charging down the trail without breaking stride. The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"I was trying to sleep! I've got practice tomorrow!"

"Oh, right, because riding the bench is so exhausting."

"No. Because this year? I'm playing. First line. Starting." Churro freezes. For a split second, he looks like Crimson just blasphemed the gods of high school sports, then breaks into a grin.

"Now that's what I'm talking about. Dream big, even if it's totally delusional." He claps Crimson on the back and surges ahead.

"Just so we're clear, what part of the body are we even hunting for?"

"Hell, didn't think that far. And what if the killer's still out here?"

"Also… not something I planned for."

"Wow. Reassuring. Truly. You lead with the flashlight, maybe the asthmatic shouldn't be sprinting uphill." They crest a ridge. Below, beams slice through the dark, police combing the woods. Churro doesn't hesitate.

"Come on!"

"Wait..." Crimson gasps, fumbling for his inhaler as his lungs seize. Churro vanishes into the trees. Then, barking. Sharp. Violent. Churro spins, fangs snap inches from his face. He crashes backward, flat on the ground. A search dog lunges, held back by a leash.

"Stay where you are!" A state trooper barks. Crimson freezes, but the command wasn't for him. Peering from behind a tree, he watches Churro stumble straight into a search party, hands raised, flashlights blinding him.

"Hold up," drawls a familiar voice.

"This little punk? He's mine." Sheriff Valentine steps forward, silencing the snarling dogs. Churro shrinks under his stare.

"Do you eavesdrop on my calls now?"

"Not all of them. Just the interesting ones."

"Where's your partner in crime?"

"Crimson? At home. Said he needed rest for school tomorrow."

"Crimson?" Valentine calls into the dark.

"You out there?" Silence. Crimson stays hidden, breath shallow.

"Alright, wise guy. Back to the car. We're having a chat about trespassing." As Churro's led away, Crimson finally emerges, frustrated, alone. He turns back toward the trail, but darkness swallows the path. At a fork, he hesitates. Then, a rustle. He freezes. Fear tightens his chest more than asthma ever could. Hand dives into his pocket, no inhaler. Then, rumbling. Not thunder. Not wind. A stampede erupts from the trees. Six deer explode past him, hooves hammering the earth like war drums.

He stumbles, drops the phone. Scrambling, he flicks on the screen, light sweeps the dirt, and catches a face. Pale. Beautiful. Torn clean in half. Lifeless eyes stare back. Crimson screams, trips, tumbles down a steep slope, roots snag, branches whip, he crashes head over heels until he slams to a stop at the bottom. Dazed, he pushes up, just as a low growl cuts through the silence. Something big crouches nearby. In the shadows. Watching. He turns, slowly, when a shape launches at him. Teeth flash.

He twists, pain rips across his back, he shoves free, scrambles up, runs. Branches claw at him. Blood soaks his shirt. He bursts from the trees, onto the road, spins. Headlights. A car swerves, horn screaming, missing him by inches. He collapses, world spinning. Blood slicks his back, deep, jagged bite pulsing. Then, another sound. A howl. Long. Primal. It rips through the hills, echoes off rooftops, tears into the night. And Crimson knows, something is very wrong.

The next day the sun blazes over Lantern City High as Crimson weaves through the chaos of the parking lot, lacrosse stick strapped to his backpack, tires crunching gravel. Around him, skateboards snap off stair rails, smoke curls from sly puffs behind hoods, couples, of every kind, laugh and link arms. Yeah, this is California, alive and unapologetic. He swings off his bike, crouching by the rack to lock it down when, thud, a door swings open hard into his back.

A sleek BMW, gleaming like liquid silver, has just slid into the spot beside him, license plate flashing: LRCH37. The driver? Larch Wilson, golden hair, sharper jawline, radiating that effortless privilege that assumes the world parts for him.

"Hey, man. Watch the paint," Larch snaps, glancing at a non-existent scratch, completely blind to the fact he's the one who just body-slammed Crimson. Without a second look, he grabs his lacrosse gear, already moving. Then, "Larch!" a voice cuts through the noise. His name. His favourite sound. He pivots, grinning, toward a cluster of flawless jocks and dazzling girls, all draped in confidence and designer threads, their luxury cars parked like trophies. Crimson watches, quiet, still, from the edge.

That familiar ache tugs at his chest: not envy, exactly, but hunger. A silent calculation of how to crack into that world. He adjusts his backpack, straightens his stance.

"Alright," he mutters, eyes narrowing with quiet fire.

"Let's see what this place really gives now that I am ready for it."