Beaware

The air in the Greasy Spoon was a thick soup of stale nicotine and

The dust in the arena hung heavy, stained a deep crimson by the dying

Officer Jax was more than just a police dog; he was a Belgian Malinois

The crisp morning air in the town square was shattered not by a scream,

The morning mist clung to the grass of the cemetery, mirroring the heavy hearts

The afternoon sun hung low over the municipal park, casting long, golden shadows across

The afternoon sun beat down on the brick-lined square, where a routine protest had

The sterile silence of St. Jude’s recovery wing was shattered not by a medical

The sun dipped low behind the glass-paned towers of the city, casting long shadows

The flickering amber light of a single kerosene lamp cast long, dancing shadows against

The crystal chandeliers of the penthouse suite cast a cold, unforgiving light over the

The gala was a sea of silk and hushed conversations until the boy appeared,

The crystal chandeliers above the rooftop gala hummed with a sterile, expensive energy, casting

The heavy downpour turned the city into a blurred landscape of neon reflections and

The rain had turned the curb into a slick, grey slurry, but Mrs. Vandermeer

The gasps from the grandstands were sharp, cutting through the heavy smell of popcorn