The violet light washes over your face, carving long shadows beneath your eyes and illuminating the exhaustion etched into your features, making you look like someone shaped by sleepless nights and sharpened by purpose.
Someone who long ago traded peace for pursuit.
You retrieve the hard drive and connect it to the trio of mounted screens. In an instant, lines of code pour down the display like a digital waterfall, your system reconstructing your last session. Data unfolds in layered windows: case files, video snippets, encrypted chats, and location routes. Everything exactly as you left it, waiting for you to return.
As the loading bar inches forward, your eyes drift to the small wooden shelf beside your desk. The only soft thing in the room. You reach out and lift the framed photograph resting there.
You as a child. Mud-splattered knees. A tiny trophy held proudly in both hands. Your parents flanking you with radiant smiles, their joy so genuine it feels like a punch to the gut. The sunlight in the photo feels warmer than anything you have touched in years.
The nostalgia crashes into you, a sudden, slicing ache. A reminder of everything that was taken.
Everything that was destroyed.
Your hand trembles as you shove the photo back onto the shelf harder than intended, the frame rattling but holding.
No more distractions.
Tonight, you will make real progress. Tonight, the pieces will finally fall into place. Tonight, you will move one step closer to the truth and to the revenge that has consumed every part of you.
You turn back to the screens. The digital web pulses across them: reports, grainy surveillance stills, intercepted calls, encrypted transfers, redacted files stitched together with your own annotations. Threads of information weave into a single, sprawling anatomy of the organisation known as K9.
K9.
A name that once inspired trust.
An organisation once praised as a champion of safety. Veterans. Former officers. Doctors. Politicians. People who built their reputations on oaths to serve and protect. They began as humanitarian giants, offering aid, rescue missions, medical support, and security to communities in crisis.
But missions bend. Oaths fracture. Ideals rot.
Somewhere along the timeline, K9 shed its benevolence like dead skin, its ranks tightening into a secretive, disciplined pack and its unexplained wealth swelling in ways no charity could ever defend, until the mask of the protectors twisted seamlessly into the ruthless, predatory snarl of something far more dangerous.
And you have devoured every scrap of it you could find, every timeline, every fracture within their ranks, every excuse they fed the world, dissecting their evolution piece by piece until the truth stood bare.
But none of it truly matters.
You did not care about the excuses, the turning points, or the neatly packaged justifications; they are meaningless noise. The only truth worth holding, burning, and constant is that their leader had a hand in your parents' deaths.
In fact, your investigation had traced every thread and uncovered a chilling pattern: all nine of his inner circles - the core operatives, the elite war dogs who truly ran the organisation - the so-called "Top Dogs" had played a role.
Their involvement was not peripheral or incidental; it was deliberate, coordinated, and calculated. Each name, each face, each codename represented a link in the chain that led to that night.
YOU ARE READING
Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)
Romance"Dude, I think I miss working as the Dispatcher..." It wasn't supposed to be like this. One minute, I was behind a desk, pushing papers. Next, I was thrown into chaos. I used to only read about it in incident reports. Somewhere along the way, I stop...
Chapter 11: Revenant
Start from the beginning
