Page 18 of Forbidden

Derik nodded, his eyes hardening with resolve. He adjusted his coat, the fabric heavy with rainwater, and Morgan noticed the subtle shift in his posture—ready for whatever they might face. Trust between them had been hard-earned, especially after Derik's past betrayal, but here, now, they were united.

She ran a hand through her damp hair, tattoos on her arm momentarily exposed. Each one was a mark of her time served—a decade lost because of corruption within the very institution she had sworn to uphold. Now, with every step closer to the building, she felt the weight of her quest for justice pressing against her chest. This dilapidated structure might hold answers, or it might be another dead end. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that something crucial lay within its walls.

Derik caught her eye again, a silent message clear: stay sharp, watch your back. Morgan gave a curt nod, her expression set in determination. With each step, she prepared herself mentally, running through scenarios, risks, and exit strategies. The rain kept coming, a relentless companion to their grim task.

This building, this night—it was not just about solving a case. It was about chipping away at the monolith that had taken so much from her. Richard Cordell's shadow loomed large in her thoughts, a reminder of why she fought, why she couldn't let go.

They reached the entrance, the decrepit door standing like a barrier between them and the unknown. Morgan exhaled slowly, steeling herself. There was no turning back. Whatever lay ahead, they would face it together, as agents, as partners—as two souls intertwined in the pursuit of truth amidst the shadows.

Morgan’s hand balled into a fist, rapping against the door with purpose. The sound echoed, hollow against the thud of bass from within. She could feel the rhythm in her bones, an undercurrent to the anticipation building in her veins. The graffiti that adorned the walls had long lost its vibrancy, now just ghostly remnants of color on weathered brick—symbols of decay that seemed fitting for their investigation.

The door didn't move, but a slot at eye level did, snapping open to reveal cautious eyes set in a sallow face. Morgan met the gaze without flinching; she was accustomed to the weight of suspicion. The music muffled his words, but she caught the demand for a password. Her response cut through the noise, the title 'FBI' wielded like a weapon.

"FBI. Open up—we need to talk," she said.

Silence stretched out, long enough that Derik shifted beside her, restless. She stayed still, every sense honed to the door before them. The music's relentless beat felt mocking, challenging her authority. The slot snapped shut, and uncertainty flickered in Morgan’s gut. Was this another dead end? But then, the grating sound of locks disengaging chased the doubt away.

The door gave way, its hinges groaning under the weight of untold secrets. The man framed in the doorway looked like he'd stepped out of a gothic graphic novel—black garb clinging to his thin frame, heavy boots planted firmly, silver chains clinking with each subtle movement. His face was a canvas of pale contrasts, dark hair falling forward to shroud his features partially, eyes rimmed with kohl that lent him an air of the theatrical. Those eyes moved over Morgan and Derik, sizing them up with practiced ease.

"Can I help you?" His tone carried an edge of defiance, as if daring them to disrupt the sanctuary behind him.

Morgan met his gaze without flinching, her voice steady. "We're here to talk about Elizabeth Harmon."

His stoic facade slipped for a moment at the name, revealing a crack in his armor. Recognition flickered across his features, quickly clouded by a hint of fear. He glanced back into the depths of the building—a silent world beyond his guarded post.

"Elizabeth... yeah." The words came out softer now, almost hesitant. He took a step back, the chains on his belt jangling discordantly with his indecision. Then, with a resigned nod, he moved aside, gesturing them through the threshold with a sweep of his arm draped in black fabric.

Morgan stepped past him, the change in atmosphere immediate and palpable. She heard Derik follow, the solid presence of her partner a reassurance against the uncertainty of what lay ahead. This was no ordinary investigation; it was a dive into the underbelly of the city, where the fringes of society danced with shadows. And somewhere within these walls might lie the clue they needed to unravel the mystery of two lives cut violently short.

The door swung shut with a definitive clang, the sound resonating in Morgan's ears as she stepped into the clandestine world before her. Neon red lights smeared the darkness with sinister strokes, painting the attendees in hues of danger and secrecy. Shadows crept along the walls, stretching and contorting as if alive. The mingled scents of alcohol and sweat permeated the air, but beneath it lingered an almost metallic tang that made Morgan's instincts prickle with unease.

This was no haven for the holy; it was a den for those who embraced the night. The crowd, a motley assembly clad in dark attire reminiscent of Davy's, swayed to the throbbing pulse of unseen speakers. Whispers died down as curious eyes followed the agents' progress through the room, their conversations resuming behind backs turned swiftly away. Here, amongst the subversive and the macabre, Morgan felt the weight of many secrets, held tight by lips painted black and eyes that knew too well the allure of the dark.

“What’s your name, son?” Derik asked.

"Davy," the attendant offered, his voice betraying more curiosity than willingness to assist. His gaze shifted between the two agents, sizing them up, trying to discern their intent amidst the revelry of his underground sanctuary. "Look, we’ve done nothing illegal here," Davy attempted to assure them, perhaps hoping to ward off any official scrutiny. "Just people enjoying the night."

Morgan didn't miss a beat. Her phone was already in hand, the image of the Satanic symbol illuminated on the screen. "Recognize this?" she asked, tone devoid of the pleasantries that had no place in such a grim inquiry.

Davy leaned in, his kohl-rimmed eyes narrowing as he studied the symbol. His brow creased with concentration, and then recognition flickered like a flame briefly caught in the draft. "Looks like Satanism stuff," he admitted reluctantly, "Not rare 'round these parts."

"Is that what goes on here? And did Elizabeth Harmon come to your...gatherings?" Morgan pressed. “You knew her, right?”

Davy hesitated, the question hanging heavy between them. The music pulsed on—a relentless heartbeat driving the night forward—but for a moment, all else seemed to still in anticipation of his answer. "Yeah, I knew Liz," he said, the name catching in his throat like a hook. "Her death was... tragic. A damn shame, really."

"Tragic, yes. But not an accident," Morgan cut in, her words sharp and unyielding as the steel in her spine. She held her phone up again, the symbol on display—a beacon of their grim purpose. "This was found near Elizabeth’s body. And another victim, under similar circumstances."

Davy's eyes darted to the symbol, then away, unable to hold its gaze. The bravado that had buoyed him earlier now deflated, leaving him visibly rattled. He cast a wary glance over his shoulder, his movements tense, as if the walls themselves might be listening.

"Who here would know more about this?" Morgan demanded, her probing gaze fixed on him, unwilling to allow any retreat into shadows or excuses.

"Rog might," Davy muttered after a moment heavy with reluctance. "But talking to cops ain't exactly his favorite pastime." He shifted uncomfortably, probably regretting having opened the door to them at all.

"Then you'll take us to him," Morgan pressed. Her voice allowed no room for argument; it was a command, not a request. They needed answers, and time was a luxury they couldn't afford.

Davy swallowed hard, nodding once, his acquiescence reluctant. "Follow me, but keep it chill, alright?"

Morgan signaled to Derik, and together they shadowed Davy through the thrum of music and sea of bodies. Each step she took was measured, deliberate, the weight of her authority and resolve pressing down upon the space around her. She could feel the pulse of the club, the lifeblood of secrets and sins flowing just beneath its surface. And somewhere within this labyrinth, the truth awaited—elusive, enigmatic, but not beyond her reach.

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