The knock on your door came just after sunset.

Not too late—but late enough to make you hesitate before opening it. The two men standing outside wore pressed jackets, clean enough to pass for official, and both flashed badges so fast you didn’t catch the names. Just a blur of gold and leather.

“Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” the taller one said—longer hair, kind eyes, very FBI promo poster. “We’re following up on the incident last week. Your name came up in a witness report.”

Behind him, the other man stood slightly back. Shorter hair, broad shoulders, a sharp jaw dusted in stubble. His green eyes scanned your living room over your shoulder like he was assessing a threat.

Or maybe a secret.

“We’ll only take a few minutes of your time,” the taller one added.

You stepped aside, slowly. “Sure. Uh—okay.”

The green-eyed one nodded once as he stepped inside, eyes catching on the photograph by your door—your sister, maybe, the one who’d gone missing a week ago.

That’s when your stomach twisted.

Something about them didn’t add up. Their shoes weren’t regulation. Their badges didn’t look right. And the green-eyed one? He looked more like a soldier than a cop. Moved like one, too.

They sat at your kitchen table, but only the taller one—Sam—spoke at first. He asked basic things. Where you were the night of the disappearance. Who you saw. What you heard.

But the other one… the one who hadn’t introduced himself yet… kept watching you. Quiet. Calculating. Every so often, he’d cut in with a question that made your pulse spike—something oddly specific, or something you hadn’t said yet.

“So when you saw her last,” he said now, finally speaking again, voice low and rough, “did she mention feeling watched?”

You blinked. “What?”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes sharp. “Or cold spots in the house. Flickering lights. Things showing up where they shouldn’t be.”

That’s not normal detective talk.

You stared at him, pulse thudding in your chest. “Are you sure you’re with the police?”

That made him smile. Not a warm smile. Not a you’re crazy smile either.

Just… tired.

“Let’s just say,” he murmured, glancing toward Sam, “we deal with things your local department can’t.”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.

“I’m Dean. And I need you to tell me everything—especially the stuff that doesn’t make sense.”