The Crown Victoria patrol car glided to a halt along the cracked asphalt bordering a neglected construction site.
Nick scanned the lot, his gaze settling on a sun-faded white Kia Rio.
Its rear windshield was entirely gone, replaced by a piece of heavy plastic sheeting secured with weathered duct tape.
Nick studied the vehicle for a moment before keying his shoulder mic.
“Dispatch, Burckhardt 78.”
“Go ahead, 78,” Laila replied, her voice returning to its crisp, professional cadence.
“I’m on scene at Alberta Street.
Vehicle is blocking access to private property, rear glass is completely out and covered in plastic.
Requesting a plate check to confirm if it’s listed stolen.”
“Copy that, checking plate Tango-Xray-Yankee-584.”
A few seconds elapsed before the speaker crackled.
“Burckhardt 78, plate returns to a Joshua Coffey out of Beaverton.
No active wants, warrants, or stolen reports attached to the vehicle.”
“Copy, clear.
Set my status to 10-7.”
Before stepping out, Nick unclipped his heavy duty vest from the passenger seat, slipping it over his shirt and securing the side straps.
“Copy 78, status 10-7.
Do you require a secondary unit?”
“Negative, scenario appears calm.
I’ll handle.”
Stepping into the warm late-summer air, Nick caught sight of a man squatting near the rear bumper of the Kia, smoking.
Despite the thirty-degree heat, he wore a soiled, padded down vest over a faded thermal shirt, paired with oversized, frayed trousers.
As Nick approached, the heavy, pungent odor of unrefined cannabis and stale sweat drifted across the asphalt.
Nick’s hand adjusted slightly, hovering near his less-lethal Taser unit on his left hip.
“Afternoon,” Nick called out, keeping a cool, measured tone.
“Is this your vehicle?”
The man stood up slowly, taking a long drag from a hand-rolled cigarette before dropping the butt onto the gravel and crushing it beneath his boot.
“Yeah.
It’s mine.
Just taking a break.
Is there a problem, officer?”
Nick’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“You’re parked on private construction access, blocking the lane.”
“Just leaving,” the man muttered, reaching toward his front pocket.
“Hold on,” Nick said calmly, stepping around the rear corner of the Kia.
As he passed the tail lamp, he casually touched the plastic lens with his thumb—a routine field habit to ensure his fingerprints were left on the vehicle frame in the event of an unexpected incident.
“I need to see some identification first.”
“Don’t have it on me,” Coffey replied, turning toward the driver’s side door.
“No ID?” Nick maintained a six-foot reaction gap, his left hand gripping the handle of his Taser while his right hand rested lightly against the retention snap of his Safariland holster.
“Look in the vehicle.”
Coffey paused at the front fender, key ring rattling in his grip.
He turned his head back to glance at Nick, a cold, mocking smirk stretching across his features.
Then, the world seemed to warp around him.
In a split-second shift that shattered the mundane reality of the quiet street, Coffey’s human visage dissolved.
His coarse hair surged outward into a thick, coarse mane.
His jaw elongated forward, the flesh around his lips pulling violently back into a wide, predatory maw filled with rows of yellowed, needle-like fangs.
His eyes turned a milky, luminous amber, fixing directly onto Nick’s face.
Nick’s heart slammed against his ribs.
Thanks to his heightened reflexes, the terrifying image registered with pristine clarity—a feral, beast-like entity standing in broad daylight on an ordinary Portland street.
Before Nick could draw his sidearm, the terrifying features snapped back into the plain, balding face of Joshua Coffey.
Coffey’s eyes went wide with pure, unadulterated terror—not the fear of a criminal caught by the law, but the panic of a cornered animal recognizing an absolute predator.
“You…
you’re a Grimm!” Coffey shrieked, his voice cracking into a high-pitched wail.
Without another word, the man spun on his heel and sprinted down the access lane with blind desperation.
Nick stood frozen for a fraction of a second, his mind racing against two decades of assumed reality.
A Grimm?
The word echoed in his mind, stirring a deep, buried memory from his aunt’s cryptically annotated journals.
Reasserting control, Nick broke into a rapid sprint, keying his lapel mic mid-stride.
“Dispatch, 78!
I am in foot pursuit of a suspect heading south from Alberta Street into the vacant lot!
Requesting a secondary unit!”
“Copy 78, secondary unit en route!”
Ahead of him, Coffey was screaming hysterically as he ran.
“Don’t kill me!
Please, don’t kill me!”
“Police!
Stop!” Nick commanded, closing the gap with effortless athletic strides.
His enhanced perception tracked Coffey’s frantic, erratic footsteps.
Within two hundred yards, Coffey collapsed onto his knees in an overgrown patch of dry brush, trembling violently as he covered his head with both arms.
“P-please!
I didn’t do anything!
Don’t cut off my head!” he sobbed, cowering in the dust.
Nick halted eight paces back, his boots firmly planted in a defensive stance.
His left hand held the Taser leveled directly at Coffey’s torso, while his right hand held his Glock 22 at a low-ready position, finger resting index-along the slide.
The absurd, terrifying spectacle was undeniable, yet Nick remained cold, precise, and utterly composed.
“Nobody is cutting off your head,” Nick said, his voice dropping into a low, commanding register.
“Now stand up slowly, keep your hands where I can see them, and answer me very carefully…”
Nick’s blue eyes locked onto the trembling man.
“What the hell were you…
and what did you just call me?”