Chapter 2: THE FORGE
The sheriff's station smells like coffee and old paperwork.
I stand in the doorway, badge heavy on my belt, and take it in. Four desks. Filing cabinets. A holding cell in the back. Windows facing Main Street. Small town law enforcement. Simple. Manageable.
A man looks up from his desk. Late forties, solid build, gray threading through dark hair. His eyes narrow as they land on Lucas, then me.
"Sheriff Hood?" His voice carries skepticism. "We weren't expecting you for another week."
Lucas moves forward with the easy confidence of someone who's lied before. "Training wrapped early. Figured I'd get started. You must be Deputy Lotus."
"Brock." He stands, shaking Lucas's hand. His gaze shifts to me. "And Marcus. Heard about the crash. Hell of a way to start."
"Could've been worse," I say. My voice is steady. Marcus Webb's voice, I suppose. Close enough to mine that it doesn't feel like lying. "Some injuries, but walking away is walking away."
Brock's eyes linger. "You look different. Leaner, maybe. Thought you were heavier."
My stomach tightens. "Training regimen. Lost some weight."
"Huh." He doesn't look convinced but lets it drop. "Well, welcome to Banshee. It's quiet most days. Sheriff before Hood—the real Hood, I guess—was looking forward to an easy posting."
I catch the slight edge in "the real Hood." Brock suspects something. Not enough to act on it, but enough to watch.
"I'll try to keep it easy," Lucas says smoothly. "Show me around?"
While Brock gives Lucas the tour, I handle paperwork. Forms, signatures, documentation of my survival and recovery. The handwriting flows without thought—muscle memory from a dead man, or something else? I don't question it. Just let it happen.
A woman approaches my desk. Maybe fifty, kind face, shrewd eyes. "Marcus."
I look up. Don't recognize her. Force a smile. "Hey."
"Alma." She touches her chest, hurt flickering in her expression. "Dispatcher? We've worked together three months?"
Shit.
"Sorry." I gesture at my head. "Crash scrambled things. Doctor said I might have gaps."
"You sure you should be working?" She leans closer, studying my face. "You look different, Marcus. Not just the weight. Something in the eyes. Sharper."
Cold sweat pricks my back. "Concussion effects. I'm fine. Just need time."
Alma doesn't look convinced. She straightens, arms crossing. "The old Marcus wouldn't rush back. He'd take the time off, come back when he was ready."
"Maybe the crash changed my perspective," I say carefully. "Life's short. Want to make it count."
She hums. Doesn't agree. Doesn't accuse. But her eyes hold questions she's filing away.
When Brock and Lucas return, I'm deep in paperwork, looking busy and competent. Brock gives me a nod—apparently I'm meeting expectations. Lucas catches my eye briefly. I give him the slightest head shake. Complications already.
The morning passes. Calls come in—noise complaint, lost dog, property dispute. Small town problems. I take notes, respond professionally, play the role.
But the whole time, Alma watches.
By noon, I'm wound tight. Too many eyes. Too many chances to slip. Lucas suggests we grab lunch, get acquainted with the town. Really, he's giving me an escape.
"There's a bar," Lucas says as we walk Main Street. "The Forge. Guy named Sugar Bates runs it. Old friend."
"You didn't mention having friends here."
"Didn't seem relevant." He glances at me. "Sugar's solid. And he's not a cop. Might be good to have someone who knows what we are."
"Which is what? Thieves? Liars? Whatever the hell I am?"
"Survivors." Lucas stops walking, meeting my eyes. "That's what we are. And Sugar recognizes survivors."
The Forge sits at the edge of Main Street. Brick building, neon sign, heavy door. Inside, it's dimly lit and nearly empty—lunch crowd hasn't arrived yet. A man behind the bar looks up as we enter.
He's big. Not tall, but wide—solid muscle under dark skin. His eyes take us in with one sweep. Badge, uniform, stance. He sees it all.
Then his expression shifts. "Lucas?"
"Hey, Sugar."
They embrace—not a formal greeting but genuine reunion. Brothers in arms. Lucas introduces me. "This is Ben. My deputy."
Sugar's gaze locks on me. Ten seconds of silence while he reads everything I'm not saying. The stolen identity. The lies. The difference between what I'm wearing and what I am.
"You're not a cop," Sugar finally says.
I hold his stare. Don't confirm. Don't deny.
Sugar nods slowly. "Good." He looks at Lucas. "Neither is he."
Lucas relaxes slightly. "Complicated situation."
"They always are." Sugar pours three bourbons without asking. Slides them across the bar. "To complicated situations and the men who survive them."
We drink. The bourbon burns—smooth fire down my throat, warmth spreading through my chest. I realize this is the first drink I've had in this body. The first taste that's purely mine, not memory or instinct.
It's good.
"You're going to need a place," Sugar says. "Sheriff's house is occupied until end of the month. I've got an apartment upstairs. Two bedrooms. Yours if you want it."
Lucas glances at me. I nod. "Appreciate it."
"How much?" Lucas asks.
"Nothing. Call it investment in law enforcement." Sugar's smile holds irony. "Figure having the sheriff owe me might prove useful."
"Probably will," Lucas agrees.
Sugar produces a key. "Move in whenever. Bar's always open—within reason. You need anything, you come here first. Understand?"
"We understand," I say. Because I do. Sugar's offering more than housing. He's offering alliance. A safe harbor for two men drowning in deception.
We spend the next hour at the bar. Sugar tells stories—careful ones that reveal without exposing. Lucas laughs at shared memories I'm not part of. I listen, learning the shape of their history. Whatever they did together, it forged loyalty.
Eventually, other customers arrive. We leave before the lunch rush. Outside, the sun is bright. My eyes adjust quickly—faster than they should.
"That went well," Lucas says as we walk back toward the station.
"Alma suspects something."
"Alma's smart. We'll manage it." He stops at his patrol car. "You did good in there. With Sugar, with the paperwork, with Brock. Natural."
"Doesn't feel natural. Feels like walking a tightrope."
"Everything worth doing does." He opens the car door. "I've got meetings this afternoon. Town council, district attorney. You hold down the station. Can you handle that?"
"Yeah."
"Ben." He waits until I look at him. "If this gets too heavy, if you need out—"
"I don't."
"I'm just saying. We made a deal in the heat of the moment. If you want to renegotiate—"
"I want in," I interrupt. "Whatever this is, whatever comes next. I want it."
He studies me. "Most people would run from this situation."
"I'm not most people."
"No," he agrees quietly. "You're really not."
He drives off. I stand on the sidewalk, watching Banshee move around me. People shopping, talking, living. None of them know their new sheriff is a thief. None of them know their deputy is something that shouldn't exist.
I should feel like an imposter.
Instead, I feel like I'm exactly where I need to be.
Back at the station, Alma gives me another long look. I smile at her—warm, genuine, Deputy Marcus Webb being friendly. She softens slightly. Not convinced, but willing to wait.
The afternoon crawls. I field calls, complete forms, learn the rhythms of small town law enforcement. It's... easy. Too easy. Like some part of me already knows this job.
Five o'clock arrives. Brock leaves, patting my shoulder. "Good to have you back, Marcus. Get some rest."
Alma follows him out. I'm alone in the station, badge on my chest, gun on my hip, surrounded by the machinery of law and order.
I pull out Marcus Webb's wallet. Driver's license shows a face close to mine—similar enough that nobody questions it from across a room. Eighty-three dollars. Credit card. Library card. A life compressed into leather.
My phone—Marcus's phone—sits dead on the desk. I plug it in, let it charge. When it powers on, there are messages. Friends checking in after the crash. Family worried. People who knew the real Marcus Webb.
I don't read them. Can't. Whatever Marcus's relationships were, they're ghosts now. Memories of a dead man.
I pocket the phone and leave.
The apartment above The Forge is simple. Two bedrooms, shared bathroom, kitchen area. Windows overlooking the street. I take the smaller bedroom—Lucas is the sheriff, he gets the larger space. Fair enough.
I stand at the window, watching evening settle over Banshee. Lights wink on. People head home. The town breathes with familiar rhythms.
This is home now.
Not Marcus Webb's home. Not the home of whoever I was before. Mine. A life built on lies and impossible survival, but mine nonetheless.
I pull out the deputy badge. Study it in the fading light. Metal shield. Engraved letters. Weight of authority I haven't earned.
But I'm going to earn it. Not as Marcus Webb. As whoever I'm becoming.
Tomorrow I'll patrol these streets. Tomorrow I'll answer calls and solve problems. Tomorrow I'll be the deputy this town needs.
Tonight, I'm just Ben Franklin—a man who woke up in a dying body and chose to live.
I smile at the darkness.
The wolf is settling in.
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them . No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1