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Vampires under FBI control?
That was the least funny joke Locke had heard all week.
It wasn't as if he didn't know people inside the Bureau. He had classmates who went federal—Harvard here, Yale there—future agents groomed for politics and enforcement. The FBI was powerful, sure, but they weren't myth hunters.
For the past two years, Locke's primary target had been supernatural entities. Vampires had topped that list from day one. If the FBI truly handled vampire cases, he would have found something long ago.
He had even borrowed a former classmate's FBI credentials once and logged into their internal system. What did he find? Not vampires. Not secret blood covens.
Unsolved serial killers in the triple digits.
If the FBI couldn't close out mundane murderers, there was no universe where they were quietly running vampire operations.
So this smelled wrong.
It looked like a federal agency operating under borrowed credentials. A land-based law enforcement mask worn by someone without actual jurisdiction.
He didn't need to say the name.
Anyone who understood understood.
Still, speculation was cheap. Once the "FBI" agents arrived, the truth would show itself.
A short while later, Jack and Brown returned from the Information Office. They had already heard the news about the case transfer.
Brown walked straight up to Locke, jaw tight. "Locke, we can't hand this case over to the FBI."
Locke looked up from his computer, meeting Brown's eyes evenly. "The rules are clear."
Non-mutant cases were outside Sentinel authority.
Brown's fists clenched at his sides. "The people who died were ours."
Locke didn't respond directly. Instead, he shifted the conversation. "Did you find anything useful in the Information Office?"
Brown hesitated.
Jack jumped in quickly. "Not much. But his credit card records show he visited a bar called 'Satan' almost every night."
Locke raised an eyebrow. "Every night?"
"Most nights. Around three-thirty in the morning."
Jack handed over a freshly printed statement.
Locke scanned the page.
There it was.
Regular charges.
Three hundred dollars.
Every night.
Low-level vampires required daily blood intake. Without it, their strength declined. That meant routine.
"Three hundred dollars a night?" Locke looked up. "What's his income source?"
Three hundred a day. Two thousand one hundred a week. Roughly ninety thousand a month. Over a million a year in discretionary spending.
Locke made one hundred twenty thousand annually. That broke down to ten thousand a month. Two thousand five hundred a week before taxes.
His apartment cost two thousand a month. Student loans ate another chunk. Living expenses handled the rest. It wasn't poverty, but it wasn't lavish.
And this vampire?
Spending three hundred dollars nightly like clockwork.
Jack and Brown exchanged a glance.
"We found an overseas bank account in his name," Brown said. "A consulting firm wired money to it monthly. When we tried tracing the firm, the system flagged and blocked access."
Locke tapped the paper thoughtfully. "Informant payments?"
"Maybe," Brown said. "But that's exactly why we can't hand this to the FBI."
Locke leaned back in his chair, studying Brown's face.
"When did I say we would?"
Brown frowned. "You just said—"
"I said the person who died wasn't a mutant. That would put it outside our jurisdiction."
"Yes."
Locke's expression shifted slightly.
"But what if the person who died was a mutant with a power set similar to vampirism? The test tube changed color yesterday. We all saw it."
Silence fell.
Eyes locked.
Brown stared at him for several seconds, processing. Then he glanced at Jack. Something unspoken passed between them.
Understanding.
"Yes," Brown said slowly. "That's right. We saw it."
Jack nodded. "The sample reacted."
Locke spread his hands lightly. "Then the deceased was a mutant. If that's the case, who handles the case?"
Only Sentinel Special Service had uncontested authority over mutant crimes. Not the FBI. Not local police. Not even federal protective units.
Locke had never intended to surrender this case.
He was nearly certain the arriving "FBI" team wouldn't be FBI at all. If anything, they'd belong to S.H.I.E.L.D., operating under convenient cover.
He didn't want unnecessary friction with S.H.I.E.L.D. But that didn't mean he would smile while they confiscated his work.
He had just prepared his ingredients. He was ready to cook.
And now someone wanted to walk in, take the ingredients, take the stove, and leave him standing there.
Who could tolerate that?
Five of his people were dead.
If other groups heard he let the case slip away, the ridicule would never stop. Brown especially would take it personally. And Locke still needed Brown motivated.
Extraordinary points didn't generate themselves.
So the official report would reflect reality—adjusted reality.
The deceased was not a vampire.
He was a mutant whose abilities closely resembled vampirism.
That was what the documentation would say.
Locke checked his watch. "The FBI should be on the way. Jack, finalize yesterday's report before they arrive. Submit it to Walter for signature."
Once signed, the classification would be official. Evidence logged. Jurisdiction secured.
Jack snapped back to motion. "I drafted most of it last night. I'll review and submit."
"I'll help," Brown added, already moving.
They hurried toward their desks.
Locke watched them go, a faint smile touching his lips.
Sometimes power wasn't about strength.
Sometimes it was about paperwork.