Thompson raised his head. "I know very well that I'm not the murderer. As someone familiar with the people inside the department, you also know this incident is not as simple as it looks. Evil forces are invading Storybrooke. Someone has to stand up and fight the Devil."
"You didn't used to believe in God..." the chief said.
"I still don't." Thompson said. "But God exists. Of that, I am certain, because I have seen it with my own eyes. He brought misfortune upon me to temper my will."
The chief looked at Thompson solemnly, feeling as though he had become a different person.
Perhaps prison life had destroyed and remade him.
"Do you need someone to take you home?" the chief asked.
"No." Thompson refused.
Thompson slowly walked out against the light, the scene possessing the texture of a movie shot.
Martin and his men kept their hands on their holsters, ready to deal with any sudden situation.
They silently prayed that the Mitchell Family would not appear.
They were the victims.
They were in immense pain.
But the law was the law. When in doubt, the benefit went to the defendant.
Like ordinary people, the police had their own opinions. As police officers, they could only fulfill their duties.
The Shapeshifter stood at the scene, watching the full range of human reactions and enjoying the pleasure of toying with humanity in the palm of his hand.
He spotted two girls in the crowd: Nancy and Claire.
Where was that man? He remembered shooting him several times last time, yet the man had seemed completely unharmed.
He had been here just moments ago.
The Shapeshifter frowned slightly. He excelled at changing into other people's appearances, launching sneak attacks, creating conflicts, and playing with human hearts.
His combat ability, however,