《BEYYOND》 A Fragile Certainty People like to think they know things. A child jumps off the couch and says they flew for a second. A scientist explains the force that pulled them back down to Earth is gravity. In both of these scenarios they believe they certainly understand things around them. It feels solid¡ªsomething to trust, something to build on. But certainty is like a trick. The closer you get, the more it fades, like morning fog. Keep asking why, and every answer starts to fall apart. Why does a river flow? Gravity. Why does gravity exist? Mass. Why does mass pull things in? Every answer just covers up a bigger mystery, like a thin layer of ice over deep water. Maybe that thin layer is the only thing keeping us from losing our minds and tearingourclothes. Maybe it''s enough. Maybe its not. In a very quiet place. A man was laying still, staring out at the city where massive machines hummed and moved in the distance.But closer to him and all around him the only sound was his heartbeat¡ª Lup-dup. Lup-dup. Slow and Fading. Outside, life continued. Spacecars hovered past, damaged neon signs flickered, people moved. The world didn''t stop for him. His lips parted. A breath, weak and uneven, barely made it out. One thought lingered, heavy and unanswered. Why? Then¡ªevrywhere near and all around him silence. A deep, endless quiet that filled the absence of any sound. ... Jason woke up with a headache. Not the dull kind that faded after a few minutes, but a deep, aching pressure from the base of his skull, like something was pressing against his brain from the inside. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. He blinked at the ceiling. His phone was on the nightstand, screen black. No notifications. That was weird. Arnon usually sent him a meme or some dumb joke by now. He checked his call log. Arnon''s name was there, but the last call was from three days ago. Jason frowned. He could''ve sworn they talked yesterday. Or was it the day before? A faint unease prickled at the edge of his thoughts, but he brushed it aside. Steam curled against the bathroom mirror as Jason showered, droplets collecting and sliding down in uneven paths. He wiped the glass with his hand and left the bathroom along with his lagging reflection. After a quick breakfast, he set out food for Jay, his dog¡ªa mix between a German Shepherd and a cutie patootie, or so his sister used to say. She dropping by unannounced was a usual case scenario, stealing leftovers and claiming she "just happened to be in the area." But lately, it had become a rare occurrence. Probably busy with college prep. Closing the door jason leaves to office slowly walking across the corridor.Nodding to the few neighbors as their eyes meet him. His apartment was within walking distance from work, but he preferred the shuttle bus that arrives at every 15 mins interval¡ªan excuse to zone out, listen to music, and delay the start of the day just a little longer. Lucky enough to get a window seat jason watched as the pedestrians moved in coordinated chaos¡ªcrossing streets, scrolling through their feeds, rushing to destinations they would barely remember by evening. At his stop, Jason stepped off, adjusting his bag. The moment his legs hit the ground, a presence settled beside him. He didn''t have to look. "You didn''t take the shuttle?" Jason asked. A man in his early twenties with hair falling a bit below his eyebrows followed him closely behind. Arnon grumbled something under his breath before raising his id to the scanner machine. They passed through security at the office entrance. Jason tapped his ID card against the scanner. A brief pause¡ªthen the green light blinked, and the barrier slid open.A 5 minutes walk followed for him to get to his working place. Inside, the air was cool, humming with the quiet energy of a company that never really slept. Rows of desks stretched before them, monitors blinking in patterns of endless data. A few coworkers were already hunched over their terminals, fingers moving fast, eyes flicking between screens as if expecting something to leap out at them. Jason''s gaze drifted toward the far end of the room. Their manager was there. That was never a good sign. Arnon let out a low whistle. "Damn. Tiger''s in the cage so early?" Jason sighed. "Can we go grab some quick coffee before hearing the bad news?" Arnon looked at him "guess." Their manager, a man with the patience of a short fuse, paced near the center of the floor, jaw tight as he spoke in clipped bursts to the lead security engineer. There was tension in his stance, the kind that didn''t come from a routine firewall issue. Jason and Arnon exchanged a glance before heading to their stations. Monitors flickered to life as Jason typed in his credentials, the system greeting him with the usual wall of diagnostic reports. Except something was off. One of the logs had an anomaly¡ªtiny, almost imperceptible, but there. A ping from an external source, slipping past multiple layers of security without triggering an alert. Precise. Surgical. Like it was meant to go unnoticed. Jason''s fingers hovered over the keyboard. That ping¡ªit shouldn''t have been possible. Someone had slipped through the system''s defenses without a trace. He sat back, the weight of his headache pressing against his skull. This was going to be a long day. Code Jason adjusted his chair, the motion ingrained within him after months of practice. His body knew the routine better than his mind at this point¡ªback pressed against the mesh, arms settling onto the desk, fingers poised over the keyboard. The dual monitors bathed his face in cold light,while his brown eyes reflected the screen. His shoulders ached, begging for a break, but the work demanded his attention. Lines of code scrolled past, dense with logic, each function a puzzle demanding to be solved. His faint reflection ghosted across the screen, merging with the glow. His dark hair, slightly unkempt, hung over his forehead just above his eyebrows, longer than he usually let it grow. No matter how often he ran his fingers through it, it always fell back into place, stubborn in its own way. Across from him, Arnon reclined in his chair, tossing a stress ball in the air with a slow, absentminded rhythm. The faint thud it made against his palm had become part of the office''s background noise¡ªalongside the distant hum of servers, the muted clicks of mechanical keyboards, and the occasional murmur of coworkers deep in their own battles with uncooperative systems. Jason exhaled. "You know, if you stare at that code any harder, you might bend reality." Arnon, still not looking up, extended a slow, exaggerated middle finger. Jason smirked and returned to his screen. The lines of code blurred for a second, his tired eyes struggling to refocus. A shadow loomed behind him. Sophia wandered over, arms crossed, one brow arched. She was effortlessly put together, her presence exuding the kind of quiet authority that made even the worst IT fires seem manageable. "Still stuck?" she asked, nodding at his screen. "Still stuck," Jason confirmed. "Deadline was yesterday, and this thing is fighting me every step of the way." Sophia leaned against the desk, scanning the code. "Jason, repeat after me¡ªthe IT mantra: It''s always DNS." Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. Jason chuckled. "I''ve got Arnon for that. If I crack, he''ll finish the job." "Not if I crack first," Arnon muttered, returning with two cups of coffee. He slid one toward Jason, fingers briefly tapping the rim before letting go. Sophia smirked. "With you two in charge, we''ll either fix the system or burn it to the ground." Jason raised his mug in a mock toast. "Here''s to burning it down." The day stretched long, the hours blending together in a haze of debugging and caffeine. Jason tackled the high-priority tasks first¡ªpatching a security vulnerability, deploying a hotfix, clearing his inbox. The small victories kept him from sinking too deep before rejoining the team on the real problem. The virus. It didn''t act like the usual threats. No ransomware pop-ups, no stolen credentials flooding the dark web. Instead, it did something stranger. It changed things. Step by step, they worked through the containment process: 1. Isolate infected endpoints. Jason and Arnon pulled compromised machines off the network. 2. Collect logs. They sifted through access records, system events, and network traffic from the past 48 hours. 3. Sandbox testing. Running the virus in a controlled environment, watching its behavior unfold. Most malware followed a pattern. This ones pattern was to keep them on their toes. Jason frowned, scrolling through altered logs. Some timestamps didn''t make sense¡ªfiles edited before they were created, login attempts from accounts that didn''t exist. It was as if someone had rewritten reality in digital sense. That was when he noticed Arnon had gone silent. "Earth to Arnon," Jason said, waving a hand. Arnon blinked, as if resurfacing from deep thought. "Huh?" "You spaced out." Arnon hesitated, something unreadable in his expression. "You''ve been following breaches, right?" Arnon asked. "All morning," Jason said slowly. Arnon exhaled, rubbing his jaw. "Yeah. But this... it''s different. Too deliberate to be random attacks." Jason tilted his head. "You think it''s targeted? Like corporate sabotage?" Arnon''s jaw tightened. "Maybe. Or something else." Jason studied him. Arnon was always the one who noticed patterns others ignored. Usually, it was harmless¡ªquirks in code, minor security flaws. But this felt different. "You were looking into this before it hit us, weren''t you?" Arnon shrugged, his expression too neutral. "Just following breadcrumbs. You know how it is." Jason wasn''t convinced. "Arnon¡­" "Relax," Arnon said, forcing a grin. "I''m not hacking into government servers or anything. Just poking around." Jason sighed. "You poke too much, and one day you''ll find something you can''t handle." Arnon chuckled, but the humor didn''t quite reach his eyes. "If that day comes, I''ll let you bail me out." Jason shook his head. Then, when no one was looking, he powered off his computer. As the screen faded, something caught his eye¡ªhis cursor flickered backward for a fraction of a second. Like an undo command. His breath hitched. He stared at the monitor, until it went blank , reflecting the empty chair he was sitting on, and quickly stood up, stretching, and slipped out before his manager could corner him. Ripples The night air was crisp as Jason walked home, the quiet stretching around him like an unfamiliar presence. Usually, his route was shared-Arnon tagging along, Bobby taking the same path, or at least the murmurs of city life filling the silence. Tonight, there was only the steady echo of his footsteps against the pavement, each step swallowed by the hollow stillness of the street. He welcomed the solitude. A rare moment to exist without obligation, without conversation, without acting. Most people performed, even in the smallest ways, when they weren''t alone.from simthing as simple as Sitting straighter when someone passed by or as grand as holding in a fart. Beneath those surface-level habits we also have something primal -an ancient instinct. A remnant from an older time.A sense that prickled at the edges of consciousness when unseen eyes lingered too long. Jason felt it now, creeping up his spine like cold fingers tracing his vertebrae. He wasn''t sure if the sensation had always been there, or if his brain had conjured it from nothing, but his pace quickened nonetheless. His apartment building loomed ahead, its dim hallway light flickering, fighting against the dark. When he reached his door, he stopped. The handle was tilted slightly downward instead of resting straight. A dozen rational explanations surfaced. Maybe he hadn''t closed it properly. Maybe a draft from the hallway had shifted it. Maybe. But none of them settled the unease curling in his stomach, slow and insidious. Jason exhaled, gripping the handle firmly before pushing the door open. A shadow lunged at him. His body reacted before his mind caught up, knees bending instinctively-but the hit came anyway, solid and unrelenting, knocking him square in the chest. He staggered back with a curse. A familiar weight landed on him, tail wagging furiously. "Jay, you little-" Jason started, but his voice was drowned out by laughter from the couch. Elyse sat there, looking far too pleased with herself, legs draped over the armrest like she owned the place. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. Jason groaned, shoving the dog off and rubbing his ribs. "You trained him to do that, didn''t you?" "I wish," Elyse grinned. "Would''ve made my entrance way more dramatic." Jay tilted his head at her, then whined in protest, as if personally offended. Jason dusted himself off, then took a cautious sniff and recoiled. "When was the last time you showered? You smell exactly like when we found you in that dumpster." Elyse held up two fingers. "One, at least I was needed here. Two, what you''re smelling is either Jay or yourself, because you two stink the same to me." Jay whined louder. Jason grabbed the nearest thing-a sock-and launched it at her. Elyse dodged, snickering, while Jay lunged after it like it was the most valuable treasure in existence. By the time Jason emerged from a much-needed shower, toweling his hair dry, Elyse was digging through his cabinets with a scowl. "Bro, your kitchen is an apocalypse. You have zero human food in here." She held up a can of dog food accusingly. "Unless you''re switching to this." Jason groaned. "Ugh. Let''s just eat out." Fifteen minutes later, they were out the door, Jason pulling out his phone to call Arnon. "You can''t even go buy a matchbox alone, can you?" Elyse teased. Jason ignored her. Arnon picked up on the second ring. "Who died?" "No one. Yet. You coming?" "Where?" "Anywhere that''s still open." "Fine, but if we end up at some overpriced fusion place, I''m setting it on fire." Jason smirked. "Duly noted." Their usual caf¨¦ was closed, forcing them to wander until they stumbled upon a small, riverside diner. The place was old, tucked away between towering buildings, almost forgotten by time. The kind of spot that still had handwritten menus and an actual bell above the door. An elderly couple greeted them warmly, ushering them to a table with a perfect view of the river. Jason exhaled, the unease from earlier fading into the warm hum of conversation and the scent of fresh food. "I could get used to this," Elyse murmured, stretching. Arnon, however, was already distracted, phone screen dimly reflecting in his glasses. Jason nudged him. "Dude." Arnon blinked. "Huh?" "You''re still thinking about the virus, aren''t you?" Arnon hesitated. "Yeah. It''s weird, Jason. The patterns don''t make sense." Jason leaned back. "You really think it''s targeted?" Arnon exhaled. "I don''t know. But it doesn''t feel random." Jason tapped his fingers against the table. "We''ll probably have to log in again later, huh?" "Oh, for sure," Arnon muttered. "It''s gonna be a long night." After finishing their meal, they wandered toward the riverbank, the water reflecting the city lights in fractured patterns. Jason spotted something by his foot-a smooth, flat stone, shaped perfectly for skipping. He reached down at the same time Arnon did. They both paused. Arnon narrowed his eyes. "Rock-paper-scissors for it?" Jason grinned. "Obviously." They played. Jason won. Grinning triumphantly, he traced his fingers along the stone''s surface, noticing a thin, almost imperceptible groove running through it-like a single strand of hair embedded in rock. He barely had time to register the oddity before launching the stone. It skipped once, twice-six times before vanishing beneath the water''s surface. Jason turned to Arnon, arms crossed smugly. Arnon scowled. "I would have pitched 8 noob." Jason laughed, ruffling Arnon''s hair just to be annoying. "The universe has spoken, my friend." As the group made their way back through the dimly lit streets, Jason stretched, feeling the warmth of the night air against his skin. Some 50 metres behind them, a hooded figure of human stature stood motionlessly looking at them. A breath of wind, a shift in the shadows-then it or rather they were gone. The hunt Back at home, Jason gently shut the door to his sister Elyse''s room, where she lay curled up with Jay, their overly enthusiastic but slightly unkempt pup. The dog''s fur stuck out in random tufts, a stubborn rebellion against every brush Jason had ever attempted. "You''re going to catch something sleeping beside that furball," he muttered, shaking his head. But the sight of them¡ªElyse''s steady breathing, Jay''s tail thumping lazily even in sleep¡ªmade him smile. Jay let out a soft whine, from inside."Don''t worry, buddy. You''re getting a bath tomorrow whether you like it or not." That was a battle for another day¡ªa test of endurance between man and beast. His phone buzzed. Arnon. Jason already knew what it meant before he even looked. Get back. Containment failed. Exhaling sharply, he locked the door behind him and headed outside, where Robert was already waiting in his car. The cool night air did nothing to shake off the weight settling in Jason''s chest. Robert, ever the night owl, greeted him with a lazy grin as Jason slid into the passenger seat. "Sarah''s losing her mind. Whatever this virus is, it''s rewriting the rulebook." Jason rubbed his temples. "Yeah, no kidding. I''ll bet Arnon''s already brute-forcing his way through it." Robert chuckled as he pulled onto the main road. "And Diego''s swearing at the firewall like it personally insulted his mother." The city blurred past¡ªstreetlights casting long, flickering shadows across the empty roads. By the time Jason stepped into the office, the place was steeped in an eerie quiet, broken only by the hum of monitors and the occasional frustrated sigh. The glow from the screens painted the walls in shades of blue and green, reflections of code scrolling too fast for most eyes to follow. Jason exhaled all that there was within and settled into the most comfortable position his office etiquette course allowed. He raised his hand above his head and cracked his knuckles.one look at the logs he pulled up . The virus had evolved. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. It had slipped past their containment measures, spreading unpredictably. Lines of code scrolled endlessly across his screen, but it was the system logs that made his stomach twist: Files that never existed suddenly appeared, timestamps placing their creation years before the system was even built. Employee records were scrambled¡ªwrong names paired with incorrect IDs, faces that didn''t belong. Login timestamps showed people signing in before their accounts were even created. Jason sighed. "Miracle virus." Arnon leaned over his shoulder, eyes bloodshot. "I restored a compromised server twenty minutes ago. It''s infected again." Jason frowned. "That fast?" "I don''t think it ever left." Sophia, their digital forensics expert, approached, setting a fresh cup of coffee beside Jason. "This thing isn''t spreading through traditional methods. No phishing, no exploits, no lateral movement. It''s like¡­" She hesitated, searching for the right words. "Like it''s hunting," Jason finished. Sophia nodded grimly. "It doesn''t just spread¡ªit chooses where to go." Across the room, Diego cursed under his breath. "I just blocked an outgoing connection, but the moment I did, another popped up somewhere else." "Whack-a-mole?" Robert suggested. "Yeah," Diego said. "Except the moles are learning." Jason clenched his jaw. He had seen aggressive malware before, but this was different. It wasn''t just adapting. It was anticipating. The team launched into action: Arnon spearheaded containment efforts, isolating compromised systems. Sophia and Jason combed through logs, trying to track the infection''s origin. Diego monitored real-time traffic, tracing its movements. Robert scrambled to fix corrupted user accounts before anyone noticed. Hours blurred together. Coffee cups piled up. The office reeked of caffeine and stress. At some point, Sarah, their team lead, stormed in, equal parts exhausted and furious. "Tell me we have this under control." Jason hesitated. "Seventy-five percent contained. But the remaining twenty-five percent is¡­ unpredictable." Sarah sighed, rubbing her temples. "I don''t care what you have to do¡ªend this." The clock ticked past 4 AM. Arnon finally leaned back, exhaling. "I think¡­ we stabilized it." Jason double-checked the logs. No new infections. The virus hadn''t made a move in over an hour. Not a win. But close enough. Jason barely made it to the couch at team''s temporary rest area before exhaustion claimed him. He collapsed into bed, his body sinking into the softness, his mind shutting down before it could process anything else. --- A vast ocean stretching across the horizon. Water, black and silver, reflected a sky brimming with galaxies, constellations swirling like living beings. Each step sent ripples across the surface, waves humming with music. On the horizon, a massive tree stood, its branches cradling entire planets, their glow pulsing like beating hearts. As he walked, the stars rearranged themselves into symbols¡ªfragments of forgotten memories, moments of joy, long-lost faces. Laughter. Distant, familiar. Comforting. Then the warmth began to fade. The laughter twisted, stretching beyond recognition¡ªa warped, jagged sound, like something imitating joy. The faces convulsed, smearing together. Skin melted into shadows, mouths vanishing, leaving only eyes. Too many eyes. Unblinking. They widened in eerie synchronization, their silent gaze pressing down. A presence, unseen but undeniable, loomed beyond them. Jason tried to move. He couldn''t. The air thickened, congealing around him like invisible tar. The eyes weren''t just watching him. They remembered him. Something deeper than recognition. Something ancient. Something waiting. Then, in perfect unison, they blinked. --- Jason jolted awake, a sharp inhale tearing through his throat. His body was drenched in sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs. For a split second, he wasn''t sure if he was truly awake. The room felt wrong. Like something had shifted in the night while he wasn''t looking. His eyes flicked to the clock. 4:17 AM. Two hours of sleep. It would have to be enough. Dance Of Desperation In the darkest part of the city, where even stray cats avoided to hunt, the alley seemed to breathe¡ªdamp and restless. Rain pattered against the pavement, and the air carried the smell of wet asphalt, rot, and something worse¡ªsomething stale, like blood long since washed away but never truly gone. Detective Eric Nolan felt it in his bones. The rain whispered against the pavement, carrying the scent of decay. The alley wasn''t just empty¡ªit was waiting. A place where shadows stretched too long, where even stray cats kept their distance. His coat dripped with rain as he stepped into the dim glow of the streetlight. Across from him, Michael Connors stood still, tense, fingers twitching near his gun. Nolan swallowed. He knew that look. The hesitation. The questions behind Connors'' eyes. The fear. But it didn''t matter anymore. "You have it," Nolan said, his voice too quiet, too steady. Connors didn''t answer. He didn''t need to. Nolan already knew the truth¡ªthere was nothing to have. It was all a lie, a trap, a manipulation neither of them fully understood. But the moment had already slipped beyond words. The city, the rain, the silence¡ªit had decided for them. He lunged. No warning. No time to think. His fist connected with Connors'' shoulder, sending a jolt through his arm. Connors barely had time to roll with it before Nolan swung again, this time aiming for the head. A near miss¡ªhe felt the air shift as Connors ducked just in time. Then came the counterattack. A headbutt¡ªsharp, sudden. Pain exploded through Nolan''s skull, hot and dizzying. Blood dripped from his nose, but he didn''t stop. Couldn''t stop. An elbow to Connors'' ribs. A satisfying crack. The man staggered, gasping. They crashed to the ground, rain slick beneath them. Fists, knees, raw desperation. They weren''t just fighting each other. They were fighting fate, fighting whatever unseen hand had pushed them to this point. Then¡ªthe gun. Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. It skittered across the alley, swallowed by shadows. Gone. Nolan moved first. His hands wrapped around Connors'' throat, tightening, squeezing. He felt the man thrash beneath him, struggling for air. Felt his pulse hammering, slowing. It was almost over. Then¡ª Pain. Sudden, searing. A sharp edge tearing into his side. The breath left his lungs in a choked gasp. He faltered. Just for a second. Connors shoved him off, rolling away, gasping, free. Nolan staggered, hands pressing to his side. Warmth spread through his coat. Blood. His blood. It poured down, mixing with the rain, staining the pavement. His legs wavered. He sank to his knees. He looked at Connors¡ªreally looked at him. And for the first time, he wasn''t angry. He wasn''t afraid. He was¡­ confused. Like he had missed something. Like some terrible realization had just dawned on him. He tried to speak. Tried to ask why. But no words came. His body slumped against the wall. The last thing he saw was the rain washing his blood away, erasing him bit by bit, until there was nothing left. --- Michael Connors wiped the blood from his hands. He moved quickly, methodically¡ªerasing every trace. Wiping surfaces. Kicking debris over the fight''s remnants. And left something with the body of Nolan before leaving. After he left, a lone marble struck the wet pavement with a soft, hollow clatter. The sound broke the stillness¡ªsmall, sharp, and wrong. It rolled, weaving through rain-slick cracks, tracing a lazy, uncertain path¡ªbefore finally settling in a shallow puddle. The water rippled outward. A tiny disturbance. A reminder that something had happened here¡ªsomething the rain could never wash away. --- Jason knew things were bad the moment he walked into the office and saw Sarah pacing. Not just pacing¡ªcaged-animal pacing. And the usually "pleasant when caffeinated" team lead was currently swearing in ways that could break glass. It got worse. Their manager was already there. Jason barely had time to drop his bag before Sarah turned on him. "I want this virus dead. I don''t care if you have to sacrifice a goat to the firewall gods¡ªfix it." Jason exchanged a glance with Arnon. This wasn''t over. "It adapted," Arnon muttered, eyes locked on his monitor. "It''s not acting like it did before." Jason slid into his chair, fingers flying over his keyboard. Logs scrolled in front of him. Something was wrong. "We boxed it in," Jason murmured. "We should''ve suffocated it. But¡­" "...it''s not playing by the same rules anymore, and I still need to pee," Arnon finished. Jason exhaled. "Then we change the rules." They moved as one, their rhythm razor-sharp. Sophia traced forensic logs. Each time the virus shifted, she flagged it. Diego locked down outgoing traffic, cutting off its escape routes. Robert scrambled to fix corrupted user accounts while fielding frantic employees. Jason and Arnon worked in sync, finishing each other''s sentences before they were spoken. Jason''s heart pounded. They weren''t hunting it anymore. It was hunting them. The virus wasn''t just moving through systems¡ªit was choosing. An AI? No. This was something else. Something aware. He exhaled. "We need to force it into a cage." Diego rerouted network pathways, guiding the virus into a dead end. Sophia prepped an isolated server¡ªno exit, no way out. Jason and Arnon deployed a countermeasure, baiting the virus into thinking it had an opening¡ªonly to trap it inside. They watched the logs. Numbers flickered. Changed. Shifted. The virus hesitated. Jason felt it. For a moment, it... Then¡ª The logs went still. No new breaches. No movement. The virus was resolved. The hunt was over. But Jason wasn''t convinced. Because for one brief second, before the logs went silent¡­ Arnon exhaled. "It''s done." Sarah leaned against the desk, exhausted. "Finally.¡± Pulse Slithering strands of hair twisted and coiled, weaving themselves into something grotesque¡ªa heart. Suspended in the void by an unseen force, it pulsed, each slow, wet thud sending tremors through its tangled fibers. The strands shivered with every beat, as if the heart itself resisted its own unnatural existence. A faint buzzing filled the air. A swarm of flies spiraled around the heart, forming a tornado-like vortex. Their wings hummed at a hugh frequency, a sound that felt both impossibly distant and suffocatingly close. The rhythmic pulse grew louder, its echoes stretching unnaturally, distorting the space around it. Then, with a final, shuddering beat, the heart sent out a ripple. The vibration spread outward, the waves shrinking with each pulse, folding in on themselves¡ªcollapsing into a singular iris. --- The clock on Jason''s nightstand glowed 00:12. He frowned. He could''ve sworn he had slept for at least eight hours, but the math didn''t add up. Barely four had passed.he had sme recollection of a dream but he could barely remember anything. His body should''ve ached¡ªshould''ve been stiff after crashing from exhaustion¡ªbut he felt... fine. Too fine. No lingering fatigue, no sluggishness. Just a void where exhaustion should be. His throat was dry. He shuffled to the kitchen, filled a glass, and took a slow sip. The water was cold, refreshing, but¡ª Something was off. It wasn''t that the water tasted bad. It tasted like nothing. Pure absence. Jason smirked at his own paranoia and leaned against the counter. "Great. Now my brain''s expecting flavors that don''t exist. Or am I renting it with someone else?" At least today was a half-day¡ªsome downtime after their 20+ hour battle with the virus. A rare, welcomed privilege. Still, he felt restless. Too much energy. Dropping down to the floor, he decided to burn it off. Push-ups. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! Fifty in a row. No effort. Barely winded. Jason had always been in decent shape, but that? That was different. He ran a hand over his stomach. No dramatic changes, though his abs were making a stronger attempt at revealing themselves. "Would''ve been nice to wake up shredded," he muttered. Bored, he wandered into his sister''s room, marker in hand. Elyse was deep in sleep, sprawled out with Jay, their ever-energetic pup. Jay''s paws twitched, padding against the air like he was chasing wind across meadows. Jason smirked and drew a tiny mustache and a monocle on Elyse''s face. Jay huffed, as if in approval. --- By noon, the team had planned a group lunch at a nearby restaurant¡ªa rare chance to unwind after the all-nighter. The place buzzed with life, filled with the scent of grilled meats, spices, and freshly baked bread. Conversations blurred together, a mix of office gossip, cybersecurity jokes, and sleep-deprived nonsense. Jason slouched in his chair, letting the warmth of the restaurant sink into his bones. Sleep still clung to him, but the lively chatter kept him awake. Across the table, Diego was demolishing a plate of wings, Sophia was stirring her drink with the slow patience of someone who had lost all hope, and Arnon was engaged in a silent battle with a particularly stubborn piece of steak. Robert leaned back, stretching. "So, we fought off a nightmare virus, kept the company from imploding, and somehow¡­ we''re still not getting a bonus?" Diego scoffed, wiping his hands. "Please. The bonus is knowing they''ll dump another crisis on us in a week." Sophia exhaled through her nose. "More like tomorrow." Jason smirked, nudging Arnon. "You know what this lunch needs?" Arnon looked up, catching the familiar glint in Jason''s eyes. "Oh no." Jason grinned. "An arm-wrestling match." Sophia groaned, already regretting her life choices. "Not this again." But it was too late. Elbows hit the table. Hands locked. Jason vs. Arnon. A few curious glances flickered their way, but most of the team had seen this too many times to care. Sophia took up the role of reluctant referee, counting down between sips of her iced tea. "Three¡­ two¡­ one¡­ go!" Nothing. For the first five seconds, neither hand moved. Fifteen seconds, and they were still frozen in place, their arms trembling, muscles tensed but unmoving. Jason narrowed his eyes. Why wasn''t Arnon budging? Arnon, equally confused, muttered, "Are you even trying?" They both were. But neither could overpower the other. A flicker of something odd passed through Jason''s mind. Hadn''t he felt stronger than usual today? His push-ups, the ease of lifting Jay, and now this¡­ Across the table, Robert glanced over and shook his head. "You two morons are gonna sit there all day, huh?" Sarah Patel, their team lead, leaned forward, finishing off her drink before tapping her fingers against the table. "By the way," she said casually, "there''s a pleasant surprise coming soon." Jason, still straining against Arnon''s grip, barely flicked his eyes up. "That a good thing or a bad thing?" Patel''s smile was unreadable. "Guess you''ll find out." Sophia sighed. "I hate when she does that." The challenge fizzled out as neither Jason nor Arnon managed to gain an inch. Eventually, they both pulled away at the same time, exchanging a glance that neither could fully explain. And with that, the lunch wrapped up. The team paid their bill, exchanged their usual parting jokes, and went their separate ways¡ªsome home, some back to the office. --- Back at home, Jason stood opposite the bathtub, arms stretched over his head¡ªa subconscious habit before doing something he''d rather avoid. Jay, however, had already figured it out. The pup backed up slowly, eyes darting toward the door. Jason raised a brow. "You really wanna do this?" Jay lunged. Jason caught him mid-air, holding him in place. The dog wriggled with every ounce of resistance he could muster, but Jason barely felt the strain. He lowered Jay into the tub. A splash. A bark. A fight of soapy chaos ensued, ending in Jay sulking under a towel, dramatically betrayed. --- Later that night, the rain poured outside. Jason lay in bed, the rhythm of raindrops against the window lulling him into a half-conscious daze. His black eyes flickered shut. Somewhere, a small restaurant bench sat under the downpour. Water collected on its surface. Slowly, the droplets merged, the puddles pulling toward each other, pooling into two separate small pools around a dent then one swallowed the other whole. The table The human mind is a labyrinth, each twist and turn concealing truths even the owner might not recognize. In his pursuit of justice, Detective Roy Calhoun had spent years navigating these mental mazes¡ªpiecing together fragments of consciousness, revealing the hidden corridors where darkness lurked. He had seen enough to know that murderers were creatures of habit. Every crime scene was a confession, every repeated act a fingerprint left on the psyche of the hunter. He had spent his career deciphering these grim signatures, peeling back the layers of deception until nothing remained but the raw truth. But tonight, something was off. Six silver coins¡ªone from each victim¡ªlay in a neat row on his desk, silent testimonies from mouths that would never speak again. Each one found tucked beneath a dead tongue, the calling card of a methodical serial killer. Then came the seventh. "Seven''s a crowd," Roy muttered, a dry smirk tugging at his lips. "But at least they aren''t loud." Same coin. Same ritual. Same story. But this time, the victim was a cop. Roy steepled his fingers, his tired eyes scanning the crime scene photographs. The flickering desk lamp cast long shadows across the evidence, distorting the features of the dead. Then, his gaze landed on the anomaly. A marble. Smooth, glassy, larger than a child''s toy. Left on the victim''s blood. A foreign object in a scene that should have been familiar. It didn''t belong, and yet¡ªit was there. A deliberate intrusion. Sighing he rubbed his temples. Cases like these had a way of getting under his skin. They gnawed at the edges of reason, pulling him into their madness. His old partner used to say he had a habit of overthinking, of getting too deep. That''s when he''d crack a joke¡ªsomething stupid, something out of place, just to keep himself from drowning. Why did the scarecrow win an award? If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Because he was outstanding in his field. A half-smirk tugged at his lips. It wasn''t a great joke, but it kept the darkness at arm''s length. Roy flicked the marble with his finger¡ªclick, click, click. It rolled in a slow arc before settling, a perfect, glassy eye staring back at him. The coins told him a story. The marble? It asked him a question. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. His office hummed with the faint buzz of an overhead light, the air stale with too much coffee and not enough sleep. He tapped his fingers against the desk, staring at the marble like it had personally insulted him. "Alright, little glass eye... who the hell invited you?" Patterns didn''t break. Not on their own. Someone¡ªsomething¡ªwanted him to see this. Roy never ignored an invitation. He pulled out his notepad, flipping through scribbled thoughts from previous cases. He jotted down a single question beneath them: Is the killer playing, or did someone new crash the party? His lips quirked into a half-smile. "Well, well, well¡­ looks like we''ve got ourselves a mystery guest. Guess I should roll out the red carpet." With that, he stood, grabbed his coat, and left the marble exactly where it was. --- Elsewhere, in another world entirely, a different story unfolded. Golden light streamed through the window, wrapping the room in warmth. Tiny hands wavered in the air, chubby fingers grasping at nothing, balancing between gravity and sheer willpower. John watched, breath caught between amusement and reverence. Across the carpet, his daughter, Julie, wobbled on uncertain legs, her wide eyes mirroring his own determination. "Come on, Bean," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. In the doorway, Jane leaned against the frame, arms crossed, a knowing smile on her lips. She had seen this look before¡ªthe fierce protector, the devoted fool, utterly undone by a pair of tiny socks and a gummy grin. Then it happened¡ª A wobble. A sway. A heartbeat of stillness¡ª ¡ªand Julie stood. No hands. No help. John''s heart stopped, then thundered to life. "That''s my girl!" Julie froze, her little legs trembling. But her father''s voice wrapped around her like magic. Her lips curled wide, and the word tumbled out: "Dada!" Jane was already moving, scooping their daughter into her arms. Her laughter was bright and endless, filling the room with something sacred, something eternal. "You did it, baby! You stood!" But Julie wasn''t finished. She wriggled free, her tiny legs kicking. "Down!" she commanded, small but absolute. John chuckled, shaking his head. "Alright, show us what you''ve got." Jane set her down, and Julie planted her feet, her face scrunched in fierce determination. She wobbled¡ªbut then, a step. Unsteady. Precious. Then another. John''s voice softened, thick with pride. "Look at you¡­ unstoppable, Bean." Julie stumbled¡ªplop!¡ªlanding on her bottom. For a beat, silence. Then, she giggled¡ªa bright, bubbling sound that shattered the tension and filled the room with sunshine. John fell back, hands over his face, helpless with laughter. "Oh, you''re trouble already." Jane brushed a stray curl from their daughter''s forehead. "I swear, she gets that stubbornness from you." John grinned, his voice low, tender. "Good. The world''s tough out there." He leaned in, planting a soft kiss on Julie''s head. "But she''s already tougher." Jane smirked. "So¡­ do we call the grandparents or let them suffer from FOMO?" John rubbed his chin, pretending to think. "Mmm... Nah. Let them suffer. We''ve got this memory all to ourselves." Julie clapped her hands, as if sealing the verdict. And in that living room¡ªwrapped in laughter, love, and the triumph of tiny feet¡ªtime stood still. No camera. No recording. Only the moment¡ªeternal, perfect, and theirs alone. The world outside could roar and burn. But here¡ª ¡ªhere was peace. The New Patch Some days, you''re late for no real reason. You just wake up late. And it''s completely not your fault. It''s just being human. Jason sprinted down the corridor of his apartment building, barely awake but already racing against fate. If he missed the shuttle, he''d have to walk a whole kilometer¡ªand his lazy bones vetoed that idea outright. Across the street he jumped over the ocassional puddles of water and sped faster than any other day when he was late. The shuttle doors slid open with a soft hiss, and Jason, breathless and disheveled, flopped into a window seat. He glanced at his reflection in the glass¡ª ¡ªand froze. Someone else was looking back at him. A swirly, weird mustache. A pirate eye patch. A big, lopsided heart on his cheek. And scrawled across his forehead in glittery marker: "Best Bro Ever"¡ªwith a backward ''B.'' His stomach dropped. Elyse. He could practically hear her mischievous voice: "The Empire has striked back." A sudden burst of laughter shattered the quiet. Jason turned to see Sophia, phone in hand, capturing every second of his humiliation. "Jason, new skin unlocked?" she teased. From a few rows back, Bobby chimed in, "Bro, is this a security patch or a vulnerability?" Jason groaned, rubbing his face¡ªno use. The marker held firm. "My sister''s latest malware update. Can''t uninstall it." Sophia smirked. "Too late for a patch. You''re going viral." Jason slumped back into his seat, defeated but amused. "Good. Let the whole office know¡ªfamily''s my greatest weakness... and my biggest flex." --- At the shuttle stop, Jason scrubbed furiously at his face with his sleeve, then his palm, then both together¡ª Nope. The marks faded but refused to dissappear. "Just perfect," he muttered, shaking his head as he trudged toward the office. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. --- At the entrance, Jason tapped his ID on the scanner. The usual green flash... didn''t come. The light blinked¡ªhesitant, uncertain. Then¡ª BEEP.hearing it jason starts walking but.the beep goes on a little longer, shrill tone. Red. The security guard stepped forward, blocking his path. "Sir, your ID isn''t valid." Jason frowned. "What? I work here, bro. Maybe something''s faulty¡ªlet''s check again." But the system refused. A trip to the security office followed¡ªan ordeal of confusion and swearing. The guard insisted Jason didn''t exist. Jason, armed only with sarcasm and frustration, had to escalate. One call to his manager and a whole lot of technical scrambling later, they found the culprit¡ª His data was gone. Wiped. Erased from the system. The likely cause? The recent virus. The company had restored from backups... but somehow, Jason''s profile hadn''t made the cut. An hour and a half of bureaucratic suffering later, Jason was finally allowed inside. He glanced upward, exasperated. "Bring it on. How much worse can this day possibly get?" --- In his ODC, a stranger sat¡ª In. His. Chair. Jason stopped cold. God. Dear God. A vein twitched. He was one second away from evolving into Ja-thunder. Before he could unleash a storm, the team lead spotted him. "Jason! Meet Katherine¡ªour new apprentice. You''ll be training her." Jason''s brewing thunder paused. Katherine stood¡ªa short, round-faced woman with a warm, nervous smile. Her glasses slid slightly down her nose, and she pushed them back with a quick, practiced motion. Beside her, Arnon lounged with his usual lazy confidence, sipping coffee like it was Sunday brunch. Jason''s gaze flicked between them¡ªKatherine, Arnon... Katherine again. His lips curled into a smirk. "You two," he said, tone rich with mischief, "look like you''d make a great pair." Arnon, mid-sip, whipped his head around so fast it was a miracle his neck stayed intact. "What¡ª?" Jason''s grin widened, eyes dancing with amusement. Oh, I''m shipping this. Forever and ever. Ahh. Stress buster¡ªyes. A sudden sound inturrepted them ,a sound that they rarely hear flooded the whole place Wahhhhnk¡ªWahhhhnk¡ª The fire alarm. The practiced quarterly drills evaporated from collective memory. Chaos erupted. Desks scraped, footsteps thundered, and a river of panicked employees surged toward the exits. Orderly lines dissolved into raw, primal instinct. The air reeked of smoke¡ªfaint but real. Through garbled announcements, one thing was clear: A fire. Somewhere above their floor. Jason looked at arnon for confirmation that he wasnt involved in this arson with the recent frequent burning jokes of his. Arnon nodded for who knows what and said " possibly the short fuse bursted " They both slipped into the crowd while keeping an eye out for their dear manager to make sure he is not the cause of all this. The crowd was moving towards the assembly point then¡ªJason stopped short. His pulse quickened. "Hey... where''s Katherine?" Arnon''s eyes narrowed. He scanned the dispersing crowd. No sign of her. Jason''s chest tightened. "Damn... She must be stuck." Arnon''s lips quirked into a reckless grin. "Well¡­" He cracked his knuckles. "Sometimes you gotta make decisions purely for the cinematic value." Jason met his gaze¡ªand without another word, they turned on their heels¡ª Sprinting back toward the building. The rescue "Hey! Stop!" a security guard''s voice chased them through the smoke. "The firefighters are on their way!" Jason didn''t stop. Neither did Arnon. The air thickened¡ªdense, stinging fog rolling through the corridors, tasting of scorched metal and ash. Lights flickered, and the heat pressed in like a living thing, smothering every breath. The distant crackle of flames and muffled orders from the fire response team echoed from the floors below. They''d broken through the lower levels, but the upper floors¡ªwhere Katherine was¡ªremained a danger zone. Jason''s eyes burned, but his steps stayed steady¡ªtoo steady. He moved low, close to the wall, his breath shallow against the heat. His hand shot out, slamming a door closed to starve the fire of oxygen¡ªautomatic, instinctive¡ª Wait¡­ How did ¡ª The thought barely formed before it scattered, lost in the chaos.Yet his body moved with a strange certainty¡ªlike a rhythm he hadn''t learned but always known. "Split up!" Jason rasped through the smoke. Arnon nodded, breaking left as Jason veered right. --- Arnon found her first¡ªKatherine, crouched low, coughing into her sleeve, disoriented but conscious. Flames devoured the walls behind her, heat distorting the air into a feverish haze, turning the world into a melting mirage. "Katherine!" Arnon barked. "On your feet!" She tried to rise, but her legs buckled¡ªshe collapsed with a pained gasp, her fingers scraping the hot floor. Arnon closed the distance¡ªhis movements sharp, almost too quick. He scooped her up effortlessly¡ªfar too easily for a man his size. She felt weightless in his arms, the heat of his soot-streaked chest somehow grounding. A crack¡ªlike bone snapping¡ªsplit the air. The ceiling above¡ª Move. Without thinking, Arnon twisted¡ªdebris crashed down behind him, missing by inches. He sprinted toward the stairwell¡ªfaster than any man burdened by another should. Katherine''s head lolled weakly against his chest. "You¡­" she coughed, voice faint and raw. "Fast¡­" Her voice broke, and her body slumped as if she''d been holding on to consciousness through sheer willpower. -- Meanwhile, Jason pressed forward, guided by¡ª Nothing. No thought. No plan. Only a razor-thin thread of instinct pulling him through the burning maze. The building roared, a beast devouring itself, and he felt the heat shift before he saw it¡ªsidestepped just as a gas line hissed and ignited behind him with a hungry roar. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. Too close¡ª His hands found a fire extinguisher¡ªquick, practiced¡ªand he smothered a blaze blocking his path. The nozzle swept side-to-side with perfect control, white clouds hissing over crackling embers. When .. The question dissolved as the air warped¡ª Boom. A support beam collapsed¡ª Jason spun¡ªtoo late¡ª The flames roared, and his body moved before his mind caught up¡ªduck, roll, ten steps to the left¡ªlike rehearsing a scene he hadn''t read. His heart pounded, but his hands didn''t shake. They remembered surviving.His knees hit the ground, sliding clear as the fire scorched a line where he''d stood a heartbeat before. The air blistered his skin. Pinned¡ªhis jacket trapped under the beam¡ªheat licking too close¡ª His muscles tensed¡ªtoo tight for instinct, too certain for panic¡ª The fabric ripped like paper. He was free. Smoke burned his lungs. His pulse pounded. But the rhythm remained. A whisper of motion, like dancing to a song he couldn''t hear. --- The stairwell loomed ahead¡ªjust as firefighters burst through the lower entrance, their voices sharp through radios and masks. "Anyone inside?" one called. "Here!" Arnon''s voice cut through the smoke. He shifted Katherine slightly, her head limp on his shoulder. "She''s unconscious but alive!" The firefighter nodded. "We''ve got a path back! Come with us¡ª" A sudden roar¡ªflames surged through the corridor behind them, sealing the way. The fire response team froze, their exit route cut off. "No good!" another firefighter barked. Jason and Arnon were trapped on the other side. "We''ll take another stairwell!" Jason shouted. The firefighter yelled back, "That side''s blocked¡ª" But Jason''s eyes were already on Arnon¡ªcalculating¡ª The building trembled. Fire spread below, consuming the stairs. Above¡ªcollapse imminent. --- Jason''s gaze dropped¡ªto the floor below. Only one option. "We''re jumping," he said flatly. Arnon''s brow furrowed. "That''s a whole floor. I''m carrying¡ª" Crack. The ceiling groaned¡ª Jason''s body answered before his mind. Legs coiled¡ªperfectly aligned, perfectly timed¡ª "Trust me." Arnon didn''t argue. He clutched Katherine tighter. And they jumped. --- The air rushed¡ªthe heat swallowed them¡ª Jason hit first¡ªabsorbing the impact, his legs driving into the floor with unnatural force, the scorched ground cracking beneath his boots. His arms whipped back¡ªand caught Arnon, shielding Katherine. His knees bent, dispersing the force as if his body was the landing pad. Jason, breathless, his palms pressed to the scorched ground¡ªfelt it. The pressure. The impact. And the raw power¡ª Not mine. A breath¡ª Katherine, stirring, coughed weakly¡ªalive. --- The firefighters, quickly descending, reached the landing¡ªeyes wide at the destruction. "What the hell¡ª" "We''re clear," Arnon''s voice cut through. His face soot-stained, calm. "She''s safe. Needs oxygen." Jason, breathless, added, "We''re going out through the west side." The firefighter, confused, shouted, "Wait! What the hell just¡ªhow did you¡ª" But Jason was already pulling Arnon forward¡ªKatherine''s head still lolling unconscious on his shoulder¡ª "Tell them," Jason muttered, "We''re ahead. Just meet us outside." --- The fire response team breached the corridor¡ªhoses unleashed torrents of water, steam screaming into the air. But in the chaos¡ª Jason, Arnon, and Katherine vanished into the smoke. --- Katherine stirred, groggy and smoke-drunk, as cool air hit her skin. They''d reached open ground¡ªthe burning building a smoking giant behind them, orange tongues still licking the sky. Sirens wailed. The asphalt beneath them was hot, cracked, and dusted with ash. "Did you¡­" Her voice cracked, hoarse. "Sorry¡­ I''m¡­ heavy¡­" Jason''s soot-stained lips quirked, his voice dry but amused. "Nah. You''re just light as a feather for Arnon." Arnon, deadpan: "Diet a little." But she caught it¡ªthe flicker in his eyes. A hint of something¡ªalmost¡­ nervous. Her eyes, fogged with confusion and smoke, narrowed. "You guys¡­ are insane". Smoke and Mirrors The cracked bench groaned beneath Jason and Arnon, the heat of the fire still clinging to their skin. The adrenaline had ebbed, leaving behind the weight of unanswered questions. Jason broke the silence. "So¡­ super strength?" Arnon lifted a brow. "Yeah. You?" Jason shrugged, his scorched shirt barely holding together. "Same." A pause. Then, with deadpan seriousness, Arnon asked, "Think we can lift a car?" Jason''s lips twitched. He glanced up. They stared at each other¡ªtwo men standing at the edge of something impossible. Then, simultaneously, they nodded. Because men are simple creatures. --- The paramedics worked quickly¡ªoxygen mask, cold compress, a brief check for burns. Katherine''s eyes fluttered open, glassy but alive. Jason leaned in, his voice light. "Hey. Back with us?" A hoarse whisper. "Feel... like toast." Arnon, dry as ever: "Crispy on the edges." Despite the pain, she cracked a faint smile. And opened her mouth¡ª A male voice echoed. A voice, harsh and commanding, cut through. The fire chief approached, his face a battlefield of anger and gratitude. "You two!" he barked. "That was reckless! Suicidal!" Jason met his glare with an exhausted, blank stare. "Yeah. You''re welcome." The chief''s fists clenched at his sides. "You disobeyed orders. Compromised a rescue operation¡­" He paused¡ªthen, with stiff reluctance, gave a sharp bow. "But you saved her. Thank you." Arnon offered a half-shrug. "Did what anyone would." Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. The chief''s eyes hardened. "Not anyone," he said quietly. "You did more." With the fire extinguished, the corporate gears ground into motion. Business Continuity Management protocols deployed: Meetings dragged. Reports flooded inboxes. The world spun on, indifferent to miracles. The night air was cool, still carrying the faint ghost of smoke. Jason and Arnon walked in silence, side by side. No words needed. Halfway home, they stopped. Looked at each other. A single, silent nod. Simple. --- The house smelled¡­ experimental. Elyse, chaotic as ever, stirred a pot in the kitchen with more confidence than skill. She had applied to Zetton University¡ªthe best in the city. Not that her brother would know. Typical. He''d break a guy''s nose for catcalling her but couldn''t name her favourite colour. Suddenly¡ª Jay, their half¨CGerman Shepherd, bolted to the front door¡ªpaws skittering, ears perked, and tail wagging furiously, spinning in excited circles. The doorbell rang. Elyse opened it¡ª Jason and Arnon stood there, bruised, battered¡ªmirror images of each other, from soot-streaked faces down to matching scrapes. Her eyes narrowed. "...Fell down some stairs together?" Jason, deadpan: "Yup. We both fell. I won." A beat. Elyse''s brow arched. "Huh?" Arnon, smirking: "Bro, you hit the stairs last." The night slowed. The three of them lounged together¡ªElyse sprawled on the couch, launching into her world: application essays, her hatred for trigonometry, her hopes, her nerves. And Jason? He listened. Truly listened. Not just the absent-minded nodding of an older brother¡ªhe asked questions, laughed at her jokes, let her world unfold. And Elyse felt it. She felt seen. -- Later, after Arnon had gone, Jason tucked Elyse into bed. Jay curled protectively at her feet, ears twitching even in sleep. Her face¡ªsoft in the moonlight¡ª He walked to the hall thinking to himself. She wasn''t a side character. She had her own story. Her own world. Then¡ª A slow, steady hum echoed. pressure¡ªlike a needle dipped in rot and decay for centuries¡ªslithered up his spine. The temperature¡ªdipped and spiked in nauseating waves. The walls¡ªcolors began to bleed, running like wet paint, streaking the room in shades that didn''t belong¡ªbitter, metallic, and cold. The floor rippled, the wood grain bending and twisting like muscle under skin. A sound¡ªcrick-crick-crack¡ªwet bones snapping, but not his. A low, guttural hum¡ªinhuman, vibrating his bones¡ªfilled the air. His reflection¡ª Smiling. But he didn''t feel his lips move. The smile twitched¡ªunnatural. The head cocked to a side¡ªtoo far, a sharp angle, the neck bending with a sickening pop. The eyes¡ªhis eyes¡ªrotted, black thar like thick and putrid fluid poured from the sockets, crawling down the glass like infected tears. Then¡ª The reflection raised a hand. Jason''s stayed at his side. The hand pressed to the glass¡ª And pushed through. The window ruptured¡ªlike water¡ª The hand, his hand¡ªtoo pale, too many joints in the fingers, nails cracked and splintered¡ªemerged into his world. A voice¡ªhis voice¡ªwhispered through gritted teeth. "See you soon." The hand snapped back¡ª The window sealed¡ªsmooth, perfect¡ª As if nothing had ever happened. Except¡ª A handprint. Black and Rotting with faint bumps across it that made it look like.. Like something had crawled up from beneath the earth. And in the sudden silence¡ª A single, soft click. The clock on the wall, frozen seconds before¡ª Resumed. Ticking faster and faster. And a humming sound continued. Eighth image Jason stared at the handprint, his pulse racing. In spite of his initial disgust, curiosity took over, drawing him closer to the smudge on the surface¡ªlike a magnet pulling metal, like a pitcher plant luring its prey. He reached out to touch it, to deny the reality of what was happening. But the sensations he felt rather denied his delusions. The surface was warm, like flesh, with a subtle, unpleasant pulse beneath his fingertips. As he pulled back, he felt resistance¡ªlike breaking through the surface tension of water, that brief, delicate moment before truly emerging. And then¡ª _ Pain. A searing, ice-cold tendril lanced through his nerves, slithering like a parasite burrowing through his bloodstream. His vision fractured¡ªbrief, strobing images: A man in a long trench coat¡ªprobably a detective¡ªflipping through case files, marbles rolling across the table. A muscular yet unnaturally fluid man, a crescent-shaped scar beneath his eyes, pushing a stroller with a baby. Looking up, across the transverse of space and time, beyond anything separating him from Jason, he smiled¡ªa warm, hearty smile. And then, a distorted voice followed: "Tick-tock, tick-tock¡­" A city engulfed in an all-consuming inferno. Not a single building spared. Smoke rose in suffocating plumes as flames licked the sky, the heat so intense that even gold could melt into twisted, formless rivers. Above, an unblinking eye¡ªcolossal, suspended in the void, vomiting forth aberrant creatures that slithered into the burning ruins. Elyse¡ªscreaming. A gut-wrenching scream. Calling out to Jason. And beside her sat someone familiar. Very, very familiar. Some god, hearing his pleas, must have decided to spare him from further misery as the pain flushed itself away. The shard melted into his skin, and the visions snapped off¡ªleaving him gasping on the floor, drooling a pool of saliva. The clock on the wall resumed its rhythm, ticking and tocking steadily as it always had. --- Humans are prey to many sins, and some become prey to those born of them. The one doing the deed claimed to fight against sin¡ªor so his killing spree''s story was supposed to go, as he preyed upon those who had become the embodiment of sins. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. Greed, wrath, envy, lust, gluttony, sloth... And pride. The latest photo on the detective''s desk bore the label: Pride¡ªa corrupt policeman who had strayed from his bodyguard detail to sneak a peek at forbidden beauties. He had reached the peak of stillness. Simply dead. But he had a coin. An eighth photo. The kill was rougher than usual for the serial killer. The public was already losing faith in cop''anity'', but the detective focused on something else: seven sins. Eight photos. Two victims of Pride. The seventh kill followed the psycho''s usual method¡ªa coin and a marble. The eighth, however, was different. Sloppy. Off. The detective ran through the permutations: A dull thud echoed as he placed the marble on an imaginary option. He was sure. He had to be. Because if anyone knew which option was right, it was him. --- Sometimes, the hardest decisions in life were the most mundane. Like choosing which color socks to wear¡ªbecause somehow, picking the wrong pair could set the tone for the entire day. Or deciding between two pairs of innerwear¡ªone with two holes, the other with 1.5 holes. The difference was minimal, yet choosing wrongly felt like an unseen test of fate. All of these small, seemingly trivial choices wove the texture of life. They were the pauses between life''s bigger moments, the unremarkable stitches that held everything together. Sitting together, staring at three sheets of paper, was a family of three¡ªa father, a mother, and a little pipsqueak of a kid. The father and child mirrored each other perfectly, both staring at the papers with the same furrowed brows, as if deciphering solving world crisis ,but in reality they were trying to pick a paper with their weekend destination. They were deciding where to go for the weekend: A zoo¡ªa place of wonder, where the child could marvel at animals, unaware of the existential boredom etched into the lion''s gaze. An exhibition¡ªa chance to learn, though the kid would likely spend most of the time running in circles around the display stands. A park¡ªsimple, timeless, where time would slow down, and the world would shrink to the size of their picnic mat. Mundane. Simple. But even the simplest choices held meaning. Beside the man was a tiny bean who had sported a Cerelac mustache, making the resemblance even more jr.johnly. Jane, watching them, couldn''t hold back her laughter spilling the water across the table while the water made only one paper wet. It was rarely the grand vacations or extravagant outings that shaped a childhood. More often, it was the small moments¡ªholding a parent''s hand on a walk, an afternoon of hide-and-seek, or the time Dad let them stay up an hour past bedtime. Parents often don''t realize the invisible weight of these small decisions. With every "yes" to a spontaneous ice cream trip or every "no" to one more bedtime story, they''re curating memories that will linger long after childhood fades. Because in the end, kids wouldn''t remember which weekend they went to the zoo, the exhibition, or the park. They''d remember that they chose together. That their parents laughed. That their dad made everything feel important. That their mom''s smile turned even the dullest afternoon into something golden. Even the smallest choices held meaning. Even the most mundane moments shaped a childhood. The Mythical Journey John bent down to adjust the strap of July''s baby carrier, ensuring his one-year-old pretty beautiful cute and wow daughter was snug against his chest. The family had been looking forward to buying her a stroller, at least before she started walking. Jane had wished for it on her seventh birthday, dreaming of strolling her baby sister across the park like all the other kids did¡ªtypical, adorable girl stuff. Right now, she was walking beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm as they stepped into the grand entrance of the exhibition hall. The moment they crossed the threshold, they were enveloped by an ethereal blend of soft instrumental music and the warm glow of strategically placed lights, illuminating a vast mural depicting the many realms of mythology. The mural stretched across the ceiling and down the walls, a swirling dance of deities and legends painted in rich hues of gold, crimson, and deep indigo. The exhibition had been well-prepared and was worth the entry fee, John sighed, because he knew the pain of spending exorbitant money only to be disappointed¡ªlike jane''s cooking after their marriage. As if reading his mind, he felt a small pinch travel from the spot where Jane''s hand rested. Around him, scenes from various cultures blended seamlessly: Zeus wielding his lightning bolt, Odin sacrificing his eye for wisdom, and Anubis weighing the hearts of the dead. John pointed to a depiction of Krishna lifting Govardhan Hill, his voice hushed with awe as he whispered to Jane. "You see, long ago, Lord Indra, angered by the villagers of Vrindavan, sent a torrential storm to punish them. But young Krishna lifted this mighty hill on his little finger, sheltering everyone beneath it. That''s what true strength is¡ªnot just power, but the will to protect." Jane nodded, her eyes shimmering with curiosity, while July, though too young to understand, was mesmerized by the movement of colors. "Look at her," Jane chuckled, watching their daughter reach out toward the glowing depictions. "She''s already captivated." Interactive touchscreens lined the room, allowing visitors to explore different myths in depth. John tapped on one titled The Twelve Labors of Hercules, watching as the screen came alive with animation. Jane explored another on Ragnar?k and the Twilight of the Gods, while July giggled at the vibrant illustrations dancing across the screen. As they moved into the next section, the exhibition shifted focus. A towering statue stood at the center, its sculpted arms rippling with carved muscle, long hair cascading over its shoulders. The pedestal bore the name Samson. The plaque beside had the story of his divine strength from his long hair, his betrayal by Delilah, and his final act of sacrifice, bringing down the Philistine temple upon himself and his enemies. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. An interactive display allowed visitors to experience Samson''s fateful moment. John placed his hand on a glowing panel, and the screen simulated the sensation of stone columns trembling under his grip. A deep, resonant narration played: "With his final act, Samson brought down the house of the Philistines, proving that true strength lies not just in muscle, but in faith." Nearby, an aged scroll displayed Samson''s story alongside other legendary figures of strength: Heracles wrestling the Nemean lion, C¨² Chulainn in his battle frenzy, and Gilgamesh seeking immortality. July, oblivious to the deep discussion, reached for John''s collar and cooed, her tiny fingers wrapping around a loose thread. Further in, glass cases displayed legendary weapons from various mythologies, each accompanied by an interactive panel: John pressed a button, and a soft golden glow highlighted Mj?lnir. Jane did the same for Excalibur, triggering an animation that showed the sword rising from a mystical lake. July squealed in delight at the shifting colors. The next section was a storytelling corner, designed for both adults and children. Cushions covered the floor, and an animated storyteller appeared on a large screen, narrating the tale of Beowulf and Grendel with expressive gestures. The characters were illustrated in rich, medieval-style art, blending old-world charm with modern digital enhancements. Jane took a seat, settling July into her lap, while John leaned against a nearby pillar, listening. The rhythmic cadence of the storyteller''s voice seemed to transport them back in time. "Even if she doesn''t remember this," Jane whispered, brushing her fingers through July''s soft hair, "it''s a beautiful way to introduce her to these stories." A little farther in, a craft station awaited them. They could try their hand at miniature painting, depicting scenes from various mythologies¡ªperhaps Achilles facing Hector, or the Viking god Tyr sacrificing his hand to Fenrir. July won, according to her dad. John held July''s hand and guided her as she clumsily scribbled across a coloring page of Beowulf. The wax crayon slipped from her fingers, rolling across the table, and she let out a surprised giggle. Near the exit, the family arrived at a serene corner featuring a massive tree mural. A sign beside it read: Leave behind a piece of your journey. Leaf-shaped papers and pens were provided for visitors to write their thoughts and pin them to the branches. John took one and wrote: For July, so she may always carry these stories in her heart. Jane smiled as she read it, pressing her hand over his briefly before pinning it to the tree. Before leaving, they stopped at a photo booth filled with costume props. John playfully placed a golden crown on July''s head, making her look like a tiny goddess, while Jane draped a red shawl over her shoulders, resembling a mythical queen. As they stepped out of the exhibition into the real world once more, John exhaled deeply. "That was... incredible." "Like stepping into another world," Jane agreed. July let out a small yawn, her head resting against John''s chest. She might not remember the stories, the murals, or the glowing artifacts¡ªbut somewhere in her little mind, the magic had already taken root. Smile Between a long yawn the kid paused and caught sight of a bubble drifting through the air. She watched it float closer until it was right in front of her face. With a slow pop, she ended its journey, feeling like a princess in her own story. Then the smell hit. Garlic¡ªsharp and stale. Her nose wrinkled as she recoiled, eyes landing on a hooded man grinning at her. He looked expectant, like he wanted a pat on the head for his performance, the way she''d praise her mother for a bedtime story well told. Instead, she ran. The man pocketed the bubble blower and stepped into the lift. --- Detective Roy Calhoun pulled open his apartment door and removed his hood. "Kids these days have no respect for bullies." The door opened to stagnant but disturbed air, like a breath held too long. The lights cut through the room with an unnatural sharpness, their glow neither warm nor cold. His fingers twitched at his side. Nothing was out of place. The couch sat where it always did. The bookshelf leaned at its usual angle. But as he stepped forward, the floor groaned a fraction too late beneath his weight, like the room had been expecting someone else. Then he saw it. A thick case file, open on the kitchen table, waiting. His name was on the top. His breath slowed. The paper rasped under his fingertips as he turned the first page. Victim: Roy Calhoun Time of Death: 3:42 AM (Tonight.) Cause: Exsanguination due to multiple incisions. Self-inflicted or assisted unknown. The crime scene photos stared back at him. His apartment. His table. His body. Blood soaked into the grain of the wood, dark trails leading toward the bedroom. The television flickered in the background, frozen in static. The details weren''t just accurate. They were inevitable. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. Roy exhaled through his nose, a sharp, humorless breath. He traced the letters of his name with his thumb, muttering under his breath, "well that''s new , R... O... Y... C... A... L... H... O... U... N... First time they got it right." His phone vibrated. Unknown number. He answered, voice steady. "Detective Calhoun. If this is about car warranties, I''d hold off¡ªI might not be around to use them." Silence. Then¡ªhis own voice, quieter, stretched thin. "I gently advise you not to pull any of your usual shenanigans." The call cut out. Roy stood there, phone still in hand, staring at his reflection in the window. His own face. His own body. The familiarity of it pressed against his skin, cloying, like an old jacket a size too small. For the first time in his life, he wasn''t sure if it was his skin at all. And then he smiled a eerie long smile. ----- The room seemed to contract around him; walls creaked, and the air grew dense, pressing against his chest. He staggered back, his breath shallow, eyes darting to the clock on the wall. The second hand stuttered, each tick echoing like a distant drumbeat. A low hum filled the room, resonating through his bones. Jason''s gaze snapped to the source¡ªa faint glow emanating from beneath the closed bedroom door. His heart pounded in his ears, each beat urging him to move, to flee, yet his feet remained anchored to the floor. The doorknob twisted slowly, a deliberate, agonizing motion. Jason''s mouth went dry, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The door creaked open, revealing a sliver of darkness that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. From the shadows emerged a figure draped in a tattered cloak, its face obscured beneath a hood. The scent of damp earth and decaying leaves wafted into the room, mingling with the metallic tang of Jason''s fear. "Who are you?" Jason''s voice cracked, barely more than a whisper. The figure remained silent, gliding forward with an otherworldly grace. As it approached, the temperature plummeted, and Jason''s breath formed ghostly plumes in the frigid air. Without warning, the figure extended a skeletal hand, its fingers elongated and wrapped in translucent, papery skin. In its palm lay a small, intricately carved wooden box, the surface etched with symbols that seemed to writhe and shift under Jason''s gaze. Compelled by a force he couldn''t name, Jason reached out, his hand trembling as it hovered above the box. The moment his fingertips brushed the surface, a jolt of energy surged through him, and the room dissolved into darkness. When the world righted itself, Jason found himself standing in a vast, desolate landscape. The sky churned with storm clouds, and the air buzzed with static electricity. In the distance, he could make out the silhouette of a towering structure, its spires piercing the heavens. Jason took a tentative step forward, the ground crunching beneath his feet. With each step, the wind howled louder, carrying with it whispers that gnawed at the edges of his sanity. As he neared the structure, he recognized it¡ªa cathedral, but twisted and malformed, as if plucked from a nightmare. The doors stood open, a dim light flickering within. Summoning every ounce of courage, Jason crossed the threshold. Inside, the air was thick with incense and something more sinister. Pews lined the nave, occupied by figures cloaked in shadow, their heads bowed in silent reverence. At the altar stood a man, his back to the congregation, chanting in a language that resonated deep within Jason''s core. The man turned, and Jason''s breath caught in his throat. There were no eyes, no nose, no eyebrows nor ears a blank face faced his direction , and a cruel smile nearly fitting jalf the face widened beyond. "Welcome, Jason," the voice echoed, reverberating through the cavernous space. "We''ve been expecting you." The congregation lifted their heads in unison, revealing faces devoid of features, smooth and blank like mannequins. A collective murmur rose, a dissonant hymn that set Jason''s teeth on edge. Panic surged, and Jason stumbled back, his mind racing. They advanced, each step measured, predatory. "You can''t escape destiny," the figure spoke transforming to form a proper figure. The congregation echoed the gesture, their featureless faces zoomed in towards Jason. A blinding light erupted from the altar, engulfing Jason. He screamed, the sound swallowed by the brilliance. When the light receded, Jason found himself back in his apartment, sprawled on the floor, drenched in sweat. The handprint on the wall had vanished, and the room was silent, save for the steady ticking of the clock. Gasping for breath, Jason clutched his chest, his heart racing. The cathedral¡ªit all felt disturbingly real. And the struggle ceased and a blankness took over. the next The next Jason''s heartbeat resonated in his ears¡ªdeep, thunderous, yet unnervingly slow. A dull pressure mounted behind his eyes, blurring his vision. His limbs felt distant, as if submerged in deep water. Then, darkness. He drifted in and out of consciousness, catching glimpses of sterile white walls and the murmur of voices just beyond comprehension. "I''ve never seen someone as fit as he is." A beep. The rustle of paper. "Prepare the equipment,so its ready for the procedure." Jason''s body convulsed slightly; he couldn''t move or speak. "For the next study subject, we have Noida." A pause. The sound of gloved hands adjusting something nearby. "This person here is in Stage 2 of the disease." The words slipped past like oil on water, twisting, warping, breaking into static. Jason couldn''t discern if they were real or a dream. Yet, deep within, a whisper of dread curled into existence. Jason awoke in the hospital bed, afternoon light slanting through the blinds. His body felt... light. Too light. As if gravity had loosened its grip on him. Sitting up, he anticipated soreness. Instead, his muscles coiled with a quiet readiness, as if he hadn''t just spent a day unconscious in a hospital. The antiseptic scent of the room clung to him, but his mind was hazy, fragments of memory slipping through his fingers like sand. Did someone say his name? No, it had to be a dream. A bad one. He stood, stretching absently, and reached for his glass of water. It slipped from his grasp¡ªbut before he could react, his hand shot out, catching it just inches from the ground. Jason froze. His movements had been too fast, too precise. He hadn''t even reacted¡ªhis body had moved on its own. Only then did he acknowledge the Arnon in the room. "Awww, our sleeping beauty has woken up early. Did my kiss really work?" Jason slowly faced the window and prayed, "Dear God, please find my friend a girlfriend. Lately, it has become worse." A person can survive without food for one to two months. Without water for three to seven days. Without sleep: If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Jason had been diagnosed with fainting due to prolonged sleep deprivation, causing his body to shut down. They administered health supplements and induced sleep. But here he was, doing a dance straight out of pyramid pictures for fulfilling his prayers..... in just a day¡ªthis cockroach just never dies. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness because of lack of sleep for a whole day. Thinking of this, he went to look in the mirror. His hair strands obstructed his vision, and he planned to get a much-needed haircut. Leaving the hospital late in the afternoon, Jason returned home. His sister ran to him, hugging him tightly, expressing how worried she had been. Then she looked up. "Ewww, what is this haircut?" All the confidence his barber had hyped him with dissolved like cotton candy in water. A week of death was going to ensue. --- A man in his late 40s, paced the dimly lit room, a marble rolling between his fingers as he scrutinized the crime scene photos spread before him. The cases were meticulously executed¡ªsix murders with barely any overt connection. Yet, a disturbing symmetry threaded through them all. Determined to uncover any more clues, he revisited the most recent crime scene. The victim, a man in his mid-30s, was discovered with his abdomen grotesquely distended, a fourth burger forcibly lodged in his throat. Reconstructing the killer''s method, he envisioned the sequence: Returning home late from his favorite eatery, likely encountered someone familiar or persuasive enough to gain entry without resistance. The apartment door closed, sealing him in with something far worse than the night outside.Once inside, the atmosphere turned into a party they had been vibing for "never gonna give"¡ªuntil the first bite of the burger. The burger''s patty concealed finely honed razors, slicing his mouth and throat with each unsuspecting chew. By the time he realized, it was too late. Blood pooled on his tongue, but that was only the beginning. The pain inside him was eclipsed by the agony that followed. The killer restrained him, pressing him onto the dining table with eerie patience. Then, the true artistry began. A blade traced his skin, not deep enough to kill¡ªjust enough to peel, to flay. Flesh curled away in thin ribbons, each cut deliberate, measured. The air reeked of copper and burnt adrenaline. The victim struggled, but his own blood made the table slick. The killer whispered to him between each slice, recounting ancient punishments, describing how emperors once used this technique to unmake traitors piece by piece. His chest was a canvas, his skin unspooling in crimson spirals. His screams dwindled into hoarse gasps as pain became an all-consuming thing. When his body finally sagged in surrender, the killer took his time with the finale. A good dance around the slumped man in blood .He forced open the man''s mouth and placed a silver coin beneath his shredded tongue¡ªa grotesque obol for the afterlife. Then, as the final breath rattled free, the killer took up the intestines, draping them around the corpse''s neck like a macabre garland. The blood was still warm as the killer stepped back, admiring the work. A moment of silence, then¡ªmovement. Slow, deliberate steps through the pooling gore, leaving behind footprints like a twisted dance. And then, as if nothing had happened, the killer slipped away, leaving only a body¡ªa work of ruinous art waiting to be found. Other victims'' photos revealed equally heinous fates: The patterns seemed nonsensical, a chaotic tapestry of violence. Yet, he has discerned the underlying psyche¡ªa mind orchestrating these acts with a perverse sense of morality, reminiscent of twisted fairy tales. A singular detail unified the cases: a silver coin, deliberately placed beneath each victim''s tongue. This was the killer''s signature. Without his unconventional insight, the connection to the seven deadly sins might have been overlooked. The murderer interpreted minor transgressions as cardinal sins¡ªgluttony assigned to a man eating an extra burger,when a man is eating another burger after his hunger is satisfied.. he is eating another person''s food. The rationale was as warped as it was lethal. --- Even within the supposed sanctuary of his home, Jason''s torment persisted, his dreams a relentless cascade of distorted memories. As he drifted into uneasy sleep, the hospital''s disembodied voices resurfaced, looping like a corrupted recording. "I''ve never seen ... as fit as he is." ... A beep. The rustle of paper. "Prepare .... it is ready for the procedure." ... The phrases overlapped, warping and distorting, their meanings twisting into incomprehensibility. .. "For the next study subject, we have¡ª" ... "Stage 2 of¡ª" ... " as fit as he is." ... "is ready for the." ... "the next study" ... "Stage 2 of" ... "He is¡ª" "Ready for the¡ª" "Next Stage." The words repeated, a relentless mantra, dissolving into static. Until only a single, chilling declaration remained. "He is ready for the next stage.¡± good boy His mental simulation vision dissolved, the scene of the dancing killer slipping away through the open door. The moment he blinked back to reality, the door before him swung open, revealing a young man with a face so naturally admirable it could have belonged to a film star. A stark contrast to the rugged, world-worn Colhoin.... Colhun.... Colhoun,ah yes Colhoun who had long since passed his fortieth year. Eric Whitmore, the newly appointed assistant, stood before him, crisp in uniform, sharp-eyed, and exuding an eagerness that Colhoun found exhausting. A useful prick, the force had called him. A useless one, in Colhoun''s book. "Find anything?" Eric asked, stepping aside. Colhoun grunted. "Nothing worth a damn. You?" Eric shook his head. "Coin came back clean. No prints, no markings. Just old currency from different years." He shrugged. "Maybe the killer''s a coin collector." Colhoun exhaled sharply. The coins had been the only thing that made sense¡ªuntil they didn''t. A calling card, maybe. Or a taunt. Now? They were just dead weight. That only left them with one last place. --- Colhoun crouched, snapping on a pair of gloves recreating the scenario. "What do you think?" Eric asked, shifting on his feet. Colhoun turned the marble in his fingers, watching the faint reflection of the streetlight skitter across its surface. "I think you shouldwear less perfume," he murmured, "and whoever left this wanted us to find it." Eric frowned. "You mean the killer?" Colhoun shook his head. "No. The killer leaves coins. This?" He held the marble up. "This is someone else." Eric exhaled. "So we''ve got two players in this game¡­ or some random kid threw it as high as he could, and here it is." Colhoun shot him a look. Eric grinned. "Hey, I am considering all possibilities." Colhoun pocketed the marble. "Or more." This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. The wind picked up, carrying faint laughter from the city beyond. Normal people in a normal world, unaware of the darkness lurking beneath their feet. Eric clicked on his flashlight. "We should sweep the perimeter. See if there''s anything else." Colhoun waved a hand. "Knock yourself out, kid." They moved in silence, scanning the ground, the dumpster, the alley walls. The single streetlight flickered weakly, like it was trying to opt out of the scene. Eric crouched near a pile of old newspapers and trash, brushing aside a layer of dirt. He paused. "Something''s here." Colhoun walked over as Eric pulled out a folded strip of paper, wedged under a broken brick. Faded ink. Jagged handwriting. Good boy. Eric frowned. "What the hell does that mean?" Colhoun ran his thumb over the paper. It wasn''t from a book. Wasn''t a receipt. This was deliberate. "A message," he muttered. Eric leaned in. "For who? Us? The killer?" Colhoun let out a dry chuckle. "Or the one who left the marble." Eric exhaled. "I don''t like this. It''s messy. A killer who leaves coins, another player dropping a marble, now cryptic notes? Feels like we''re getting dragged into something bigger." Colhoun stuffed the note into his coat. "You don''t know the half of it." They kept moving, circling back toward the dumpster. The dirt was disturbed¡ªnot just from wind and weather. Colhoun crouched, running his fingers lightly over the ground. A faint indentation¡ªa shoe print. Mostly erased. "Got something." Eric leaned in. "Boot?" Colhoun studied it. "Too narrow. Dress shoe. Someone careful. Someone who doesn''t belong here." Eric scratched his head. "killer?" Colhoun shook his head. "No. Coin guy? He''s a creature of habit. This feels different." Eric let out a breath. "So we''ve got a third player." Colhoun stood, brushing off his hands. "Looks that way." The wind whistled, rattling through the lot. A print, a note, a marble¡ªpieces of a puzzle with no edges, no clear picture. But Colhoun had been in this game long enough to know one thing: When you find a thread, you pull. And you keep pulling. As they stepped back into the city lights, Eric glanced over. "So, uh¡­ you ever solve a case that wasn''t weird as hell?" Colhoun smirked. "Once. Guy stole a cow." "¡­And?" "Turned out to be his cow. Just got drunk and forgot where he parked it." Eric blinked. "Cows don''t park." Colhoun grinned. "Tell that to the guy. He swore it was right there before it wandered off." Eric shook his head. "I''m starting to think the real horror here is your sense of humor." "Stick around, kid," Colhoun said, lighting a cigarette. "It gets worse." They weren''t just chasing shadows. They were stepping into them. --- The world runs on a simple truth: if you do something often enough without setting anything on fire, people will start calling you an expert. It doesn''t matter if the task is as simple as pressing the same three buttons in an office or nodding thoughtfully in meetings¡ªrepetition breeds confidence, and confidence breeds undeserved promotions. One day, you figure out how to fix a printer jam, and the next thing you know, you''re the "tech guy," despite your only real skill being the ability to yank out a crumpled paper without crying. Before long, people are asking you for stock market advice, relationship counseling, and possibly open-heart surgery, all because you once managed to unfreeze an Excel sheet. Jason moved through his morning routine, but something was off. His limbs felt heavier, his grip weaker¡ªmuscles that had once thrummed with quiet power now sluggish, unresponsive. From the moment he woke up, a strange weakness clung to him¡ªlike his newfound strength had found a lover and abandoned him overnight. "Something has hit its expiry date" jason mused. In the background, his sister was watching the news, her face scrunched in concern. The screen flashed reports of escalating gang wars, a rising death toll painting the city in blood. Jason barely paid attention. Another day, another cycle. As he stepped out into yet another cursed weekday, his only solace was shipping Arnon and Katherine¡ªsomething Arnon despised to his core. By late evening, their team''s infamous short fuse called for an urgent meeting, announcing something new. patterns Life''s only constant is its unpredictability. When you find yourself submerged so profoundly that even the devil''s abode lies above, remember¡ªlife is unpredictable; perhaps the devil is shielding you from humans or even God. When you ascend beyond the heavens, touching realms uncharted, remember¡ªlife is unpredictable. The individual you casually share tea with today might become the era''s greatest actor. The stranger you encountered a week ago could now be bound to his own bed, his body left to decay, licked by a silent, indifferent goat. No neighbors to hear the struggle. No screams to pierce the night. The killer might have simply soaked the man''s feet in saltwater, allowing the goat to do the rest. Death, slow and unseen, nestled within the eerie quiet of an empty house. --- Detective Colhoun''s phone rang¡ªa melody so sweet, yet it only ever signaled death. He stood in a dim alley, its sole illumination a feeble penlight flickering at his feet. The air carried the sour tang of damp concrete, mingled with the faint stench of decay. He retrieved his phone, already anticipating the message. "Another one," came the voice on the other end. "Ninth." No shock, no urgency. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling a sigh that sounded more amused than concerned. His partner, Eric, stood beside him, shifting uneasily. "Are you going to say something?" Eric asked, already dreading the inevitable. Colhoun pocketed his phone. Then, with the driest tone imaginable, he murmured, "At least the target wasn''t my dadda-base¡­ that''s the best place to save your dad jokes." Eric groaned. The two proceeded to the crime scene. --- The house stood isolated, swallowed by darkness, the surrounding land vast and empty. It wasn''t abandoned, but it might as well have been. Inside, the air was thick with an unnatural stillness. The body lay tied to the bed, ropes cutting into swollen, discolored flesh. The victim''s feet¡ªraw, stripped of skin¡ªbore the unmistakable signs of prolonged exposure to saltwater. The goat had done its work well; its rough tongue had left jagged, uneven wounds along the soles. Some areas were licked so deeply that bone was exposed. The man''s face was frozen in a grotesque half-scream, his throat slit cleanly after hours¡ªperhaps days¡ªof torment. The scent of blood mingled with something earthier, almost¡­ farm-like. Eric swallowed hard. "What the hell is this?" Colhoun crouched, his sharp eyes scanning every inch of the scene, as if piecing together a puzzle in his mind. He donned gloves before carefully lifting the victim''s jaw. Beneath the tongue, as expected¡ª Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. "A silver coin," he muttered. He retrieved a pair of tweezers from his coat and lifted the coin, turning it under the dim light. Eric exhaled, running a hand down his face. "So it''s him." Colhoun didn''t respond immediately. Instead, he stood, his gaze sweeping across the room. Something was amiss. "He''s changing his game," Colhoun finally said. Eric frowned. "How so?" Colhoun turned the coin between his fingers. "There''s always a pattern. Unless someone doesn''t want there to be one." His expression sharpened. "Which, in itself, becomes a pattern." Eric muttered under his breath as they stepped back toward the door. "So it wasn''t the seven deadly sins. There''s no pattern. He''s just playing with us." He paused. "Or with you." Colhoun shot him a sharp look, then, after a beat, deadpanned, "Maybe he just doesn''t like people who eat meat and people he meet." Eric blinked at him. "I swear to God, Colhoun¡ª" But Colhoun wasn''t listening. He was already lost in thought, reframing everything he knew about the case. ---- They both stood before the board that had been there from the beginning, reordering every detail, searching for cracks, inconsistencies, or new connections. The Murders
  1. The Feast of Betrayal
Victim: Anthony "Tony" Laskaris (36) ¨C Restaurant Owner Tony''s diner was a second home to many, a place of warmth and excess. But indulgence has a cost. His corpse slumped over his dining table, his abdomen grotesquely bloated as if he had gorged himself to death. A half-chewed burger, soaked in blood, jutted from his mouth¡ªrazor blades lining his shredded throat. His lips, cruelly stitched into a permanent grin. But his true death was slower. His stomach lining was carefully punctured, his own gastric acid eating him from within. The pain would have lasted hours. And then, the final mockery¡ªhis intestines, coiled around his neck like a grotesque necklace. On the kitchen wall, smeared in blood: "THE LAST SUPPER." Beneath his tongue, hidden by his final bite, lay a silver coin¡ªa signature of something far older than a mere killer. ---
  1. Strength Without Authority
Victim: Daniel "Danny" Figueroa (32) ¨C Gym Trainer / Bouncer Danny built his life on strength¡ªprotecting others, defending his pride. He refused to bow. But power only matters if you''re allowed to keep it. His body was found in an alley behind his gym, slumped against the wall. A single bullet to the forehead¡ªa clean kill. But the scene was far from simple. His hands were bound behind him with his own resistance bands, stretched to the point of cutting into his skin. His jaw was broken, forced open by a dumbbell wedged between his teeth. A statement. Strength does not dictate authority. ---
  1. A Dance of Desperation
Victim: Detective Eric Nolan (42) Eric chased shadows, but in the end, the shadows caught him. His fingers still twitched, reaching for something unseen. He had fought¡ªhis ribs were broken, his knuckles split. Two things were found with him: A large marble, glistening under the streetlight. A puzzle piece that didn''t fit. A silver coin beneath his tongue. The sins here were tangled. Was it sloth for not acting fast enough? Or was it something more¡ªwas he merely the wrong man at the wrong time? --- 4-7. The Others Each victim, a different story. A former activist silenced. A social media star mutilated. A fighter robbed of his fists. A stockbroker drowning in greed¡ªliterally. Each death was calculated. A message in every detail. But then¡ª ---
  1. The King Without a Crown
Victim: Undisclosed (???) The scene was pristine. Almost ritualistic. Unlike the others, this one bore no signs of physical suffering. Instead, the message was in the absence of violence. A single chair in an empty room. A mirror placed before it. The victim''s reflection, forever watching itself. A single phrase was scrawled on the wall: "What is a king, when the throne is gone?" No name. No history. Just a lingering presence, as if the victim''s identity had been erased entirely.Sometimes even the detective finds it difficult to remember this murder. --- "And then there is the recent one ...hmm something''s off," Colhoun muttered. Eric frowned. "Yeah, no kidding. This one''s a nightmare." Colhoun didn''t respond. He was delving beyond the scene, beyond the patterns, into the mind of the killer. There was always a pattern. Unless someone didn''t want there to be one. And that meant... The pattern itself was fracturing. A slow smile¡ªone that never reached his eyes¡ªtugged at Colhoun''s lips. "This isn''t part of the game," he murmured. Eric raised a brow. "What?" Colhoun turned toward him, tossing the silver coin once before catching it. "The killer''s changing the rules." He flicked the coin up again, watching it spin. "Question is..." "Who''s he playing with now?¡± The rewriting Detective Colhoun exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the tangled mess of case files, autopsy reports, and forensic notes spread across his desk. He ignored the latest death for now, rolling the marble between his fingers, slow and steady. Patterns. Patterns. A small smile. A gentle laugh. A louder one. Then he roared, the laughter bubbling up uncontrollably, shaking his shoulders, knocking him back. He slid off his chair, hitting the floor but still laughing, his breath ragged, his face twisted in something between amusement and revelation. Eric startled, yanking his gun free, eyes wide. "Have you lost your goddamn mind?" Colhoun just wiped his mouth, breath still uneven, staring at the ceiling as the weight of it all settled. "No, Eric. I''ve just figured out who rewrote reality." Eric sighed saying good thing it wasn''t one of his "jokes" again. "Oh, so why do.." "please, i will go get us lunch". --- It had taken him too long to realize. He had been looking for a murderer. The case had stalled for months¡ªnot because the killer was too clever, but because someone had rearranged the truth. What he should have been looking for was an editor. The coins. Every victim had one beneath their tongue. A signature too perfect, too deliberate, too staged. But Eric Nolan''s coin had been found deeper than the others, pressing into the soft tissue of his throat. Unlike the others, it had been placed hours after death¡ªnot immediately. Why? Someone had wanted his death to match the others, but the timing was wrong. That meant one of two things:
  1. Eric had been killed out of sequence.
  2. The coin wasn''t originally part of his murder¡ªit was added later to force him into the pattern.
If Eric''s coin was an afterthought, then his murder had been an afterthought too. And if one piece of the puzzle had been altered¡­ How much more had been rewritten? Colhoun grabbed the forensic reports on Gregory Wallace, the stockbroker found dead with coins spilling from his throat. His time of death had been placed before Tony Laskaris, the restaurant owner. But something was wrong. Toxicology had flagged a rare preservative in Wallace''s bloodstream¡ªone only found in processed beef from a specific supplier. Beef that hadn''t been delivered until the night of Tony Laskaris'' murder. The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Wallace had eaten something that didn''t exist at the time of his supposed death. That meant he had been alive after Tony died. The timeline was wrong. Someone had doctored the records. --- Then there was The King Without a Crown. No body. No confirmed victim. Just an empty chair and a cryptic message: "What is a king, when the throne is gone?" In a world of precisely staged murders, why stage a crime scene without a body? There were only two possibilities:
  1. The killer wanted to make it look like someone had been erased.
  1. Someone had actually been erased.
And if someone had been erased¡­ Then every murder that followed had been repositioned around that missing piece. The investigation had been built on assumed order. The police had trusted forensics, timestamps, and logs. But what if the paper trail had been tampered with? Colhoun flipped through the crime scene reports, looking for inconsistencies in timestamps, handwriting, and formatting. Then he found it. An evidence transfer form for Gregory Wallace''s crime scene report. Signed and dated two days after his supposed time of death. It was subtle. A delay small enough to be dismissed as a clerical error. But it wasn''t an error. It was a correction. Someone had gone into the case files after the fact, reshuffled the order, and rewrote the deaths into a specific sequence. Not to hide the killer. But to create a false narrative. --- Why Change the Order? Colhoun leaned back, gripping his pen, his mind racing. The real first victim wasn''t Tony Laskaris. It was Gregory Wallace. Wallace was a stockbroker¡ªsomeone who understood numbers, records, and how to manipulate systems. His death had been staged later in the timeline¡ªhis role in the sequence rewritten. But why? If the deaths hadn''t been altered, nothing would have changed. So why go through the trouble of reordering everything, then leave clues behind? That was the key. Whoever did this wasn''t covering their tracks. They were leading someone somewhere. And the real question wasn''t just who killed Wallace? It was who had access to all the case files? Who could alter records after the fact? Colhoun tapped his pen against his desk. A cop? A coroner? A forensic analyst? Someone on the inside. Someone who didn''t just want to kill¡ªthey wanted to tell a story. And for months, the police had been reading it exactly as they wanted. Until now. ----- The meeting room buzzed with the low murmur of restless conversation, fingers drumming against keyboards, coffee cups clinking against the table. The tension was palpable. It seemed the short fuse had already briefed Sarah Patel, their team lead, leaving her to deliver the bad news. At the front of the room, arms crossed, she exhaled sharply, her usual composure strained. "Alright, listen up." Her voice cut through the chatter, silencing the room. "HQ needs three of our best on-site at Horizon Black¡ªone of our highest-security facilities. They''ve had an incident similar to the one we handled here, but it''s¡­ worse." Jason''s grip tightened around his pen. Worse? Arnon leaned back, arms folded. "Define worse." Sarah hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "They''re being vague, but here''s what we know: critical systems are compromised. Employee records are¡ª" She exhaled, jaw tightening. "¡ªshifting. IT swears entire profiles are disappearing, but logs don''t show deletions. Just¡­ alterations. And containment has already failed. Twice." A quiet curse from Diego. "So we''re dealing with a virus that rewrites itself? Or something rewriting it?again" Sarah''s gaze locked onto Jason. "That''s what you''re going to find out." A heavy silence fell. Jason, Arnon, and Diego exchanged wary glances. "You''re sending us?" Jason asked, though he already knew the answer. "You three have the best track record with this kind of threat. You''ve fought it before. You understand how it moves." Arnon rubbed his temples. "And let me guess, this isn''t optional?" Sarah allowed herself a smirk. "There are perks¡ªtemporary leadership status, bonus pay, access to high-clearance tech." "Lovely," Diego muttered. "And who''s replacing us while we''re gone?" "Interns." Arnon groaned audibly. Jason suppressed a laugh. "Relax," Sarah said. "You''ll train them before you leave. Knowledge transfer, basics of containment. Just make sure they don''t burn the place down again before you head out." Jason leaned forward, voice steady. "You said records are shifting. What about people there who all are present?" Sarah''s expression didn''t change, but her fingers drummed lightly against the table¡ªa nervous tic. "That''s what Horizon Black won''t clarify." Silence. Jason exchanged a glance with Arnon. This wasn''t just about fixing a security breach. It was about figuring out what the hell had already changed. The bar The neon light spasmed against the wet pavement, the bar''s doorway swallowing men whole. Inside, the air was thick with ghosts of old tobacco and the sweat of men who drank to forget but never could. In a corner booth, a man sat with the weight of the city in his glass. His fingers traced the rim, slow, deliberate, his other hand resting on the table, fingers curled like a viper waiting to strike. The whiskey trembled, the ice shifting with the faint, rhythmic tap of his fingertips. Across from him, the city councilman shifted, the chair groaning beneath his weight. Sweat darkened the collar of his silk shirt, the fabric clinging to the damp rolls of his flesh. His eyes flickered to the entrance, then back to the man across from him, fingers twitching like a gambler on a losing streak. "You''re asking for a lot," the councilman muttered, voice barely rising above the low murmur of conversation. "This kind of thing¡ªit doesn''t just disappear." A slow sip. A calculated pause. Then the man leaned forward, voice a razor drawn across the space between them. "You want the waterfront project, don''t you? The casinos, the hotels, the contracts." His voice was silk and steel, coiling around the councilman''s throat. "I''m handing it to you. All you have to do is let one¡­ insignificant thing slip through the cracks." The councilman swallowed hard. The air between them thickened, heavy with unspoken horrors. He already knew what that "insignificant thing" was. "Accidents happen," the man continued, the ghost of a smile curling at the edges of his lips. "People fall. People get lost. People vanish." A beat of silence. "It''s a big city." The pause stretched, brittle as old bones. Then, an exhale. A small nod. "Fine." A deal struck. A life traded. Outside, the neon light sputtered, a dying thing clinging to its last breath. --- The scent of jasmine lingers in the air. A contrast¡ªsoft, untouched by the filth waded through every day. She stands in the bedroom doorway, wrapped in an old shirt. The fabric swallows her frame, except where it stretches over the curve of her stomach. The bedside lamp casts her in amber light, shadow curling around her like protective hands.His jasmine. "You''re late." Teasing, but there''s something behind her eyes. Something that coils, tight and worried, beneath her ribs. A step forward. Hands find the curve of her hips. A forehead presses against hers. For a moment, the world outside ceases to exist. "I know." "Are you being careful?" Softer, now. A pause. A smirk. "No." She sighs. Lips press against a rough jawline. Exasperated. Loving. "You''re impossible." A kiss steals away any protest. ---- A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. The club pulsed with bass, a low, insidious thrum that rattled ribs and settled deep in the bones. Smoke curled from the ashtray, empty glasses piling up like discarded sins. In the corner booth, a man flicked his lighter, the flame briefly illuminating the smirk stretched across his face¡ªlean, sharp, built for the kind of work that left bruises. Across from him, another man leaned back, heavy and sweat-slicked, exhaling a plume of smoke, the cherry-red glow of his cigarette flickering in his eyes. Between them, dressed too neatly for the filth around him, a third man counted a stack of bills, lips curling at the weight of his own fortune. And then¡ª "Another broad got herself killed," the well-dressed man muttered, tapping ash onto the table. "Stupid thing never shut up. Can you believe that?" A laugh. The fit one, shaking his head, amused. "Pregnant, too," the fat one added, voice laced with something close to pity¡ªthough the smirk never left his lips. A coin rolled across his knuckles, catching the dim light. "Christ." Another laugh. All three of them. But I didn''t. Not because I cared. I didn''t. People died every day. People disappeared. People suffered. That was life. That was the city. I took a sip of whiskey, the burn crawling down my throat. No skipped pulse. No change in breath. I had killed before. Had done worse than these men. Had watched people bleed out, gasping for air that would never come. Had sent men to early graves without a second thought. I had stolen. Beaten men half to death. Let them take what they wanted from women who had no way to fight back. I let it happen because it didn''t matter. Because it paid well. Because I wanted to. So why should this be any different? I kept working with them. Because that''s what I did. ---- As he was going home they sent him a vedio tape to watch as soon as he hits home to make it more fun he went home and put the tape in ans let it record while he went up to check up on his darling wife and the cutie within. The tape played in suffocating silence. Her screams had been stripped from the footage, leaving only the mechanical hum of the recording¡ªa mercy, perhaps. Her body jerked, contorted, wrenched apart by hands that had forgotten what it meant to be human. The men took turns. They laughed. Their faces blurred into formless shadows, indistinguishable from the monsters they were. Her fingers clawed at the floor, nails snapping, tearing, desperate to find something¡ªanything¡ªto hold on to. A boot crushed her wrist. A bone snapped. Blood pooled beneath her, soaking into the wood, dark and endless. A brutal hand pressed against her swollen stomach. The silent footage captured her mouth opening in a scream that would never be heard. They wanted her to suffer. They wanted him to see. The screen went black. A single cigarette burned in the ashtray beside him, smoke curling toward the ceiling like a whisper from the grave. His hands trembled. His breath came in ragged bursts. His bones ached beneath the weight of what had been taken. A hollow man sat in the dark. Inside him, the void howled. He arrived, dropped his coat by the door, and made his way upstairs. A routine check-in¡ªhis darling wife, the cutie within. The only things untouched by the filth he waded through daily. But the bedroom was empty. The sheets lay undisturbed. The scent of jasmine still clung to the air, but there was no warmth, no whispered greeting, no soft laughter. A silence that didn''t belong here settled over the space. A strange feeling crept up his spine, gnawing at the back of his mind. Thinking back on the events of the day, an idea took root¡ªa terrible, twisting thing. It was common practice, after all. They always recorded their work, their violence, their fun. It wasn''t unusual for them to send a tape afterward, a game to see if they''d left behind any evidence. They killed. They erased. And then they watched to see what possible way he will find the clues.So he played it. The television flickered, jittery light licking at the walls. The footage played in suffocating silence. Her screams had been stripped away, leaving only the mechanical hum of the recording¡ªa final insult, a mercy he hadn''t earned. She was already broken when the footage began¡ªnose shattered, blood bubbling at her lips, one eye swollen shut. Bruises bloomed across her skin in violent shades of purple and black, staining the once-soft curves he knew so well. Her dress was torn, her bare skin marked with cuts, handprints, cruelty. Her body convulsed, wrenched apart by hands that had long forgotten what it meant to be human. The men took turns, their movements methodical, practiced. They laughed¡ªsilent in the muted film, but their joy was written in every cruel motion. Their faces blurred into smudges of shadow, indistinct and monstrous. One of them grabbed her by the hair, yanking her head back until her throat was bared, her pulse frantic beneath bruised skin. Another man pressed a knife to her cheek, the blade tracing lazy patterns, not cutting¡ªyet. Teasing. Amused. She tried to turn away, but they wouldn''t let her. Her fingers clawed at the floor, nails splintering, leaving raw streaks of flesh against the wood. A boot came down. A brittle snap. Her wrist bent backward, a grotesque, useless thing. Blood spread beneath her, dark and insatiable, soaking into the floorboards, feeding the house itself. A hand¡ªrough, unrelenting¡ªpressed against her swollen stomach, fingers digging deep, kneading flesh with perverse curiosity. She sobbed then, shaking her head, whispering something he couldn''t hear. Pleading. A sharp laugh from one of them. The blade found its mark this time. A slow drag across her belly¡ªnot deep, but enough. Enough for her to feel it. Enough for her to know. Her mouth opened in a scream that would never be heard. And then, just as he had taught them, they erased every trace. The room, the body, the blood¡ªit was as if nothing had ever happened. A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray beside him, the ember pulsing like a dying heartbeat. Smoke curled upward, whispering to the ceiling. His hands trembled. His breath came jagged, shallow, burning. His bones ached beneath the crushing weight of what had been stolen. He sat in the dark, hollowed out, gutted from the inside. A few seconds of silence. Then, Michael Cornors smiled and took a deep breath. Daniel Figuero. Elias Carter. Gregory Wallace. The first Danny always thought pain was something you could power through. That if you were strong enough, you could push past it, outlast it. Michael Cornors was about to teach him otherwise. The night was cold, but Danny barely felt it. His body was still running hot from the workout, muscles thrumming with the dull ache of effort. He liked that feeling¡ªthe proof that he was in control. Strength was everything. Strength made him untouchable. The alley behind the gym was empty, the usual stench of piss and garbage clinging to the air. His boots splashed through a shallow puddle, distorting the neon reflection of a flickering bar sign. Then¡ª A hand clamped over his mouth. The sharp sting of a needle in his neck. Darkness swallowed him whole. Danny woke to pain. It wasn''t sharp, not yet. Just a dull, aching stiffness in his limbs. He tried to move, but his wrists and ankles were bound¡ªtight, unforgiving. Something tugged against his skin, and when he strained, he realized what it was. Resistance bands. The irony almost made him laugh. A chair scraped against the concrete floor. A figure moved in the shadows, stepping closer, slow and deliberate. Michael. Danny''s breath came short, sharp. "What the fuck is this?" Michael tilted his head, almost amused. "Ever had your muscles pushed past their breaking point, Danny?" His voice was calm. Conversational. "Not like in a gym. I mean really past it." Danny pulled against the restraints, but the bands held firm, biting into his flesh. Michael smiled. "Let''s find out." The first snap came quick¡ªa sharp yank of Danny''s fingers, hyperextending them back until the tendons tore with a sickening pop. Danny howled. Michael took his time. One by one, each finger was forced beyond its limit, bones grinding, ligaments shredding. Then, he moved to the arms. Resistance bands wrapped around Danny''s biceps and calves, twisted tighter and tighter until the circulation cut off. His limbs swelled grotesquely, skin stretched thin over bulging muscle. Hours passed. Pain blurred into something new¡ªsomething unbearable. His breath came in ragged sobs, body trembling, spent. His legs were dead weight. His arms, once sculpted from years of training, hung uselessly at his sides. Michael stepped back, admiring his work. Then, a gunshot. The bullet tore through Danny''s forehead, splitting skin, cracking bone. Strength left him in an instant. His body slumped. A mercy. But Michael wasn''t done. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. Danny''s corpse was dragged back to the alley where he had once walked so confidently. His body was propped up like a grotesque training dummy, bound with the very bands that had built him. His jaw was pried open, dislocated with a sickening pop. A dumbbell was shoved inside, shattering teeth, locking his mouth in a silent, eternal scream. A coin was placed beneath his tongue. By the time they found him, the message was clear: Strength does not dictate authority. Elias Carter woke up to agony. His body was locked in place, limbs spread, something wet pooling beneath him. Blood. His blood. The pain sharpened. Spikes had been driven through his wrists, elbows, knees, ankles¡ªnailing him to the chair, pinning him in place. Every slight movement sent fire through his nerves, each shift of his weight a fresh reminder of his helplessness. A chair scraped against the floor. Michael Cornors sat across from him, casually spinning a hammer in his hand. "You used to be a voice, Elias. A loud one." His tone was almost nostalgic. "But then you got comfortable, didn''t you?" Elias''s mouth opened, but no words came. His throat was dry, raw. Michael lifted something between his fingers. A dark, shriveled piece of flesh. His tongue. Elias''s stomach lurched. He tried to scream, but all that came out was a hoarse, broken wheeze. Michael''s smile widened. "You spent years preaching about justice. And now, look at you. No voice. No power. No one to listen." A needle pierced the delicate skin of Elias''s eyelids. Thread followed. Looping through. Stitching them open. He would never look away again. His breath came in sharp, panicked gasps. Michael took his time, tracing letters into his chest with a knife, slow and deliberate. LISTEN. The final blow came last¡ªa brutal severing of his spine. Not enough to kill. Just enough to take everything else. When they found him, he was still there. Hands nailed down. Eyes forced open. The word carved deep into his skin. A coin beneath his tongue. A warning: Those who stop speaking will be made to listen. Gregory Wallace had seen it coming. He had smelled it in the air, felt it in the way his hands trembled when he signed his name to things that weren''t his. But knowing something is coming doesn''t mean you can stop it. He woke in his own office. But the desk was different now. The contracts, the figures, the paper empire he had built¡ªgone. The weight of real wealth, of true value, sat heavy in Michael Cornors'' palm. A single gold coin, rolling between his fingers. Gregory''s jaw ached, forced wide by a metal clamp. Drool pooled at the corners of his mouth, mixing with the blood already dripping down his chin. Michael sat across from him, watching. Calm. Too calm. "Before we start," he said, voice smooth, deliberate. "I''ll make you an offer. For the old times." Gregory''s breathing hitched. Michael leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, the coin still turning between his fingers. The weight of the moment pressed down like an unseen hand. "Where is the child?" Gregory''s pupils blew wide. His heartbeat stuttered. He knew. Michael had already known the answer. But he needed to hear it. Gregory tried to speak, but the clamp turned his words into a garbled mess. Michael reached forward, fingers gripping his jaw, forcing it open just a little wider. "Say it," Michael murmured. The words spilled out, wet and broken. "He¡­ he was eight months." A pained wheeze. "Stillborn. We gave him to a doctor¡­ someone who¡­ experimented¡­" Silence. Michael didn''t move. Didn''t speak. For the first time, he felt something shift inside him. Not rage. Not pain. Something deeper. Colder. The city''s lights burned through the glass behind him, neon streaks casting long, distorted shadows across Gregory''s bloated, trembling face. The hum of distant traffic, the distant wail of a siren¡ªnone of it reached Michael. All he heard was the word. Stillborn. A life that never had the chance to begin. A future that had been stolen, traded, discarded like a thing. Michael''s fingers tightened around the coin. The edges bit into his palm, sharp enough to draw blood. Then¡ª He exhaled. The shift was imperceptible, but Gregory felt it. A subtle change in the air. The moment when a predator decides there is no longer any need for the chase. Michael picked up the first coin. And forced it into Gregory''s mouth. The first few went down with a choking gag. The next took effort. The ones after that scraped, cut, tore. More. Gregory convulsed, body rejecting the wealth he had once worshipped. His lungs burned. His ribs heaved. But Michael kept going. By the time Gregory stopped moving, his stomach was swollen with metal, his jaw broken from the sheer weight of it. A single word was scrawled across his last contract in ink: WORTHLESS. A coin beneath his tongue. A punishment: You cannot take wealth where you are going. --- The City Breathes The neon hums. The streets do not care. A cigarette burns in the dark. Michael Cornors watches the skyline, smoke curling from his lips. The hunt is over. And yet¡ª The rot remains. The Real First Colhoun stared at the board, the smooth marble warm in his palm. He flipped open Wallace''s file, running his finger down the timeline. "His stomach contained beef," Colhoun said. "Beef from a supplier that didn''t make its last delivery until after Tony Laskaris was killed." Eric blinked. "Meaning?" "Meaning Wallace was alive after Tony died." The room fell silent. Eric frowned and stepped forward. "Wait. Wallace was documented as the fourth victim." Colhoun nodded. "Because someone made sure we believed he was." Eric exhaled slowly. "You''re saying Wallace was the first?" "No." Colhoun tossed Wallace''s file onto the table and grabbed two more. "I''m saying they were." Three names. Three deaths. Three stories buried beneath the more elaborate killings. ---
  1. Daniel "Danny" Figueroa (32) ¨C Gym Trainer / Bouncer
Single bullet to the forehead. Hands bound behind him with his own resistance bands. Jaw broken, dumbbell wedged between his teeth. A message: Strength does not dictate authority.
  1. Elias Carter (39) ¨C Former Activist
Limbs nailed to a chair. Spine severed, eyes stitched open. A warning: Those who stop speaking will be made to listen.
  1. Gregory Wallace (54) ¨C Stockbroker
Coins stuffed into his throat, lungs filled with wealth. A lesson: Drown in what you love. --- These were the first. The real first. Wallace, Carter, and Figueroa. But someone had moved them¡ªpushed them deeper into the timeline, hiding them behind the grander, more theatrical murders. Why? Colhoun grabbed a marker, drawing a line between the names. "These three were killed first," he murmured. "Before Laskaris. Before Ramirez. Before Vanessa Lin." Eric crossed his arms. "That still doesn''t tell us why someone would alter the timeline." Colhoun circled Wallace''s name. "They weren''t hiding the killer." He circled Carter''s name. "They were hiding the beginning." Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. Then he circled Figueroa''s name. "And if we don''t know how it started¡ª" He lifted his gaze, eyes gleaming with something dangerous. "¡ªwe don''t know what kind of ending we''re walking into." Eric ran a hand down his face, staring at the wall of crime scene photos. "If these were the first, then what does that mean for the others?" Colhoun didn''t answer. He was already flipping through reports, scanning timestamps, inconsistencies, anything that had been subtly altered. And then¡ª There. An evidence transfer form for Gregory Wallace''s file. Dated two days after his supposed time of death. A clerical error? No. A correction. Someone had gone into the records after the fact. Reshuffled the sequence. Rewrote reality. Colhoun let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. "They didn''t just want to kill. They wanted to tell a story." Eric exhaled. "And we fell for it." Colhoun turned back to the board. The murders made sense now. The pattern wasn''t real. It was an illusion¡ªa deliberate misdirection. Which meant one case stood out above all the others. The King Without a Crown. No name. No body. Just an empty chair, a mirror, and a message scrawled on the wall: "What is a king, when the throne is gone?" A victim erased. A murder without a corpse. A story rewritten so thoroughly that even Colhoun struggled to remember its existence. That was the key. The entire sequence had been rewritten. And the first three victims weren''t just buried in the order of events¡ªthey were buried in the case itself. Colhoun turned to Eric, flipping the silver coin between his fingers. "Then who the hell is really playing this game?" Colhoun smiled. "That''s the best part," he murmured. He flicked the coin into the air, watching it spin. "We''re about to find out." --- Eric swore under his breath. "This isn''t just a cover-up." "It''s a goddamn rewrite," Colhoun agreed. A deep, sharp weight settled in his chest¡ªnot just unease, but exhilaration. The feeling of seeing something most people weren''t supposed to see. "They didn''t just move the bodies," he said. "They changed the story." The King Without a Crown wasn''t an ordinary case. It was a whisper, a rumor buried inside the mess of murders. An empty chair, a mirror, a message in charcoal on the wall: "What is a king, when the throne is gone?" No blood. No body. No evidence. Just a crime scene set like a stage¡ªinviting someone to play along. Eric exhaled. "It was dismissed." Colhoun nodded. "Filed as an abandoned scene. No official victim. No connection to the killings." "But if the first three were actually first¡ª" Eric started. "¡ªthen this wasn''t just a missing person," Colhoun finished. "This was the first missing person." The first death that wasn''t counted as a death at all. Colhoun pulled the file from the archives and flipped it open. Sparse. Almost laughably so. A single crime scene photo: the chair, the mirror, the words on the wall. No witness reports. No suspect list. No follow-up. "There should be more," Eric said, frowning. "There was more." Colhoun tapped the paper. "But someone made sure it disappeared." The case hadn''t been dismissed. It had been erased. And that meant one of two things:
  1. The missing person was never meant to be found.
  1. Or they were never meant to be remembered.
Eric ran a hand through his hair. "There has to be some trace of them." Colhoun reached for old police reports¡ªcomplaints, missing persons, anything filed around the same time. If someone had disappeared, their name had to be somewhere. The search took minutes. The realization took seconds. There was nothing. No missing persons within the timeframe. No unofficial reports. No loved ones asking questions. Whoever the King Without a Crown had been, they hadn''t just vanished. They had been removed. Eric paced between the rows of filing cabinets, jaw tight. Colhoun sat at the metal desk, flipping through the case file. It was like staring at a book with half the pages torn out¡ªwhat was left wasn''t enough to tell the story, but just enough to make you realize something was missing. "You ever heard of a living ghost?" Colhoun asked, not looking up. Eric paused. "That a real question?" "A real one." Colhoun tapped the file. "People disappear all the time. They leave traces¡ªbank records, phone logs, someone still waiting for them to show up to dinner. But this guy? No traces. No reports. No one looking for him. It''s not just that he vanished. It''s like he was never here to begin with." "A ghost," Eric muttered. "A living one," Colhoun corrected. "Someone who existed¡ªuntil someone decided they didn''t." Then Eric swore under his breath. "Got something." Colhoun leaned over as Eric turned his screen. A list of citations¡ªstreet-level charges, nothing serious. Loitering. Disturbing the peace. Petty theft. All clustered around the same block. All dismissed within twenty-four hours. All issued to J.D. Calloway. Colhoun narrowed his eyes. "Who''s J.D. Calloway?" Eric clicked through, but the profile was a dead end. No birth date. No address. No relatives. Just a name attached to a series of minor infractions¡ªthen nothing. Like he had never existed. Or like someone had erased him. "Calloway''s the closest thing we''ve got to a lead," Eric said. "But how do you investigate someone who doesn''t exist?" Colhoun drummed his fingers against the desk. "You don''t." Eric frowned. "Then what the hell do we do?" "You find the eraser," Colhoun said simply. "Someone wiped Calloway out of the system. That means there''s a trail. A deletion log. A bureaucratic footprint. If we can''t find him, we find whoever erased him." Eric let out a slow breath. "So we''re looking for a ghost hunter." Colhoun smirked. "Something like that." And as they left the records room, he had the distinct feeling that someone¡ªsomewhere¡ªwas watching. Because ghosts didn''t just disappear. Sometimes, they were made. tape The pattern had been altered. The timeline rewritten. Someone had been tampering with the truth, rearranging reality itself. But why? And more importantly¡ªwho had the power to do it? Detective Colhoun tapped his fingers against the table. Weeks spent retracing steps, rechecking reports, comparing timestamps. Nothing had stood out¡ªuntil he revisited the crime scene photos. Detective Michael Cornors. It was a small detail, easy to overlook. Gregory Wallace, the third victim, was found in his office, a silver coin forced into his throat. Official records placed his time of death on a Thursday. But in the first officer''s handwritten report, something stood out: "Detective Conors on scene at 10:32 PM. Verified victim''s ID." Colhoun frowned. That wasn''t possible. Conors had been assigned to a completely different case that night. The records placed him across town at another crime scene¡ªone he had personally briefed Colhoun on the next morning. So how was he at Wallace''s office before the body was discovered? A mistake? Or something more? Colhoun leaned back in his chair, rolling a marble between his fingers. His instincts told him this wasn''t an error. This case was precise, methodical. Michael Conors wasn''t just investigating the murders. He was inside the case. --- He found Conors outside the precinct, leaning against his car, cigarette in hand. The air smelled like rain and burnt tobacco. "You look like a man who''s figured something out," Conors said without looking up. Colhoun smirked. "You always say that when I come looking for you." "Maybe you always look like that." Colhoun pulled out a cigarette but didn''t light it. Just rolled it between his fingers. "You remember Wallace''s crime scene?" Conors exhaled smoke through his nose. "Vividly." "Yeah? What stood out to you?" "His mouth." Conors shook his head. "The way it was forced open¡­ Like he was trying to scream but couldn''t." Colhoun nodded. "You ever wonder why the coin was there?" Conors gave him a sideways glance. "Same reason they all had one. The killer''s signature." "You sure about that?" A pause¡ªtoo long. Conors took another drag. "What are you getting at, Colhoun?" Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Colhoun flicked his unlit cigarette away. "You were at Wallace''s crime scene before the body was found." Another pause. Longer this time. Then Conors chuckled. "Paperwork mistake." Colhoun smiled, but it didn''t reach his eyes. "Yeah. Probably." But inside, the truth settled. This wasn''t a mistake. This wasn''t a coincidence. Michael Conors wasn''t just a detective. He was the killer. --- That night, Colhoun sat at his desk long after the precinct emptied. He combed through every file, every case where Conors'' name appeared. One after another, the pattern sharpened. Conors had been there. Not just at Wallace''s crime scene. At all of them. First responder. Assigned detective. Always present, but never suspicious. Just another cop doing his job. Until you looked closer. Until the coincidences stopped being coincidences. Conors wasn''t following the case. He was controlling it. --- The next morning, Colhoun found him at a diner, stirring coffee like he had all the time in the world. "You look like hell, Colhoun," Conors said. Colhoun slid into the booth. "Didn''t sleep much." "Case keeping you up?" "You could say that." Conors sipped his coffee, watching him over the rim of the cup. "So, what''s on your mind?" Colhoun leaned forward. "How long have we known each other?" Conors tilted his head, amused. "Two, three years? Why?" "You ever lie to me?" A pause. Then a slow, deliberate smile. "That''s an interesting question." Colhoun kept his voice steady. "You were at Wallace''s crime scene before the body was reported." Conors set his cup down. "We talked about that already." "We did." Colhoun studied him. "You know what bothers me?" Conors raised an eyebrow. Colhoun tapped the table. "You never denied it." The smile lingered, then faded. Conors exhaled through his nose, fingers tapping the ceramic mug. Then he leaned in. "You''re a good detective, Colhoun." His voice was low, almost kind. "But some questions don''t lead to answers. Just deeper questions." Colhoun didn''t blink. "That supposed to mean something?" Conors sighed, shaking his head like a teacher disappointed in his student. He slid out of the booth, leaving a few bills on the table. Before he left, he leaned close, his breath warm against Colhoun''s ear. "You should get some sleep, partner." A quiet chuckle. "Wouldn''t want you seeing things that aren''t there." Then he was gone. Colhoun stared at the empty seat across from him. He didn''t have proof yet. But he had something else. Michael Conors had just made his first move. --- Over the next few days, Colhoun unraveled the quiet trail Conors had left behind. It wasn''t sloppy. It wasn''t obvious. But Colhoun had learned to read between the lines. The first clue came from Wallace''s autopsy report. A small amount of industrial adhesive on the victim''s wrists. The kind used in construction. The kind Colhoun remembered seeing in Conors'' garage years ago. The second clue came from an old, unsolved case. A woman strangled in her apartment. Buried in the case log¡ªa footnote. Traffic camera footage had been requested. Then the request was canceled. By Detective Michael Conors. Colhoun felt the weight of it settle in his chest. And before he could dig deeper¡ªConors disappeared. When Colhoun finally tracked him down, it was too late. Someone had broken into Cornors'' apartment. Blood at the scene. Not much, but enough. They had left him alive. Colhoun stood outside the hospital room, watching the steady rise and fall of Cornors'' chest. It didn''t make sense. Conors had been in control. A careful hand moving the pieces. So who had moved against him? --- The evidence was piling up. It was enough,the case was closed.But michael cornors passed away. Colhoun sorted through the evidence. That''s when he found it. A small cassette tape, buried among the items recovered from Conors'' apartment. It was old, unmarked¡ªout of place. Curious, he slid it into the recorder and pressed play. It was their thing using old antique in the time of pendrives . At first, just static. Then, a voice. Breathy. Low. Unmistakably Michael Cornors. But it wasn''t just his voice¡ªit was his confession. He spoke of the three murders, methodical and unrepentant, detailing how he chose them, how he ended them. The silver coins weren''t just a signature. They were a message¡ªone only he understood. But it didn''t stop there. He went further, unraveling a history of crimes buried beneath the city''s surface. Unsolved cases. People who had vanished without a trace. A nauseating string of deeds, each worse than the last. Then, his voice began to slow. "...be... beware of my s.i.." A thud. And then¡ªsilence. The rest of the tape was empty. the weight of a day John had spent the last twelve hours buried under a mountain of reports, negotiations, and the relentless ticking of the clock. His office, a glass-walled fortress in the heart of the city, pulsed with deadlines and decisions, every moment demanding his attention. Emails flooded in like waves crashing against the shore¡ªeach one another problem, another fire to put out. His boss expected results and shouted at him. His team relied on him. The height of frustration a human mind can bear had been crossed. But John was not just a worker. He was a husband. A father. By the time he finally pushed away from his desk, exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. The drive home was a blur of red taillights and the distant hum of the radio, his thoughts tangled in spreadsheets and missed calls. Then, home. Before stepping inside, he took a deep breath, forcing himself to leave the weight of the outside world at the doorstep. He closed his eyes and held onto the memory¡ªthe first time he had kissed his baby''s feet, tiny and perfect, soft against his lips. That was real. That was what mattered. The front door creaked open, revealing the soft glow of the living room lamp. The scent of something warm drifted from the kitchen¡ªhis wife had cooked. The weight in his chest loosened, just a little. He set his bag down and loosened his tie, but his face still carried the lines of the day''s battles. After all, he was a man. Jane looked up from the couch, her book momentarily forgotten as her eyes met his. She didn''t ask how his day was. She didn''t need to. Without a word, she rose, walked over, and wrapped her arms around him. He exhaled against her shoulder, the tension unraveling. No lectures about work-life balance. No empty reassurances. Just the silent understanding of a partner who knew¡ªwho always knew¡ªwhen words weren''t enough. "Come eat," she murmured. "Then we can sit, and you don''t have to think about anything for a while." John nodded, pressing a tired kiss to her forehead. The day had been long. The stress would return tomorrow. But here, in the quiet of their home, in the warmth of her presence, the world could wait. Yet, something gnawed at him. A feeling of missing time. Most parents these days congratulated themselves when their children became successful and praised. Fools. Selfish mongrels who thought good parenting was measured by the trophies their children earned while they slaved away at desks, selling the responsibility of raising their own flesh and blood. A child was not an investment. A child was to be loved. To be cherished. If not, why bring one into this world at all? John would not be that kind of father. He stepped quietly into July''s room, the soft glow of a nightlight casting gentle shadows on the walls. She was asleep, her tiny fingers cutely bubbly, a half-finished drawing beside her on the bed. He smiled, carefully taking and looking at the picture¡ªscribblings at best but. He tucked her in properly, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "You drew something beautiful today," he whispered. "Tomorrow, I''ll draw something for you." Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Then he slipped out, already planning. A day off. A picnic. Just the three of them. No work. No phone. Just presence. Tomorrow would come. The office would still be there. But tonight, he was here. And that made all the difference. ---- The art of not dying on the job. Jason leaned against the front desk of the training room, arms crossed, watching the interns shuffle in. They were fresh, eager, and deeply unaware of just how quickly enthusiasm could turn into regret. Arnon sat backward on a chair, spinning a pen between his fingers, while Diego leaned against the whiteboard, sipping coffee like he hadn''t slept in a decade. Jason clapped his hands together. "Alright, listen up. Congratulations, you three are the lucky replacements while we head off to deal with an incident at Horizon Black. Your job is simple: keep everything here running, don''t touch anything you don''t understand, and for the love of God, don''t make things worse." One of the interns¡ªtall, glasses, looked like he could code an entire firewall in his sleep¡ªraised a hand. "Worse how?" Diego finally looked up from his coffee. "By clicking things." The interns exchanged glances. Jason sighed and turned to the whiteboard. Rule One: If You Didn''t Deploy It, Don''t Touch It. "This is critical," he said, underlining it. "Most of what''s running here is stable. Our security systems have been refined, tested, and¡ªbelieve it or not¡ªdesigned to handle most common cyber threats. If something looks weird, report it. Don''t try to be a hero." Arnon smirked. "Heroes get blamed when the system crashes." A different intern, a woman with a focused stare and a posture way too formal for the job, raised a hand. "What if we do need to adjust something? Like a false alarm or a flagged file?" Jason pointed at her. "Good question. That brings us to¡ª" He turned back to the board. Rule Two: Validate Everything. He circled it. "If an alert goes off, you don''t just assume it''s real or fake. You cross-check. You verify logs. You get a second opinion. If the system says something is infected, you confirm before wiping it. If the system doesn''t flag something, but your gut says it looks off, you escalate." Diego put down his coffee. "Because if you misdiagnose it? You either nuke a harmless process or let an actual breach slip through." The glasses intern nodded slowly, clearly reconsidering his life choices. Arnon tapped the desk. "Which brings us to the most important one." He stood and wrote it on the board in bold letters: Rule Three: If It''s Above Your Pay Grade, Call Someone. "This is not a solo mission," Arnon said, turning to them. "If you hit something weird¡ªunrecognized code, an unpatched exploit, something that doesn''t behave the way it should¡ªyou report it. Fast." Jason crossed his arms. "I cannot stress this enough: there is no shame in escalating. The only shame is in covering up a mistake because you didn''t want to ask for help." The last intern, a quiet guy in the back, finally spoke. "So, what''s the worst-case scenario if we don''t follow these rules?" Diego let out a slow, dramatic sigh. "Oh, you know. System-wide compromise. Data leaks. Entire infrastructures locking up. Millions lost. Probably a few very angry calls from HQ." He shrugged. "And someone gets fired. Probably you." Jason checked his watch. "Alright, that covers the basics. Now we''ll run through some simulated attack scenarios. Phishing attempts, malware containment, log analysis. Standard stuff." Arnon grinned. "And after that, we''ll see how many of you still think IT security is ''just a desk job.''" Diego smirked. "Welcome to the fun part." --- Dealing with the Recent Virus As Jason moved toward the setup for the first training simulation, he paused. "One more thing. If anything starts looking even remotely like what we dealt with last month¡ªthe registry changes, the fake admin accounts, the log wipes¡ªyou call Sarah. Immediately." Diego nodded. "That virus didn''t just hit the main network. It got clever, buried itself in backup records, and we only caught it because we were lucky. If you see anything out of sync¡ªtimestamps, credentials, system changes¡ªdon''t assume it''s a glitch." Arnon gestured toward the nearest terminal. "Check the shadow logs. If a process claims to have run at 3 AM but there''s no corresponding activity in the deep logs? Something''s rewriting records. And if you see that, we''re past the ''send an email'' phase. You call Sarah." The glasses intern looked nervous. "How often do things like that happen?" Jason gave a dry smile. "they did once which is already Less than we''d like." Arnon shrugged. "It''s IT security. If you''re doing the job right, people never notice the disasters you prevented. If you''re doing it wrong¡­ well, let''s just say, you don''t get to do it for long." Diego smirked. "Now, let''s see if you can survive your first simulated breach. Don''t worry¡ªit won''t be too realistic." Arnon grinned. "Unless we get bored.¡± closed Detective Colhoun sat in his dimly lit office, the city humming faintly outside. His desk was a mess¡ªcase files scattered, notes half-written, a cup of coffee gone cold hours ago. The cassette tape lay beside the recorder, silent now, but its weight felt heavier than anything else in the room. He exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. He needed to think. Needed to pull everything together. Michael Cornors. For years, he had trusted the man. Worked alongside him. He had seen him crack cases, chase down leads, drink cheap coffee in the early hours of the morning like any other detective. And yet¡ªbeneath it all¡ªhe had been something else entirely. A killer. And not just any killer. A careful one. A patient one. Someone who had learned to play the system so well that even Colhoun couldn''t find him. And that was the scariest part. Colhoun reached for a notepad and flipped through his scribbled notes. The timeline. The victims. The inconsistencies. He had spent weeks chasing a shadow, and now, the shadow had a name. Gregory Wallace¡ªthird victim. A silver coin shoved down his throat. Official time of death: Thursday. But Conors had been at the scene before the body was even discovered. That was the first crack in the story. The first time Colhoun had realized something was wrong. Then there were the other two. Elaine Carter¡ªsecond victim. Strangled in her own home. No forced entry. No signs of struggle. The case had seemed clean¡ªalmost too clean. A few inconsistencies had lingered in the back of Colhoun''s mind, but he had dismissed them. But there was one detail that had always nagged at him¡ªElaine Carter had been identified as a woman, but she had been born a man. Had Conors known? Had it mattered? Or was that detail just another red herring in a case already filled with too many of them? And then there was Raymond Lowe¡ªthe first. Beaten to death in an alleyway. At the time, it had seemed like a robbery gone wrong, but now? Now Colhoun saw it for what it was. The beginning of something bigger. That was what made Cornors dangerous. He didn''t just kill¡ªhe controlled the investigation afterward. He positioned himself in just the right place, making sure the evidence never pointed too strongly in his direction. The missing traffic camera footage. The canceled evidence requests. The tiny procedural errors that seemed like mistakes but had, in reality, been deliberate. It was too clean. Too methodical. And yet¡ªsomething had gone wrong. Conors had been taken. Knocked unconscious. Left alive. By who? And why? Colhoun''s eyes drifted back to the cassette. His fingers hovered over it. He had listened to it three times already. The details of the murders. The past crimes. The cold, matter-of-fact way Conors had spoken about them. But then, at the very end¡ªsomething else. "Be... beware of my s..." Then a thud. Then silence. Colhoun leaned forward, staring at the tape as if it might offer him answers. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. "Beware of my s... What had Conors been trying to say? And more importantly¡ªwho had silenced him before he could finish? Colhoun sighed, running a hand down his face. The case wasn''t over. If anything, this was only the beginning. He needed to retrace his steps. Because somewhere in all of this¡ªin the bodies, the evidence, the confessions¡ªthere was something he was missing. And he had a sinking feeling that whatever it was... It was coming for him next. The knock at his door pulled him out of his thoughts. Eric stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, his usual easygoing smirk in place. "Got a minute?" Colhoun gestured to the mess on his desk. "If you can find a clean spot, go for it." Eric stepped inside, glancing around before finally perching on the edge of a chair. "Figured I should let you know before the paperwork makes it official¡ªI''m heading back to the department." Colhoun nodded, keeping his expression unreadable. "So the babysitting gig''s finally over, huh?" Eric chuckled. "Guess so. You gonna miss me?" Colhoun sighed dramatically. "Well, I was getting used to having someone around to grab the bad coffee so I didn''t have to." He leaned back, eyeing Eric. "And I suppose you weren''t entirely useless." Eric smirked. "High praise." Truth was, Eric had been more than just an assistant. He''d been sharp, dependable¡ªeven when the case had gone sideways. He had a good head for details, a steady instinct. Colhoun had trusted him, and in this line of work, that wasn''t something he gave lightly. "Seriously," Colhoun said, voice softer now, "you were a damn good partner on this one. I appreciate it." Eric gave a small nod. "Likewise." Colhoun reached for his coffee mug, took a sip, grimaced. "Only downside is, I won''t have to smell that godawful cologne of yours anymore." Eric grinned. "You could''ve just told me if you didn''t like it." "Oh, I did," Colhoun said dryly. "You just kept wearing it out of spite." Eric stood, giving him a mock salute. "I''ll send you a bottle as a parting gift." Colhoun smirked. "I''d rather you just forget my address." As Eric headed for the door, Colhoun watched him go, feeling a rare flicker of something close to nostalgia. The case was technically closed. The department would handle the rest. But the weight of it still sat heavy on Colhoun''s chest. Because something told him¡ªthis wasn''t it. Not yet. --- The morning sun poured through the kitchen window as John and Jane packed the last of their picnic essentials. The air was filled with the scent of fresh fruit and homemade cookies, and the soft giggles of their little daughter, July, who sat on the floor clutching her favorite stuffed bunny. She had only recently taken her first wobbly steps, and every day since had been an adventure¡ªeach movement filled with cautious excitement, her tiny hands reaching for balance, her parents'' arms always open to catch her. Jane fastened the lid on a container of pasta salad, glancing over at John, who was carefully securing the picnic basket. "You know," she mused, "I think I''m more excited than July for this picnic." John grinned, reaching over to give her a quick kiss on the forehead. "I think you just love the new trolley." Jane laughed, running a hand over the child trolley they had recently bought. It was sleek, sturdy, and¡ªmost importantly¡ªperfect for taking July along on their outings. "Can you blame me? It''s a game changer." John knelt beside July, ruffling her soft curls. "Alright, little lady, ready for your first official picnic?" July babbled happily, clapping her tiny hands as Jane scooped her up, settling her comfortably into the trolley. The park was a golden-green expanse of soft grass and towering trees, the scent of fresh earth mingling with the distant aroma of barbecues and blooming flowers. They found a perfect spot beneath a large oak tree, its branches offering a generous shade. John spread out a thick checkered blanket, adding cushions for extra comfort. Jane settled down beside him, her eyes sparkling as she watched July, who was attempting to pull herself up using the side of the trolley. "Look at her," Jane whispered, resting her head against John''s shoulder. "She''s so determined." John chuckled. "She gets that from you." Jane turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "Oh? And what does she get from you?" John pretended to think. "An excellent taste in sandwiches." Jane rolled her eyes playfully. "Oh, absolutely. Let''s see if she agrees." They laid out their food¡ªfresh sandwiches stuffed with turkey and crisp vegetables, golden quiche slices, a refreshing pasta salad, and a bowl of colorful fruits. July''s chubby fingers reached out excitedly when Jane held up a tiny strawberry. "Here you go, sweetheart," Jane cooed, placing it in July''s hand. July examined the fruit with great seriousness before stuffing it into her mouth. Juice dribbled down her chin, and John laughed, wiping it away with a napkin. "Messy eater¡ªdefinitely your side of the family." Jane playfully swatted his arm. "Says the man who eats spaghetti like it''s a contact sport." After their meal, they turned to the games. July was still a bit unsteady on her feet, but that didn''t stop her from eagerly reaching for the small, colorful ball John rolled her way. She clapped each time it bumped against her tiny hands, her eyes wide with delight. "She''s got potential," John mused. "Give her a few years, and she''ll be outrunning us both." Jane smiled, watching their daughter with a heart full of love. "As long as she always runs toward us, I''ll be happy." As the afternoon stretched on, they nestled together under the tree, flipping through July''s favorite picture books. She babbled as if reading along, her small fingers tracing the images with fascination. John wrapped an arm around Jane, pulling her close as the gentle rustling of the leaves created a peaceful backdrop. As the sun began to dip lower, Jane sighed contentedly. "This was perfect." John kissed the top of her head. "It really was." Jane glanced at the trolley, now holding a peacefully napping July. "Best purchase ever," she whispered. John grinned. "You say that now, but wait till she figures out how to escape from it." Jane chuckled, resting her head against his shoulder. "We''ll cross that bridge when we get there.¡± the walk Chapter 24 :The walk The city stretched before them¡ªa maze of neon reflections and quiet corners, where memories lingered in the glow of streetlights and the hum of distant voices. Jay trotted ahead, ears twitching at every distant sound, tail flicking in lazy contentment. He moved with the easy confidence of a creature who had walked these streets countless times, who knew every turn, every familiar scent, every rustling whisper carried by the wind. Elyse walked just behind him, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, her footsteps light, unhurried. A quiet tune hummed from her lips, blending into the city''s rhythm. Every now and then, she glanced back, an amused smile tugging at her lips, as if she knew something the others did not. Arnon followed at a steady pace, gaze forward, unwavering. He moved like he always did¡ªcalm, deliberate, as if he belonged to the world but was never entirely part of it. His presence was an anchor, solid and steady, grounding those around him without ever saying a word. And then there was Jason. Jason, who walked beside Arnon, hands shoved into his pockets, scanning the streets with restless eyes. The vendors, the flickering neon, the shifting figures moving through the night¡ªit was all familiar. And yet, something felt off. A weight in his chest. A whisper at the edge of his mind. Something was slipping. For days now, his strength had felt different¡ªdistant, sluggish in a way that was almost imperceptible but undeniable. It wasn''t weakness, not exactly. More like something fading just beyond his reach. And the only thing that had changed was¡ª "You''re thinking too hard again," Arnon muttered. Jason smirked, shaking the thought away. "You''re thinking too little." Arnon scoffed but didn''t argue. They both knew the truth. Jason''s mind was a storm of tangled possibilities, futures unwritten. And Arnon¡ªArnon was the quiet force keeping him from unraveling completely. They stopped at a familiar street corner, where the best coffee in the city was brewed in a tiny, dimly lit shop only the locals seemed to know about. They didn''t go in. Just stood there, letting the scent of roasted beans and warm pastries settle around them. "Last time," Elyse said, stretching her arms. "After this, no more spontaneous coffee runs." Jason wrinkled his nose. "Sounds awful." Arnon shot him a sidelong glance. "You''ll live." They moved on. Past the bookstore where Jason had spent too many hours lost in pages. Past the quiet alley where Arnon had once broken three ribs in a fight he refused to talk about. Past the tiny park where Elyse used to sit with Jay when she needed to clear her mind. Then¡ªimpact. A sudden, unexpected collision. Jason barely registered the moment before he stumbled back a step, steadying himself. Arnon reacted instantly, his arm moving in front of Elyse, protective even in the smallest of moments. The man who had bumped into them hardly faltered. He moved briskly, as though he had somewhere urgent to be, his hoodie pulled up, his mask slightly undone for the briefest of moments¡ªjust long enough for Jason to catch a glimpse. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. A sharp jawline. Intense eyes. A face that felt strangely magnetic, familiar in a way he couldn''t place. "Sorry about that," the man muttered, voice smooth but rushed. Jason blinked. "Uh¡ªno problem." Arnon studied him, gaze sharp but unreadable. The man adjusted his mask, gave a short nod, and disappeared into the crowd like a shadow vanishing into twilight. For a moment, they stood there, a strange ripple of unease left in his wake. Jay let out a quiet huff, sensing the tension before anyone else. "Well," Elyse exhaled. "That was weird." Jason chuckled, shaking off the feeling. "Yeah. You sure you didn''t offend some mysterious masked stranger recently, Arnon?" Arnon rolled his eyes. "If I had, I doubt he''d just bump into you and leave." Jason ran a hand through his hair, fingers brushing against his scalp¡ªand realized something. Something simple. He had gotten a haircut. --- By the time the evening stretched into late hours, the streets had quieted. The sky was a deep navy, the air crisp with the promise of night. Their steps were slower now, the weight of their departure settling over them.beside them was a small forest like area and beside which was a park. Then Jason saw them. A couple beneath a large oak tree, bathed in the glow of a nearby streetlamp. The woman rested her head against the man''s shoulder, fingers idly brushing against the baby stroller beside them. The man murmured something, pressing a kiss to her forehead. There was something so effortlessly peaceful about it that Jason found himself... stuck. He glanced at Arnon. Arnon had noticed, too. Something flickered across his face¡ªquick, fleeting, unspoken. Jason smirked. "You know, this reminds me of something," he mused. "Oh, what was it again? Ah, right. That poem you wrote." Arnon''s expression didn''t change, but Jason caught the slight tension in his jaw. Grinning, Jason pressed on. "What was it? ''Wandering from one face to another for years... my eyes yearn to rest on a face that feels like home.''" Arnon let out a long, suffering sigh. "Jason¡ª" "So poetic. So deep." Jason clutched his chest dramatically. "Were you secretly a romance writer in another life?" "Jason." "Because I think this couple right here? They are definitely your inspiration. Don''t even try to deny it." Elyse snorted. Even Jay gave what sounded suspiciously like a dog''s version of a laugh. Arnon stared ahead, resigned to his fate. Jason nudged him. "Come on. Admit it. You''ve got a soft side." Arnon finally met his gaze, deadpan. "If I throw you into the river, will your ''potential'' let you swim?" Jason grinned. "Only one way to find out." Elyse rolled her eyes. "At this rate, I might be the one to throw you both in." Jason shot her a dramatic look. "Et tu, Elyse?" "Just saying." Jay barked once, tail wagging, as if weighing in on the debate. Jason sighed. "Betrayed by my own team." "You''ll live," Arnon echoed, smirking now. The caf¨¦ smelled of espresso, burnt toast, and the faintest hint of cleaning chemicals¡ªa mix of warmth and barely concealed disarray. Jason slouched at the table, rubbing his jaw absentmindedly. Across from him, Arnon leaned back, arms crossed, his smirk practically glued in place. Elyse sat beside Jason, stirring her coffee with practiced ease, her sharp gaze missing nothing. Under the table, Jay lay curled up, looking relaxed¡ªbut Jason knew better. The dog was always listening. Elyse sat there recollecting her preparation work. Arnon said ¡®you got all the intelligence genes¡±. Jason was about to fire back when Jay¡¯s ears perked up. Then¡ªa bang. Distant. Muffled. Sharp. The conversation died. Jason¡¯s hand froze mid-motion. Arnon¡¯s smirk vanished. Elyse¡¯s cup hovered just above the table. Jay lifted his head, his body going stiff. His ears twitched, his muscles tensed¡ªhe¡¯d heard it first. For a beat, no one spoke. Then Arnon cleared his throat. ¡°Well, that wasn¡¯t ominous.¡± Jason¡¯s stomach twisted. His gut told him it wasn¡¯t nothing. Elyse, however, barely reacted. She set her cup down and shrugged. ¡°Car backfiring.¡± Arnon nodded. ¡°Yeah, or construction.¡± Jason frowned. ¡°That didn¡¯t sound like¡ª¡± ¡°A really loud hammer,¡± Arnon added. ¡°Maybe some guy got excited about home improvement.¡± Jason wasn¡¯t convinced. Jay let out a low, uncertain whine, shifting uneasily. Elyse rolled her eyes. ¡°Great. Now even the dog¡¯s paranoid.¡± Jason glanced at Jay. The dog wasn¡¯t barking, but he wasn¡¯t settling either. He was waiting, listening. Arnon smirked, leaning in. ¡°Jason, if you start sniffing the air for floral gunpowder, I¡¯m leaving.¡± Jason gave him a flat look. ¡°You¡¯re a real asset to this team.¡± ¡°I try.¡± The silence stretched. No screams. No running footsteps. The caf¨¦ remained exactly as it was¡ªwarm, familiar, oblivious. Elyse sighed, tapping her nails against her cup. ¡°Look, if something was actually happening, we¡¯d know by now. People panic fast.¡± Jason exhaled. Maybe they were overthinking it. vanishing The warmth of the afternoon lingered as the family packed up. Little July stirred from her nap, rubbing her tiny fists against her eyes. A bubble of drool sat by her chubby cheek as she blinked up at her parents from the trolley, still lost in the haze of sleep. The park had begun to empty. Families trickled out, leaving behind only the occasional jogger, a few friends walking their dogs, a man alone on a bench feeding pigeons, and the steady rhythm of passing cyclists. John secured July''s buckle and smiled. "Alright, kiddo. One last stroll before we head home?" He kissed her small hand. July frowned and wiped it against her dress with exaggerated disgust, as if to say, Ew. Jane laughed, stretching. "Let''s go by the lake. The view will be beautiful at this time." They followed the winding path, the golden hues of the setting sun spilling over the water. July babbled happily, gripping the handle of her stuffed bunny as Jane pushed the trolley. Birds skimmed across the lake, their reflections breaking into ripples. The air had cooled, the breeze threading through the trees in a hushed whisper. John paused to tie his shoe. Jane adjusted the strap of the picnic basket slung over her shoulder. Just a second. Maybe two. A brief shift of attention¡ªso innocent, so harmless. A rustling behind them. A blur of movement. Jane turned. Her breath caught in her throat. The trolley was empty. "July?" Her voice cracked, the name barely escaping her lips before panic surged through her chest. John spun around, eyes wild. "Where is she?" The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. The world tilted. The air, suddenly too thick to breathe. Jane''s heart pounded as her gaze darted¡ªover the path, the grass, the trees¡ªno curls, no tiny hands reaching up for her. Then¡ªmovement in the distance. A shadow slipping through the trees. John was already running, his voice raw with desperation. "HEY! STOP!" Jane followed, feet pounding against the dirt path. The figure was fast, moving with purpose. Dark clothing. Gloves. A mask. He was cradling something. Small. Fragile. July. The masked man disappeared into the trees. Jane''s scream tore through the park. And then, people started moving --- precariously atop a stool placed over a chair, reaching for the peculiar web of drawings pinned to the wall. "Did you hear about the dentist who became a brain surgeon?" he muttered, stretching as far as he could. "His hand slipped." He chuckled at his own joke¡ªthen frowned. "So why can''t my hand reach this?" Conors had been a freak for precision. His things were always arranged at eye level. But this? This was just slightly lower. Something didn''t add up. Colhoun had already found the diary¡ªfilled with sweet, almost sickeningly affectionate entries about Conors'' wife and their unborn child. A sentimental relic, discarded like trash. And then there was Conors'' final message: "Beware of my sin? Style? Student? Sibling? Son? Saliva? Socks?" Too many unanswered questions. But answers always came. Maybe the killer even knew that. No son, Colhoun thought. Conors'' child had been¡­ aborted? Lets just say so for now. Conors had been a corrupt man¡ªa stain on society. And yet, he had wished for something good. Adoption. The thought jolted Colhoun. Somewhere in that diary, Conors had mentioned adoption. He rushed to the case files. No listed son. No official adoption records. Then¡ªGregory Wallace. The fourth victim. Except¡­ what if Wallace wasn''t a victim? What if his death was a symbol? "Beware of my son." Jasmine. Conors'' wife was Jasmine. Colhoun''s pulse quickened. If the killer had been anyone else, they might have gotten away. But a hound knows the scent of another hound. He flipped through the police records until he found the file he was searching for. His gaze settled on the image inside. A smirk tugged at his lips. "Why did the chicken cross the road?" he murmured. "To get to the idiot''s house." And then, softly¡ªalmost to himself¡ªhe whispered, "Knock,.... the masks Throughout life, people don masks, shifting with time, layering themselves in facades woven from expectation and fear. To understand them is to step into a maze of shadows, where truth flickers like candlelight¡ªdistant, elusive. Yet even you wear one, unseen, unnoticed, until life rips it away. When peril stands at your door, when the one you cherish teeters on the edge, the mask shatters. And what remains is raw, unfiltered being. In that fleeting instant, stripped of pretense, human potential surges forth¡ªa force unbridled, a truth unmasked, threading itself through the intricate weave of existence. --- John ran. His breath burned in his throat, his legs screamed in protest, but none of it mattered. The only thing that did was the figure ahead¡ªthe masked man disappearing into the night with his daughter. He didn¡¯t think about how fast the man was or how far he had to go. He didn¡¯t even register his own exhaustion. He ran because stopping wasn¡¯t an option. Because somewhere ahead, in unfamiliar arms, his daughter was crying. Then¡ªa shot. The night cracked open, the sound splitting the air. John¡¯s focus wavered for a fraction of a second. His gaze flicked to the black shape in the man¡¯s hand. To the heat blooming in his side. Pain slammed into him, sharp and immediate. His body screamed to stop, to clutch the wound, to collapse onto the pavement. But his mind rejected it. He forced himself forward. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. His vision blurred at the edges. The world swayed. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. But he couldn¡¯t stop¡ªwouldn¡¯t stop. The thought of his daughter slipping away into the unknown was worse than any bullet. A cry¡ªsmall, panicked, familiar. Close. But his legs faltered. His body was failing him, fire spreading through his ribs. His fingers twitched, grasping at air. He reached¡ªbut the distance stretched, and the masked man vanished into the dark. The bystanders who had watched¡ªwho had hesitated, who had almost helped¡ªfroze as the gunshot echoed in their bones. Fear had turned them to statues. Only a few broke free. They rushed toward John, catching him before he hit the ground completely. Their voices blurred together¡ªurgent, panicked. Stay awake. Hold on. Help is coming. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. John barely felt his blood pooling on the pavement. His body was shutting down, but his mind clung to a single, desperate thought¡ª My daughter. Then, the world went black. --- Standing up and leaving the cafe they crosses the spot where jason got hit. ¡°The guy smelled like flowers,¡± Jason muttered, running his fingers through his already-messy hair. Arnon raised an eyebrow. ¡°Like what? Roses? Maybe he¡¯s a romantic.¡± Elyse didn¡¯t even look up. ¡°Or a florist with anger issues.¡± Jason exhaled. ¡°Not just any flowers. Something¡­ subtle. Jasmine, maybe. Or lilies.¡± Arnon grinned. ¡°So let me get this straight¡ªyou got decked by a guy who smells like a fancy candle shop?¡± Jason shot him a look. ¡°Thanks for the support.¡± Elyse smirked. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s his signature move. He hits people, then leaves them confused and mildly enchanted.¡± Jason sighed. ¡°Right. I¡¯ll send him a thank-you note. ¡®Dear Mystery Assailant, lovely scent, 10/10. Let¡¯s not do this again.¡¯¡± Arnon snorted. ¡°Or maybe next time, just ask for his cologne.¡± Jay, however, didn¡¯t lie. And the way his ears still twitched, his body still tense¡ªsomething, somewhere, had changed. As they walked on, Jason ran his fingers through his hair again, slower this time. The thought had started as a joke, but now it lingered. He had always been praised for his potential.And then there was his recent strength that made him move like a well-trained athlete. And yet, lately,it has dimmed. And the only thing ¡ª His hair. Ridiculous. He shook the thought away, focusing instead on the moment¡ªthe banter, the laughter, the quiet certainty that some things would always remain. Even as the night deepened. Even as their time here ran out. The Mind The mind clings to normalcy as a reflex, smoothing over inconsistencies to preserve the illusion of continuity. A person who has lost days of memory doesn''t wake in panic; they follow their routine¡ªbrushing teeth, making coffee, checking their phone¡ªbecause nothing demands alarm. The absence isn''t a wound, but a void. As long as reality holds its shape, the mind insists all is well. Yet, subtle betrayals lurk¡ªa hesitation before a mirror, an unfamiliar scent, a lingering gaze. These ripples are ignored because acknowledging them might unravel everything. People don''t believe in normalcy because it exists, but because the alternative is unthinkable. Elyse had always known her brother was weird. Not only in the embarrassing, mom-please-make-him-stop kind of way, but in also the he sees things differently kind of way. Jason never talked about it, but she could tell¡ªthe way he zoned out mid-conversation, the way he noticed things: a flicker of hesitation, the half-second delay before someone forced a smile. But lately, his weirdness had shifted. It started small. His movements¡ªtoo precise, too efficient. He caught objects mid-air before they could fall. He lifted Jay with ease despite the dog''s stubborn squirming. And then there was the way he looked at his reflection. The first time Elyse noticed, she dismissed it. Now, standing in the kitchen, arms crossed, she watched Jason lean against the counter, scrolling through his phone like nothing was wrong. No bruises. No limp. No sign that he had run into a burning building. She had been late in knowing. But now she knew. She let the spoon drop into the pot with a loud clatter. Enough. "What the hell is going on with you?" Jason looked up, blinking. "Huh?" "Don''t huh me." His gaze held hers, heavy, considering. It was a look she recognized¡ªthe one that meant he was deciding how much to tell her. "Look," he said finally, setting his phone down. "It''s¡­ complicated." "Try me." Jason exhaled. "I don''t¡ªI don''t know, okay? And you are not adult enough for me to say this." Elyse narrowed her eyes. Then, without hesitation, she swung. Her fist missed his face but smacked his shoulder. Hard. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Jason recoiled. "Ow! What the hell?" "Oh, I''m sorry, I didn''t realize you were the Grand Keeper of Cosmic Secrets." She crossed her arms. "You wanna try that again without the I''m so mature act?" Jason scowled, rubbing his shoulder. "You hit me." "Damn right, I did." Elyse stepped closer. "Don''t do that. Don''t act like I''m too young or too stupid to understand. You''re scared¡ªI can see it. So just tell me, because whatever this is? You shouldn''t be dealing with it alone." Jason held her gaze, jaw tight. Then he exhaled and looked away. Elyse pressed forward. "Fine. Then I''ll just start investigating. Call Arnon. Call Mom. Maybe I''ll start a thread: Help, my brother is acting like a supernatural assassin¡ªwhat do I do?" Jason groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "God, I hate you." Elyse smirked. "Nah, you love me. Now spill." She wasn''t sure what answer she expected. Jason hesitated, then said, "I don''t know myself, but something weird is happening around me." Her eyes flicked down¡ªhis fingers tapped against the counter. Tick. Tick. Tick. Like a clock winding down. "You''re lying," she said quietly. Jason flinched. "I''m not¡ª" "Not completely. But you''re holding something back." Before she could press further, Jay''s ears perked. His head snapped toward the hallway, a low growl rumbling from his throat. Jason stiffened. Elyse turned. The hallway stretched empty before her. No movement. No sound. Jay''s growl deepened. Jason exhaled. "Go check on the stove." Elyse frowned. "You serious?" Jason gave her a pointed look. "Now, Elyse." Still scowling, she turned toward the kitchen, grumbling under her breath. --- Elyse turned off the stove, irritation still simmering. She grabbed a glass of water, took a slow sip, then set it down with a sharp clink. Something felt¡­ off. Jay wasn''t barking anymore. The apartment was too quiet. She walked back toward the hallway¡ªthen stopped abruptly. Her breath caught. The mirror. It was shattered. Glass glittered across the floor, sharp and jagged, reflecting dim light. The frame stood empty, a mouth stripped of its teeth. She turned sharply. "Jason!" No response. She stormed into the living room. Jason sat at the counter, scrolling through his phone like nothing had happened. His fingers tapped against the surface in that same steady, unconscious rhythm. Tick. Tick. Tick. Elyse stared. "Are you kidding me?" Jason glanced up. "What?" She gestured wildly toward the hallway. "The mirror is broken. When the hell did that happen?" Jason''s expression didn''t shift. "I don''t know." "Bullshit." She folded her arms. "I was gone for five minutes. You expect me to believe you just missed a whole-ass mirror exploding?" Jason exhaled, rubbing his temples. "I didn''t miss anything. I just¡­ I don''t know how it happened." Elyse narrowed her eyes. "Did you hear anything?" Jason hesitated. His fingers tapped once. Twice. Then¡ª"No." "You''re lying again," she said, softer this time. Jason looked away. A tense silence settled between them. Jay whined softly, pressing against Jason''s leg. Elyse exhaled. "Come on. Let''s walk." Jason frowned. "Walk?" "The way we usually do. To calm our nerves." He studied her, then sighed. "Fine." --- The cool night air pressed against their skin as they walked in silence. Elyse shoved her hands into her hoodie pocket, processing everything. Jason let out a slow breath. "Okay," he muttered. "This hasn''t exactly been the relaxing experience I was hoping for. You know, with the weird guy hitting me and mysterious bang sounds in the distance." Elyse shot him a dry look. "Oh, really? Was it the mirror explosion that soothed your nerves?" Jason smirked. "No, it was the part where something hit me in the face with a chunk of glass. Very therapeutic." Elyse rolled her eyes. "Fine. Uh¡­ So, a guy walks into a temple, a mosque, and a church¡ª" Jason groaned. "Oh, we''re going there?" Elyse grinned. "And he says, ''I''d like a blessing, an exorcism, and maybe a warranty extension on my soul, please.''" Jason snorted. "Not bad." For now, the humor held. Living room Knock. The sound barely stirred the stillness. The silence was thick¡ªtoo thick. Deliberate. It settled in the narrow hallway like a presence of its own. Detective Colhoun stood unmoving. His trench coat, heavy with the city''s filth, clung to his weary frame. The dim light above flickered, stretching his shadow long across the rotting floorboards. Beside him, the uniformed officer shifted uneasily, his boots scuffing against the wood. A nameless man, another pair of eyes in a case already drowning in horror. His fingers twitched near his holster, though instinct told him¡ªtold them both¡ªa gun wouldn''t help against whatever lay beyond that door. Colhoun tested the handle. Unlocked. A glance at his partner. A nod. The door yawned open. The darkness inside breathed. They stepped in. The smell hit first. Rot. Blood. Something burnt and bitter. The scent clung to the walls, the floor, their very lungs. Decay had taken root here. "So no tea no coffee such a cold welcome ,hm" Dust swirled in the dim light, disturbed only by their presence. A lone bulb swayed above, its dull hum the only sound in the room. Colhoun''s eyes swept over the wreckage. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. A living room¡ªbut only barely. Newspapers stacked like forgotten tombstones. A chair overturned, its fabric torn, stuffing spilling like exposed innards. A television, cracked. The screen black. Colhoun allowed himself a grim smile. "A living room with so many dead. Yup¡ªgoes in the notebook." The clock on the wall had stopped. A small detail. An insignificant one. Yet unease crawled up his spine. Time had abandoned this place. They moved deeper. The kitchen. A rusted fridge stood slightly ajar. Colhoun hesitated, then nudged it open with the tip of his pen. Maggots. So many maggots. Writhing through rancid meat. Crawling over something once recognizable. The uniformed officer gagged but held it down. The bedroom. A mattress, sagging, stained. Clothes, shredded beyond recognition, scattered like shed skins. The walls¡ªmarked. Deep. Jagged. Desperate. As if someone had tried to escape. But there was nowhere to run. Colhoun''s eyes swept past the destruction, searching. He knew what he was looking for. And then¡ª A door. It blended into the wall, no handle, no seams. But he knew it was there. He had been waiting for this. Colhoun pulled out his knife, pressed it against a groove only he saw, and¡ªclick. The hidden door swung open. Inside, the air was heavier. Wrong. The sigil sprawled across the floor, the walls, the ceiling. Deep carvings. Jagged strokes. Black ink. Old blood. The lines twisted into grotesque shapes, forming something ancient. Something hungry. At the center of it all¡ª A picture. Taped to the wall. Framed by ritualistic scrawls. A child''s heart. Not real¡ªbut detailed. Gruesome. Grotesque. The image was raw, flesh torn, arteries curling outward like grasping fingers. A cruel mockery of life. Colhoun''s fingers twitched. He had expected horror. But this? This was something else. A message, meant for him. His eyes lowered. Beneath the picture, scrawled in a trembling, uneven hand¡ª Jasmine, mother. A sharp inhale behind him. The uniformed officer whispered, barely audible. "Jesus Christ." Then¡ª Buzz. Colhoun''s phone vibrated against his chest. A small sound, yet it sliced through the silence like a blade. Instinct took over. He pulled it out. One glance at the screen¡ª And the world stopped. A child has been kidnapped. A small child. Colhoun said " ah the fragrant boy hits again." No hesitation. He moved. They tore through the apartment, boots slamming against the rotting floor. As the living ones left the room there was something on the floor. A nameplate. Simple. Unassuming. Eric Wallace. Colhoun assistant''s name. Behind the antique plate , the shadows stirred. Run In the middle of the night, in a desolate park, a cradle stood unmoving beneath a flickering lamplight. --- Colhoun arrived within the hour. No backup. No time to waste. He searched the park for another hour, his instincts gnawing at him. Then, finally, a lead¡ªhis assistant''s last known location. An abandoned factory. Six kilometers away. Tracking something for that distance was hard. But tracking something that spread out, listening through hidden channels, weaving itself into the city''s unnoticed spaces? That was worse. The kind of thing that slithered rather than walked. But the god of probability had given him a sliver of favor, and Colhoun followed it. Still, he took no chances. Before stepping inside, he radioed in his position, then moved through a concealed entrance in the warehouse-like building. He muttered, half to himself, half to the silent dark ¡ª "Should''ve lost a bit more weight... cave-diving''s getting harder these days." Then, behind him¡ª A deep, grinding rumble. His way out was gone. Colhoun''s breath came slow, steady, controlled. He pressed against the cold metal shelving, his fingers tightening around his revolver. Something was wrong. The air was thick. Heavy. Charged like a coming storm. The warehouse stretched into darkness, a vast hollow space lined with rusted machinery and crumbling crates. Moonlight cut jagged lines through broken skylights, barely reaching the ground. The scent of decay curled at the edges of his senses. Then¡ªmovement. Soft. Measured. Something shifting across the concrete floor. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. He swept his flashlight over the space between the rusted pillars. Empty. But a noise¡ªsoft, clicking, tapping¡ªechoed from the shadows. Like talons against stone. Colhoun swallowed hard. His grip tightened on the gun. He took a step forward. A rush of air¡ªbehind! He twisted, just as something huge passed within inches of him, faster than thought. CRASH! Wood exploded. Metal shrieked. Something had cleaved through a stack of crates like they were made of paper. Colhoun stumbled, rolling onto the cold floor, gun snapping up¡ª Nothing. Only the dark. Only silence. His pulse hammered in his ears. He had seen something¡ªjust a glimpse. A limb, bent wrong. A joint that twisted where it shouldn''t. The gleam of something razor-sharp. His instincts screamed: Run. But instincts weren''t enough. He needed answers. A new sound. Wet. Dripping. Colhoun''s flashlight flickered upward. And he saw. A body. Hung in the center of the warehouse. Or what was left of it. The ribcage was torn open, splayed outward like some grotesque, rotting flower. Flesh peeled in strips, dangling from the beams. The floor beneath was littered with curling, discarded slivers of skin, soaked through. Something had been feeding. Or worse¡ªplaying. Bile rose in his throat. Then¡ª Breathing. Right behind him. Colhoun dove aside as something lunged. A blur of teeth and motion, a body that did not move like a human¡ªor any animal should. A slicing pain tore through his side as he hit the ground, a sharp edge catching beneath his ribs. He gasped, rolling onto his back, gun scrambling for purchase¡ª Nothing. The thing had already retreated. Watching. Testing. Colhoun pressed a hand to his side¡ªwarm blood. It wasn''t deep. But deep enough. He crawled behind a fallen workbench, forcing his breath to steady. His fingers fumbled over the ground, searching, finding¡ª A rusted metal pipe. From the dark, a voice echoed. Not a growl. Not a snarl. A whisper. His own voice. Distorted. Warped. A perfect mimicry of something he had said earlier that night: "Who''s there?" A chill crawled up his spine. It was learning. A rustle above. A shadow shifting in the rafters. It was everywhere. Then¡ªmoonlight caught something moving. A tail, bristling with spines, curling like a living whip. Colhoun swung the pipe as it lashed toward him. A sharp crack echoed as metal met flesh. The creature reeled, its tail snapping against a stack of barrels. One tipped. A scent filled the air. Gasoline. The creature circled, slower now, cautious. It had been hurt. Colhoun barely registered the blood soaking his shirt. His eyes were locked on the barrels. A desperate idea. He lunged for his revolver. The creature moved. Colhoun rolled, gun snapping up, pulling the trigger¡ª The shot missed watever was attacking him. But not the gasoline. WHOOMPH. A firestorm ripped through the air. Flames roared outward, licking up rusted walls, twisting metal with unbearable heat. The creature screamed. Not like an animal. Not like a person. Like a dozen voices, layered and writhing. Colhoun ran. Behind him, the warehouse went up in flames. The inferno spread fast, consuming crates, swallowing steel. The walls groaned, metal beams warping in the heat. Then¡ª BOOM. The blast threw him forward, sending him sprawling into the cold night. The warehouse shuddered. Another explosion¡ªsmaller, deeper¡ªripped through its core. Something inside had ignited. Oil drums, maybe. Machinery. Maybe something worse. Colhoun lay on the pavement, gasping. Behind him, the warehouse burned. He didn''t know if the thing had died. Didn''t know if it could. But as the steel buckled, as the flames howled, as the walls collapsed into the fire, he heard something beneath the roar¡ª A whisper. His own. And then¡ª The warehouse crumbled. Colhoun exhaled. Half a laugh. Half a sigh. "Isn''t the queue to impersonate me getting a little long?" he muttered. The sirens were getting closer.