Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The wine never moves.

Not even as the wheels slip slightly on wet stone.
Not even as the car rounds the sharp bend where the trees lean in too close.
Not even as thunder murmurs across the cliffs beyond the pines.

It sits — still and untouched — in a crystal glass, stem tilted slightly, cupped in a gloved hand.
Dark red. Thick as ink. It reflects no light.

The figure holding it does not blink.

He sits in silence, spine straight, one leg folded over the other, the opposite hand resting atop a leather folio that hasn’t shifted a millimeter since departure. His body is still, but not in the way of statues — no, this stillness is active. Intentional. Controlled, like a blade waiting to be drawn.

His skin is black — not in color, but in substance. An absence. A void where form pretends to be flesh.
His hair is short and unkempt, while his eyes are pure white. Glowing softly. No pupils, no irises. Just endless light.

A bow tie: blood red.
Vest: precisely cut, sleek, and unwrinkled.

There is no jewelry. No watch. No personal tokens.
He is not dressed to impress. He is dressed to announce function.

To most, he is known only in rumor — a name on sealed letters, a whisper in restricted halls.
Chair of the Demesne Circle. Shadow of the Inner Table. Keeper of the Unbroken Oath.

But to the man himself, those names are noise. Titles are currency. He deals in silence.

In the front seat, the man's driver sits, face obscured by a hat, posture impeccable. And on the other hand, the butler: older, gloved, hands folded atop his lap. One silver ring with the insignia of the estate, polished to an obsessive gleam. Neither man has spoken for the entire journey. Not once.

Only the car makes a sound — and even then, only barely. A luxury engine so silent it might as well float.

Slowly, the trees part.

Fog rolls backward like breath drawn in. Pines give way to slate stones set into the earth — a path, centuries old, reinforced by modern tech but untouched in appearance.

Up ahead: the Checkpoint.

It’s not large. That would be too obvious. Instead, it sits like a scalpel nestled in the ribs of the forest: a structure of black glass and dark stone, humming faintly with internal energy. Smooth, modern, windowless. Like a machine pretending to be a room.

Lights flicker along its seams — thin lines of gold tracing patterns too precise to be decorative.

The car slows.
Halts.
Breath holds.

A scanner flashes — vertical beam, thin as a whisper — passing over the car like an eye that doesn’t blink.

Then a soft chime. Not a doorbell, not a system ping — it’s too smooth for either. Like a thought being acknowledged.

Invitation authenticated.
Primary guest confirmed.
Auxiliary personnel will disembark at Villa West.
Elmswood security protocols are now in effect.

The barrier — a thin, retractable plate of obsidian and light — slides open without sound.
The car glides through.

Not a single word is exchanged.

The vehicle creeps up the incline — a winding path that cuts through a gorge of whispering forest. Mist clings to the edges of the windows. A raven watches from a crooked tree branch.

Then, finally—Elmswood.

It does not reveal itself all at once.

Elmswood rose from the fog like a cathedral of secrets. Its silhouette loomed tall and patient, a cluster of towering shapes etched against the storm-stained sky. Peaks and spires cut into the low clouds like daggers, each angle deliberate, each shadow waiting.

Gothic towers clawed upward, their edges inscribed with runes that glowed faintly—old language pulsing like breath in the damp air. The roofs were steep and slate-black, slick with rain that whispered down in sheets. Gargoyles perched along the ridgelines, their open mouths frozen in warning, eyes angled toward the grounds as if daring anyone to enter.

Yet, behind the severity, there was light. Windows burned with a golden warmth, firelight flickering just beyond the frost-laced panes. It made the whole estate seem alive—breathing, remembering. Water slipped from carved stone ledges in narrow waterfalls, catching glimmers of lightning. Ivy twisted up balustrades and arched balconies, dark green and velvet-thick, like veins on ancient skin.

The central structure curved subtly inward, an architectural sleight of hand that made the estate appear as if it were folding in on itself. Watching. Listening. A place built not merely to house history, but to haunt it.

The entire building breathes. It does not welcome. It studies.

The car continues down a long cobbled loop that curls toward the front entrance — a half-moon drive lined with angular planters and statues half-swallowed by moss. Old and new tangled together in perfect, uneasy symmetry.

And finally then, the vehicle slows to a complete stop. The engine dies with a whisper.

For several seconds, no one moves.
Rain begins to tick against the windshield.

Then the butler moves. Precise, methodical. He opens his door, steps out into the mist, and rounds the car.

He opens the rear door with both hands, bowing slightly. A gesture too exact to be respectful. It is procedural. Ritualistic.

And he steps out.

Both shoes touch the stone like punctuation.

He rises to full height — not tall, not short — but every inch of him controlled. Balanced. Weightless and heavy at once.

He surveys the courtyard. The walls. The spires above. The droplets. The golden lights. The waiting doors. The presence that awaits in front.

Then he tips his head slightly, just once, as if answering a question no one asked.

The wind shifts.

Somewhere far behind him, the checkpoint gate begins to close.

Behind the trees, unseen staff begin to leave. Their vehicles hum quietly as they retreat toward the villa, exactly as ordered. By midnight, none of them will remain.

Inside the estate, unseen by the eye but alive within every panel and wall, security begins to reroute.

Cameras pivot.
Doors seal.
Names are logged.

The Gala has not yet begun.

But the first piece has moved.

            ELMSWOOD ESTATE — THE DEMESNE CIRCLE

      Official Invitation to the 137th Founders' Night Gala

             An Evening of Legacy, Honor, and Reflection

Date: June 20th, 20█ 
Time: 8:00 PM (Prompt Arrival Required)  
Location: Elmswood Estate, Grand Galleria, East Hill

Dress Code: Formal Attire | Historical Accents Permitted  
Security Clearance Required: Level Indigo+ (Biometric Confirmation)

┌────────────────────┐  
│   GUEST CREDENTIAL  │   
│   ID Number: ██████████  
│   Status: Verified – High-Value Invitee  
│   Access Level: Tier 3 — Restricted Zones Permitted  
└────────────────────┘

You are cordially invited to commemorate the 137th Founders’ Night —  
a time-honored gathering to celebrate those who laid the foundation  
for Elmswood’s enduring legacy, and to recognize those who preserve it  
with discretion, discipline, and purpose.

Gala Highlights:

– Midnight Toast in the East Wing Courtyard  
  (Attendees will be guided via secured passage)  

– Private Viewing: Vault of Memory Exhibit  
  (Artifacts presented only on Founders' Night; No recordings permitted)  

– Live Address from Estate Leadership  
  ("A Message on Continuity and Custodianship")  

– Curated Historical Showcase in the North Wing Gallery  
  Featuring: The First Charter, Sealed Correspondences, and Founding Tools  

– Invitation-only After Hours Gathering: Location Unlisted  
  (For select individuals only – invitation will be issued separately)  

NOTES:

• Please arrive no later than 7:45 PM. Transport checkpoints open at 7:00 PM via North Gate.
• Identification will be verified at security pavilion inside; personal escorts will be assigned.  
• Digital keycards and encrypted room access credentials to be distributed upon entry and verification.  

Inquiries or urgent changes may be directed to:  
→ [email protected]  

        Knowledge Preserved | Order Maintained | Silence Honored

The quiet tap of shoes on velvet-soft carpet echoed faintly beneath the murmuring halls of Elmswood.

Parrot moved with purpose. His suit — sleek, modern, black with a satin sheen — hugged his form with tailored precision, designed not to interfere with what set him apart. From just above his ears, two small, curved wings — feathered in striking gradients of neon blue and bright golden yellow — flicked subtly with each shift in air. His hair, feathered at the edges like down, was swept back to reveal a patch of vivid color across his temples, almost like natural war paint.

A full set of wings, large and regal, folded neatly along his back — rich aqua blue edged in sun-gold, the unmistakable pattern of a blue-and-yellow macaw. They rustled once as he turned a corner, a low whisper of feathers and command. His eyes, dark-ringed and unblinking, had a glint of something older than his years — watchful, intuitive. His jaw was set. No smile tonight.

The walls of Elmswood seemed to quiet as he passed, as if the old estate itself recognized the solemn weight of his stride.

He pressed two fingers to the silver earpiece clipped along his jaw, murmuring as he passed beneath a glimmering stained-glass skylight.

“Confirming guest status. Chair’s arrival?”

From the control room buried beneath the South Wing, Ro’s voice crackled through with practiced calm.

“Confirmed. Just passed the outer gate. Vehicle is clean. Chair’s arrived.”

Ro’s face was pale white, lit ghostly blue by the glow of at least twelve monitors stacked in uneven grids. His coat — lavender brushed with wisteria undertones — fit like ceremonial armor, laced at the sleeves with pale embroidery. The soft hum of hidden techs droned behind him.

Three disembodied hands floated around his chair — rock, paper, scissors — each one twitching or flicking in sync with his shifting focus. One pinched a cable into place. Another tapped a keyboard. The third hovered over the silent comms board, motionless.

Parrot nodded once, more to himself than to Ro.

“On my way. Thanks, Ro.”

He rounded a corner.

And stopped cold.

There, standing beneath a massive oil portrait of Elmswood’s initial founder, was a boyish man with fluffy blond hair, a crooked child’s crown of golden metal perched atop his head, and a sticky note smiley face slapped across the center of his face. He beamed brightly, as if the entire estate belonged to him.

Not the Chair.

Parrot’s posture stiffened — just a fraction. Not fear. Annoyance.

“You’re early,” he said curtly. No reply.

To the right, Spoke stood half-leaning against a carved pillar, practically bouncing on his toes. Rainbow cuffs peeked out from under his coat sleeves — woven threads shimmering faintly, some frayed. His white eyes flicked between guests and guards, absorbing everything.

Spoke spotted Parrot and waved enthusiastically, almost dropping the stylus in his hand.

Parrot exhaled through his nose, subtly. Stepped closer. Dropped his voice.

“Handle him,” he said, nodding discreetly toward the crowned stranger.

“Got it, boss,” Spoke replied with a cheeky salute, already walking over like this was the best part of his day.

Parrot didn’t wait to watch.

He adjusted the fall of his coat, smoothed his gloves, and pushed through the main entry doors of the Grand Atrium. A breeze curled in from outside, cool and clean.

The driveway below sloped into shadow, the soft hum of a luxury engine barely audible. Tires crunched against gravel.

Then — the door opened.

A long leg, polished shoe. Then the rest of the figure unfolded smoothly from the car: tall, perfectly tailored, black as coal polished to glass. A crimson bow tie glinted under the soft lights. His eyes — impossibly white — regarded Parrot without blinking.

Neither bowed.

Neither smiled.

Parrot gave a respectful nod, murmured something too quiet to catch.

Together, they walked back into the estate. The doors sealed behind them with a hiss of air and latch, as the butler entered the vehicle once again.

Footsteps fell in sync across the polished marble floor.

A pause.

Then the shadowed man — eyes white, voice quiet — broke the silence.

“It’s good to see you again, Parrot.”

Parrot’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Let’s hope it stays that way.”

The Grand Atrium of Elmswood Estate shimmered in candlelight and polished gold — the kind of glow that made time feel fictional.

Above, arched ceilings stretched impossibly high, cradling a domed skylight that reflected the chandeliers below in warped constellations. The air smelled faintly of white lavender, cedarwood, and something like parchment.

A quartet of musicians, dressed in dark crimson, played a waltz that rolled through the chamber like fog. The music was soft — not background, not foreground — just present, as if it had been playing since before the guests arrived.

Around the room, tapestries lined the curved walls, their woven images showing indistinct battles, forgotten treaties, and faceless monarchs crowned with laurels. Some were frayed. None were labeled.

Marble staircases split left and right, curling upward around lifelike statues: a woman pouring water, a figure cloaked in feathers, a masked man with a dagger in their lap. The flames from nearby sconces danced against their stone cheeks.

On the floor: the guests.

Gala attendees, draped in silk, velvet, and tailored obsidian suits, moved with a kind of calculated elegance. Some tilted their glasses as they laughed — quiet, rehearsed chuckles. Others exchanged brief nods, eyes never fully relaxed.

Silver trays drifted by, held by staff who moved like ghosts — graceful, expressionless, precise. Champagne. Candied orchids. Glazed quail. Not a step too slow.

In a side corridor, a man in a crimson cape adjusted his cufflinks five times in a row.

A man in a dark tailored suit stepped through the conservatory doors, white hair swept back, white skin almost luminescent in the dim light. An eyepatch marked with the initials LW gleamed under the sconces. He didn’t look back.

And watching it all — the estate staff.

Stationed just out of focus. One at each access point:

— The kitchens, behind mirrored doors.
— The conservatories, thick with glass and shadow.
— The northern archival corridor, sealed unless coded.
— And the East Wing courtyard, still curtained off for the midnight toast.

Their posture was straight. Their hands stayed clasped or tucked behind their backs. Yet their eyes moved — always watching, always calculating.

A soft laugh echoed from the second floor. A glass clinked gently against a railing. Someone whispered a name — but no one turned to look.

Everything was polished. Perfect.

Too perfect.

A smile held too long. A tune just slightly off beat. A gust of wind when no door had opened.

Elmswood watched its guests like a host with secrets to keep.

Not like.

It does.

The lights dim — not all at once, but in slow succession.
First, the sconces by the statues.
Then, the crystal chandeliers.
Last, the soft amber uplighting beneath the tapestries.
Each flicker folds the room inward.

Conversations die mid-sentence. Glasses lower. Heads turn.

At the top of the twin-curved staircase, the Chair stands — alone.

A tall, sharp silhouette against the stained-glass backdrop. Every inch of him is black: pressed vest, straight pants, high-collared shirt. His eyes — stark white — catch what little light remains. Unblinking.

He doesn't raise his arms. Doesn't clear his throat.
And yet — when he speaks, every word reaches the farthest corner.

His voice is low, calm, and measured — ritualistic, almost:

“Tonight, we honor what was built…”

He pauses. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s expectant.

“…and what must endure.”

Some guests tilt their heads, puzzled. Others stiffen — recognizing the phrasing.

“To those who remember. To those who keep silence.”

The weight of that sentence hangs — like dust in still air. No one dares move.

The Chair’s gaze moves slowly over the crowd. He doesn’t look at anyone. He looks through them.

“May the circle remain unbroken.”

A beat of silence. And then—

Applause.
Heavy. Thunderous. Almost desperate.

Glasses lift high. Toasts are muttered. Guests turn to one another, smiling too brightly.

But the Chair doesn’t smile. Not once.

He steps back from the railing, shadows folding around him — and vanishes through the left hallway without another word.

The lights return, warm and golden once more.

But something has shifted.

A soft hum of static.

Faint — but persistent.

In the security command room, Ro leans forward, elbow braced against the console. Monitors stack in quiet grids before him, their glow washing his pale skin in shifting hues. His violet-wisteria coat rustles as he shifts, and one of his floating hands — paper — flicks across the air, pausing on a flickering camera feed.

He taps the screen once. Then again.

“East Wing interference,” he mutters, not loud enough for comms.

The rock-hand clenches. Scissors spins nervously.

He reroutes the feed, narrowing his eyes. The image stabilizes. Briefly. Then stutters again — this time with a strange ripple. Almost like... a pulse.

Down the hall from the atrium, near the tapestry gallery, Branzy tucks a folder beneath his coat. The seal on it bears Parrot's insignia — but the ink is still damp.

He glances left. Then right. No one is watching.

His hand lingers over the inner pocket just a moment too long.

And in a quieter corridor lined with old estate portraits, Woogie walks alone.

No hurry. No hesitation.

He swipes a card across a black sensor — a soft green light clicks.

The wing door parts open with a whisper. Cool air leaks out.

He steps inside. Doesn't look back.

The door slides shut.

...

Through the ballroom, the service halls, the velvet-curtained library entrance — Parrot walks fast.

He doesn’t speak.

His posture is ramrod straight, but his hand keeps brushing the inside of his coat — checking for something. A key? A note?

His eyes — sharp, gold-rimmed — scan every corner. Every guest. Every shadow.

He passes a cluster of VIPs exchanging laughter, and doesn’t pause to greet them. One raises a brow. Parrot doesn’t notice.

At the edge of the room, he stops — briefly — and stares down the hallway leading to the books and files.

He inhales.

Exhales.

Then moves on.

And above it all — the music plays on. Warm. Unbothered.
Like nothing’s wrong.

But something is.

Pangi, sleeves rolled and feather duster in hand, hums as he buffs the marble bust of some long-dead estate founder. His strokes are practiced, methodical. The Atrium’s ambient gold light doesn’t quite reach this hall — here, everything is cooler. Grayer. Still.

He turns to reach the next pedestal—
—and freezes.

A figure in black, all folds and shadows, steps silently from the end of the hallway.
Not from a room. From the wall.
Where there shouldn't be an opening at all.

The figure doesn’t speak. Doesn’t hurry.
Just passes.
Pangi’s breath catches in his throat. He blinks—
Gone.

When he looks again, the hallway is empty. The air feels colder.

...

Wemmbu adjusts his serving tray — martinis perfectly balanced — as he ducks through a side hallway leading from the wine conservatory.

Behind him, something shifts.

A panel closes in the wall — soundless. Seamless.
He doesn’t notice.

The guests in the next room laugh over a toast.

..

Corridor, fiddling with his lanyard, stops in his tracks. He stands near an ornate column beneath a carved owl. Something caught his attention.

He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes at the vent shaft running just along the ceiling.
Sniffs once.

“Smells like ozone…” he whispers.

He touches the wall below it — faintly warm.
Then, after a beat, walks on.

...

A gala guest, skin covered with red, headphones draped on his neck, livestreams on his holo-band. He pans across the etched glass that borders a museum wing — the inside frosted with etched vines and gold-leaf patterns.

For the briefest frame, the glass flickers. A black blur, humanoid but wrong, moves past.

He frowns. Rewinds. It’s gone.

...

And at the end of that hidden hall — behind a sensor-locked panel no one speaks of —
sits the Archive Vault.

Silent. Sealed. Waiting.

Jepex pauses in a low-lit back corridor, earpiece glowing a soft teal. His fingers tap rapidly across his wristpad, scanning through anomaly logs.

“I’ve got a sharp echo,” he says through comms.
“Near the Archive Vault. Sensor glitch?”

He waits.

Static.

Then Ro’s voice returns — clipped, distracted:

“Ignore it. Maintenance protocol 7C.”

In the security room, Roshambo sits back in his chair, frowning. One of the feeds blinks, stutters…
Then drops.

The camera overlooking the Archive Vault blips off.

Timer flashes: OFFLINE – 00:27:00
Auto-reboot protocol engaged.

Ro leans forward. “That’s not maintenance…”

Behind him, the scissors-hand spins slowly, twitching.

Another screen flickers red. A magnetic lock status:

SEAL: DISENGAGED
Location: EAST WING / RECORD ACCESS
Timecode: 02:43:11

Ro’s mouth tightens.

“Who authorized—”

Click.
Somewhere, a latch gives.
Then: silence.

No alarm. No screams.
Just the soft thrum of systems running blind.

A bell chimes from somewhere unseen — deep, resonant, and final. Midnight.

The soft clatter of glasses quiets as the toast is called. Guests gather near the grand fountain, where floating candles drift like fireflies across the water’s skin. A hush falls, then a wave of sparkling laughter as someone lifts a goblet too high and sloshes champagne down their sleeve. The tension eases — on the surface.

“To the future!” someone toasts, bold and bright.
“To endurance!” another replies.
“To mystery,” a guest near the art gallery purrs, and clinks his glass with someone he won’t remember tomorrow.

The music resumes. Gentle violins curve like smoke through the gold-drenched halls. Though, soon, they'll leave eventually based on a protocol.

On the marble steps, a duo dances — slow, lazy, swaying more than moving. The staff continue their soft, hidden waltz around the guests, ever invisible, ever alert. The illusion of harmony sharpens into something uncanny.

Near the edge of the party, Spoke stands still for once.

His fingers twitch at his sides. His eyes scan. His mouth is twisted — half frown, half confusion.

“Hey…” he says, voice low, uncertain. “Where’s Parrot?”

No one answers right away. One guest shrugs. Another’s halfway through a story about the frescoes and barely registers the question. A third just laughs, assuming it’s a joke. But Spoke doesn’t laugh.

He glances toward a corridor — velvet ropes still in place, polished brass glinting under chandelier light. Parrot should’ve returned by now. He always circles back. He’s punctual. Meticulous.

“Has anyone seen him?” Spoke tries again, louder now.

This time, heads turn. Eyes blink. One of the caterers glances up, briefly startled. A subtle ripple disturbs the smooth surface of the event.

At his console, deep below, Ro taps his earpiece twice. Then once more. He checks the signal monitor.
No ping.
No location return.
Just a null trace.

“Parrot,” Ro says calmly into comms. “Report in.”

Silence.

His paper-hand slowly folds. Rock tightens into a slow fist. The scissors tremble with a nervous twitch. Ro’s coat, pale wisteria and lavender, suddenly feels too tight around the collar. He checks the logs again — no new keycard scans. No movement tags near the East Wing. No signal breach. And yet—no Parrot.

“Where the hell are you,” he murmurs.

High above them all, standing still as a statue on the third-floor overlook, the Chair watches. His shape blends into the shadows — black upon black, the stark glint of his white eyes the only clear feature. One hand rests on the rail, fingers unmoving. A figure of myth and silence, unblinking.

He does not drink.
He does not move.
He simply observes.

Below, the guests toast again — to dreams, to dust, to the lie of safety.

Spoke paces once. Twice. He starts toward the hall where Parrot disappeared, hesitant. The hairs on his arms prickle.

“Something’s wrong,” he mutters. No one hears.

The camera feed in the East Wing glitches again — just one second.

Then—

Stillness.

The wing stands silent.
Cold.
And waiting.

The East Wing feels different now.

Each footstep echoes longer than it should. Shadows hang too thick in the corners. The usual warmth of flickering sconces along the wall seems weaker here, dulled like something’s pressing against the light.

Spoke walks slower than usual. Quieter.

He knows he shouldn't be here. He knows.

He tells himself it’s just part of the patrol. That Parrot’s probably one hallway ahead, fussing over some last-minute detail or scolding a distracted staff for stacking name cards wrong. That everything is fine. But his fingers twitch. His breath catches sometimes — short, thin inhalations through his nose like his body knows something his mind won’t name.

He rounds a corner. The silence meets him like a curtain.

And then he feels it — a draft.

Not cold exactly. Not sharp. But wrong. A tremble of air from a sealed corridor that shouldn’t breathe. A memory of smoke, of age, of something kept shut too long.

His eyes land on the source.

The Archive Vault. Its heavy door — slightly ajar.

“That’s not right,” he says under his breath.

It hasn’t been opened in years. Not since the fire scorched the lower levels. Not since they sealed it for  “safety.” Not since Parrot told him, with that flat, firm tone, “Never go in unless you’re with me.”

He hesitates — just a heartbeat.

Then pushes the door open.

It swings inward with a soft groan, revealing darkness that feels too still, too intentional. He steps inside.

The air smells of dust and iron.

And the room… the room is wrong.

Scrolls and ledgers lie half-disturbed, like something was searched. The old ceremonial desk at the center — untouched for decades — is now freshly used. Its top has been wiped in a perfect square, like someone prepared a space. A blackened candle still smokes at the edge of a nearby book. The faint scratch of parchment. And—

There.

At the desk.
Sitting upright.
Parrot.

“Parrot?” Spoke asks softly.

His voice cracks in the middle.

At first, it looks like he’s simply reading. His posture is rigid. One hand rests on the blank ledger, the other still clutches an old ceremonial quill, red-stained, its golden tip glinting faintly. The feather is smeared with something far darker than ink.

And his throat—
A thin, clean slash, straight and deliberate, carved from ear to ear. One, maybe two.

Spoke doesn't move. His mind floods, blanks, floods again. His mouth opens and closes like breath is too complicated now. He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t sob. Instead, he lowers himself slowly to his knees without meaning to, hand gripping the edge of a nearby cabinet to keep from falling entirely.

“No…” he whispers.

It’s the kind of word that barely carries. A ghost of sound.

His fingers shake as he reaches up, taps his comms, still silent in his ear.

“Ro…” he breathes, forcing it out. He's not trying to stay calm, he's trying not to cry.

“I found Parrot.”

A long silence follows — not from the device, but from within.

He leans forward slightly, as if to reach for Parrot, but he stops himself. The blood has already dried. The eyes — half-closed — stare at the open ledger with a kind of frozen, unreadable focus. A wax seal on the corner bears the insignia of The Demesne Circle.

Spoke pulls back.

One step. Then two.

He doesn’t cry. Not yet. But his jaw is locked, trembling. His shoulders shake — not from fear, but from something deeper, something splitting. Something like betrayal and grief and fury, all rising at once, just under the skin.

He looks once more, then turns — slowly, carefully, as if noise might disturb something sacred — and leaves the vault behind.

Surely, Roshambo would've gotten the clue by now. Surely.

Anyhow, the door remains open.

The draft, still moving.

...

On the other side, Ro's fingers hover mid-air — just above the console. The three floating hands that orbit him (rock, paper, scissors) halt in place, each one fixed in its last gesture. A faint glow pulses from the comms in his collar.

Spoke’s voice still rings in his ear, but he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe for a beat.

Then—

“Say nothing else,” Ro murmurs.

No emotion. No tremor. Just command.

His actual hands move with chilling precision, bypassing the primary interface entirely. Instead, he reaches behind a panel, finds a small switch embedded beneath the console — one not marked, not labeled. A metal click sounds like a gun cocking.

And then — everything shifts.

A low, grinding hiss vibrates through the marble bones of Elmswood Estate.

It starts like a breath. Then escalates.

Steel barriers unfold from the walls — sleek and seamless, like they’d always been there, just hidden behind velvet and wood. They descend over entrances, archways, the ornate ballroom doors, even the side wings that lead toward the conservatories and libraries. One slides into place directly in front of the East Wing hallway.

Click. Thunk. Seal.

In the Grand Atrium, the chandeliers flicker, their glow stuttering as auxiliary power hums awake. Guests still holding champagne flutes stop mid-toast. Some gasp as doors slam shut. Others just stand still, eyes wide, confused — the glamour and gold of the evening now cast in an unsettling electric buzz.

Ro exhales slowly, back in the security chamber.

The floating rock hand clenches into a fist.

He drags two fingers across a touch-sensitive panel — screens shift rapidly until they show camera feeds from every corner of the estate. One quadrant blinks static. Another shows the Archive Vault door, slightly ajar, no movement inside.

“Full lockdown. Level Eight,” Ro speaks into his collar, low but sharp. Commanding every staff through comms.

“All wings. All sectors. No one in or out. Everyone stays where they are.”

“Dead comms outside command chain. No exceptions.”

From hidden vents in the walls, a low siren begins — not loud, not panicked, but deep, like a pressure in the chest. The kind of sound designed to unsettle.

On the ballroom floor, a man in black stumbles backward.

“What’s happening?” he breathes.

“Is this… a drill?”

But no one answers him.

The celebration has stopped. The staff have disappeared. And on the upper landing of the stairwell, the Chair still stands — unmoving, hands clasped behind his back, his white eyes fixed down at the crowd like he’s watching ants trapped beneath glass.

Ro leans forward in his chair, the lavender of his coat catching the dim monitor light. One hand rubs the bridge of his nose, then lowers again to the panel.

“We find the breach,” he says softly, to no one.

“We seal it.”

His fingers twitch again.

The floating paper hand snaps open — flat, ready.

...

Ro’s voice cuts through the estate like a blade.

“Make sure that every wing is tightly locked,” he says, voice tight as wire.
“No one leaves.”

The command echoes across all comms — into earpieces, across silent terminals, through concealed speakers embedded in the walls of Elmswood. The order is flat. Final. For everyone. Even the guests.

No room for hesitation.

In the command center, Ro’s jaw ticks — his teeth clench behind a tight-lipped frown. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. His pale hand hovers over the console as if waiting for a ghost to pull it down.

Before him: a grid of monitors, each flickering in perfect surveillance rhythm — except one.

The East Wing.

Feed: Black. Static. Gone.

The silence of that one blank screen presses heavier than the others combined. His eyes don’t move from it. His body is still, unnaturally so — like a statue waiting to crack. The three floating hands around him begin to drift in closer orbit, drawn like moons in his gravity, twitching slightly.

He doesn’t look away.

Darkness.

A different room — somewhere hidden. No screens. No chandeliers. Just shadows. Stone walls. Cold air. A candle burns in an old sconce, barely alive. The frame is tight — claustrophobic.

A figure stands just beyond the candle’s reach. Unseen. Shape cloaked in black, motionless.

Then — softly. Almost lovingly. A whisper, more felt than heard:

“It begins again.”

The flame flutters.

Chapter Text

The best detective in the world didn’t arrive in a limousine. He arrived in a raincoat, holding a sandwich.

Rain fell with theatrical elegance across the Elmswood Estate, glinting under the sculpted lanterns that lined the circular drive like sentries. The gravel, meticulously raked just hours ago, was now flecked with puddles that reflected the massive iron gates and the towering façade beyond — arched windows, balconies with ornamental curls, and tapestries barely visible through the frosted glass.

A sleek black car rolled to a stop. No fanfare. No guards rushing to open doors. The back passenger side creaked open, and a scuffed boot hit the gravel.

Detective Rekrap, better known to the press as Detective Parker, emerged from the vehicle mid-chew — a lopsided sandwich in one hand, the other adjusting the collar of a rumpled trench coat that looked like it had seen several continents and not enough hangers.

He had dirty blonde hair, slightly overgrown, messily swept back as if he forgot to check a mirror for the past two days. His blue eyes scanned the mansion with the casual sharpness of someone already solving something. Around his neck, a thin cord held a pendant in yellow and blue glass — a trinket or maybe a keepsake. Under the coat, his black slacks were only marginally less wrinkled. A detective’s badge gleamed at his hip, clipped lazily onto his belt. He did not, notably, carry an umbrella.

He flicked a crumb off his coat absently. "Nothing says crime scene like dinner on the go," he muttered to himself. His boots squelched slightly as he moved forward.

A marble statue loomed by the main staircase outside — a rearing horseman in dramatic pose. The rain streaked down its stone face like tears.

Rek gave it a deadpan look. "He doesn’t look happy to see me either."

The front doors didn’t open immediately. For a long moment, Rek stood under the downpour, chewing, one eyebrow raised. Then—

Click. The lock turned, the heavy doors parted an inch, then all the way.

There stood Ro — white, elegant, calculating — his lavender-toned formal coat catching the amber light of the vestibule. Wires glinted near his collar. His eyes were sharp and unreadable, and orbiting him in slow, deliberate rhythm: three spectral hands, gently rotating.

Ro took one look at the sandwich and said, "Detective Parker." He started.

"You’re late."

"No, I’m exactly on time," Rek replied. "The body, on the other hand, was early."

They stared at each other in silence. One man was soaked and mildly smug. The other, perfectly dry and visibly displeased.

Ro stepped aside, motioning in. "Wipe your feet."

Rek stepped in, leaving a trail of water behind as he entered Elmswood. The air inside was warmer — honeyed with the scent of beeswax polish and burning cedar. The floor beneath him gleamed: dark cherrywood inlaid with a looping gold motif, spiraling out in a sunburst.

Above them, the grand chandelier hung like a frozen explosion — tiers of crystal droplets swaying ever so slightly with the weight of the storm outside.

Rek glanced up, then looked at Ro. "Nice place. Shame someone had to ruin it with murder."

Ro didn’t respond, already walking toward a side hall flanked by carved reliefs of old wars and forgotten treaties. The third hand behind his head formed a paper symbol — flat and pointed.

Rek followed, dripping all the way. He took one last bite of the sandwich.

"By the way," he said, voice still casual, "you got anything hot to drink in here? Dead people always chill a room."

The door to the inner wing shut behind them with a soft but definitive click.

The hum of low electricity and old tension filled the Elmswood security hub. The room was tucked behind an unmarked panel near the servant’s corridor — windowless, dim, and pulsing with blue light from over twenty monitors.

Detective Parker stood just inside, shaking light drizzle from his scarf, now hanging limp around his neck like a flag after battle. His boots left damp prints on the intricate parquet flooring, where the polished wood met the steel runners of old sliding doors.

“Cozy,” Rek muttered. His voice echoed slightly against the humming tech and concrete.

Ro didn’t glance up. He was perched in a chair, his posture sharp, coat draped across the back like a second skin. The lavender-wisteria color of his vest caught the glow of the screens in strange ways — regal one second, ghostly the next. Three hands orbited him still: one curled into a fist, one flat, one with two fingers up like scissors, drifting in sync with his breath.

“To start,” Ro said evenly. “Parrot’s dead.”

Rek chewed on that like it was part of his sandwich. His eyebrows ticked up, but not with surprise. More like interest. He finally stepped in fully, gaze skating over the screens.

“Cause of death?”

“Throat slit,” Ro replied. “He was found seated in the Archive Vault. Still upright. Still holding the ceremonial quill.”

Rek's lips pressed into a line. “That's dramatic.”

Ro’s fingers flew across a side keypad, and one of the screens blinked to a paused frame. The door to the Archive Vault, timestamped. Static now.

“One camera blanked out for exactly twenty-seven minutes,” Ro continued. “Then came back. Spoke found him two minutes after.”

“Where is Spoke?” Rek asked, already scanning for movement, names, patterns.

“With upper staff. Shaken. Not talking much.”

Rek squinted at a monitor showing thermal readings, then tilted his head. “Alright, gimme the lay of the land.”

Ro’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. “Thirty-eight people remain in the estate. That includes major staff and essential guests. Minor personnel — catering, musicians — were dismissed after first service, per protocol and by Parrot. We cleared them early to limit exposure.”

“And the others?”

“Staff are housed in the sublevel dormitories. Guests are confined to the West Wing. Earlier, we locked every hall leading out of East.”

Rek smirked faintly. “Tidy. If this were a dinner party game, I’d say the killer’s still in the house.”

Ro’s floating ‘paper’ hand twitched like it wanted to slap something.

“We’re not playing Clue, Detective.”

Rek tapped the blank feed on the screen gently. “No, Ro. We’re playing something older. More expensive.”

He straightened his coat and sighed, eyes sharp now, playful glint gone. “Alright. Let’s go around, and see what's up.”

Ro’s chair creaked faintly as he shifted.

“You’ll want this first,” he said, reaching under the console.

A soft thud broke the electric hum — a leather-bound dossier folder, thick and slightly weather-worn, landed on the table beside Rek. The front bore no label, but a corner was smudged with what looked like printer toner — or ash.

Rek looked at it, then at Ro.

Ro didn’t blink. “Compiled it when I locked the doors. Everything relevant. You can guess how long I had.”

Rek flipped it open with one hand. The pages were neatly tabbed: Estate Overview, Personnel Roster, Guest Registry, Event Schedule, Security Logs, Camera Map, Restricted Access List.

“Don’t memorize it,” Ro added, leaning back. “Just don’t walk in blind.”

Rek's eyes scanned the pages quickly, fingers pausing every so often to tap at a name. He whistled low.

“Thirty-seven, huh. That’s a generous number of suspects.” 

Ro’s scissors-hand clicked softly in the air. “It was more than that, before the gala began. Parrot made sure only the key ones stayed.”

“Any names I should circle in blood?” Rek asked without looking up.

Ro folded his real hands in his lap. “That’s your job. But I’ll say this — none of them fully panicked when we locked the doors. Some of them already knew what was coming.”

Rek finally closed the dossier, palm resting on the cover like a gravestone.

“And how about you, Ro?” he asked, voice a shade lighter, but eyes unreadable. “Did you know what was coming?”

Ro met his gaze. No smile. No flinch. Just lavender catching blue light.

“I knew someone was going to test the system,” he said. “I didn’t think they’d kill the architect.”

Rek nodded once. Slowly.

“Then let’s find the renovator.”

He tucked the folder under one arm and gestured to the door.

“Lead the way, Security Director.”

Ro stood, coat sliding over his shoulders with practiced ease. The floating hands hovered just behind him now — silent sentinels.

They moved together toward the steel door.

Outside, the storm hadn’t stopped.

Inside, the game had only just begun.

The heels of Ro’s polished boots echoed with sharp precision against the marble floors of Elmswood Estate — each step like the ticking of a grandfather clock trying very hard not to lose its temper. The hallway curved gently like a vertebrae along the spine of the estate, ceiling arched high with murals of storm-tossed ships and impossible constellations. Chandeliers shimmered like they were holding their breath. The air was scented faintly with wax, lavender polish, and something more coppery — something recently disturbed.

Rekrap, something much less official to himself, walked three paces behind with his hands in his coat pockets, letting his gaze wander. He wasn’t following Ro. He was following details. The scuff marks on the floor. The slight misalignment of a gold frame. The way the candle in the wall sconce near Room 13A flickered a fraction too fast. All of it cataloged. All of it filed.

His coat, still damp at the hem from the walk in, swayed with his steps. His necklace — gold chain with a single blue bead nestled near his collarbone — clicked softly with every footfall. There was still a smudge of mustard on the edge of his sleeve. He hadn’t bothered to clean it. His badge, however, gleamed like it had been wiped twice before he entered the estate.

Roshambo, leading, didn’t look back. His posture was military — not stiff, but deliberate. Controlled. Lavender and wisteria tones danced across his tailored coat beneath the security lighting. His white skin caught a faint glow as they passed another hallway. The floating hands that hovered behind him twitched — Paper flicked once. Rock clenched. Scissors pulsed open.

Ro’s voice was cool, exact. “The gala began at 8:00 PM. Live quartet in the atrium. Performance lasted twenty-three minutes. We received the clearance to conclude musical presence at 8:45.”

Rek raised one brow. Nothing says classy like timed applause.

Ro continued. “At 10:21 PM, Chief Usher Parrot was verified active in the East Wing. Archival corridor. He had full clearance to every part of the estate.”

Rek’s steps slowed slightly. Not visibly enough to be called hesitation — but enough. Enough for him to notice the faint depression in the carpet near a side hallway alcove. Someone had stood there. Nervously, maybe.

Parrot, he thought. Name fits. Bright. Sharp. Preening. Always flapping around something.

But then again — people with cheerful names often died with very serious expressions.

Aloud, he said nothing. He let Ro keep the rhythm of the facts. Always better that way.

“At 10:37 PM, internal lockdown protocol initialized. Public areas sealed. Only 38 individuals remained on estate grounds. The rest—”

“Already covered,” Rek thought, dismissively. “No need for reruns.”

He spoke finally, voice dry: “And the archives?”

Ro stopped walking. Turned.

His eyes, pale and exact, narrowed.

Ro: “The Archive Vault is sealed. Was sealed. After the fire twelve years ago, it was reinforced. Only Parrot had non-alarm access tonight, along with me and Jepex as security heads. Pangi as the head housekeeper, and some of the archivists.”

Rek rocked slightly on his heels, letting that phrase sit. Was sealed.

Hmm..

Still getting used to the past tense. He thought. That’s always the worst part.

He glanced toward the East, where somewhere past a dozen doors and layers of velvet and bone-white plaster, the Archive waited.

“And now he’s dead inside it. Throat opened, clean. Sitting neat. No alarm. No scream.” Rek replied.

Ro’s floating hands pulsed with sudden sharpness — scissors twitched.

“Security protocols were airtight. If you’re implying failure—”

Rek held up one hand. “I never imply. I just notice.”

Then, quieter, like a thought caught out loud: “Still, sneaking a clean murder into a locked room during a high-security gala? That’s talent.”

A silence stretched.

Ro looked him over, unreadable. “You think it was an outsider?”

Rek smiled faintly. “I think it was someone very good at pretending to belong.”

The clock somewhere below began to ring. First chime of midnight. The sound carried through the walls like a countdown.

Twelve bells.

One less heartbeat.

And thirty-eight people pretending it was just another toast gone late. Oops. Thirty-seven now.

They resumed walking. Past paneled doors with monogrammed crests. Past flower arrangements left too long in the cold. Past the faint echo of laughter in the guest wing trying too hard to still sound normal.

Rek didn’t miss the way one of the portraits ahead — a painting of a founder with a blackbird on his shoulder — had been slightly tilted.

Something’s begun. Rek thought.

Question is, has it started now… or did I already miss the first move?

He didn’t say it aloud.

He didn’t need to.

The estate was listening.

And so was he.

The hall twisted again, deeper into the East Wing now, where the soft flicker of wall sconces dimmed into a cooler hue. The light here was less for show, more for security. Quiet, blue-toned. Designed to make intruders uneasy and insiders feel important. The carpet thinned. The marble turned darker. Granite veins ran through it like frozen lightning.

Rek walked with Ro still, hands now behind his back, coat still trailing faint droplets, though most had dried by now. The scent changed here too — less lavender, more stone and ink. Somewhere, past the arched doors and looming portraits, a cold draft traced along the baseboards like a rumor.

"The body," Rek said, not asking, not pressing. Just setting the path forward.

Ro didn’t nod, didn’t pause. His voice came quiet, not from hesitation, but from precision.

Ro: "10:32 PM. Comms buzzed. Spoke called it in. His voice was… steady, but I could tell. He cared about Parrot."

The name seemed to echo faintly along the corridor walls.

Ro continued. "I was in the Security Hub. Monitoring. I rerouted drones first, then moved myself. But Spoke had already entered the vault."

They passed an ornate set of doors now — wood carved with the symbol of the estate: an open eye within a laurel circle. Rek slowed just enough to drag a knuckle against it.

No dust.
Recently used.
Recently closed.

They kept moving.

Ro's shoulders shifted slightly, as if adjusting the weight of the moment before continuing.

Ro: "He found Parrot sitting upright. At the desk inside the Archive Vault. Head back. Throat slit. No struggle. Quill in his right hand. No ink on the page."

Rek blinked slowly, absorbing.

No blood spatter.
No ink stains.
No marks of surprise.

He didn’t see it coming. Or he did, and he let it.

His gaze traced the walls again. Somewhere near here, the air grew colder. The kind of cold that doesn’t come from vents, but from knowledge.

Rek replied. "Locked room. High security. Vaulted."

"Triple-seal entry. No motion logs. No alert. Doors registered closed from 10:20 PM and so on." Ro continued.

Rek let out a soft breath, amused. "Meaning the killer didn’t enter."

Ro stopped.

Rek: "They were already inside."

He looked up, blue eyes sharper now. A thought flickered, but he didn't say it yet. Not enough pieces on the board. Not yet.

The air pressed closer.

Ro: "Do you want to see the body?"

Rek didn’t answer right away. He stepped once to the right, peering out a narrow window slit. The courtyard beyond lay still, blanketed in midnight. The statue of the founder now looked like it was listening.

Then he turned back.

"Yes."

Because dead men don’t lie. But the room around them always does.

They continued forward. One door remained between them and the truth. Or something pretending to be it.

The door to the Archive Vault loomed ahead, forged of brushed steel inset with mahogany panels — one of the few places in Elmswood where modern security met old-world tradition. Ro didn’t need to speak. His hand hovered near the console, not yet pressing it, as if announcing their arrival would disturb more than just a silent room.

Rek slowed his steps. His coat had dried completely now, leaving only a faint halo of dampness at the hem, darkening the bottom seams. His posture shifted—shoulders drawing subtly in, hands falling to his sides now, open. Alert.

The hallway behind them felt sealed off, though no door had closed. Just silence. Weighted.

Ro’s floating hands aligned automatically—Paper hovering just above the panel, Rock slightly further back, twitching. Scissors spun lazily behind him like a wind-up waiting to snap. He looked once to Rek, then tapped the override.

A brief hiss, a coil retracting. The vault door unsealed itself with a reluctant groan.

The smell hit first. Not rot, not yet. But metal. Ink. And time. A library that had not fully breathed in hours. The kind of place where air remembered what it had seen.

They stepped inside.

The Archive Vault was circular, windowless, ceiling high and domed with bronze tiling that caught the low, recessed lighting. Shelves curved around them like ribs, filled with folios, ledgers, maps, scrolls bound in lacquered leather. A single desk sat in the center of the room, anchoring it all like a ritual altar.

And at that desk—

Parrot.

He sat slumped back in the antique reading chair, head tilted, throat sliced clean across. The wound had dried into a thin, dark line against the pale skin of his neck, blood pooled neatly beneath the chair and tracked no further. A single quill was clutched in his right hand, the point dark with red ink—though the ledger on the desk in front of him remained blank. Wide open. As if waiting for a name.

Rek entered first, slow, measured.

No rush. The dead weren’t going anywhere.

Ro remained near the entrance, scanning with trained precision. His hands spread out again, but they didn’t touch anything. Not yet.

Rek circled.

The room whispered.

People die with their hands open. Spasms. Surrender. Weight let go. But this one... this one clutches.

The quill hadn't fallen. No smudge on the desk. No streak. Just an elegant precision. A line unbroken.

It wasn’t a struggle. It was a message. But not to the world.

He crouched, knees cracking softly, eye-level with the desk surface.

The blood had dried, but it hadn’t sprayed. The kill had been exact—arterial, but clean. Too clean.

Not a panic. A plan.

He stood again, reaching with his eyes, not his hands, toward the ledger. The pages fanned open beneath the soft ambient light. Not one stroke of ink. No blot, no attempt. Just intention, suspended forever in pause.

“This is theater,” Rek muttered, voice low, almost distracted. “Someone wanted this to look old. Ceremonial.”

He moved along the right side of the desk, head slightly tilted, the way a person tilts a photo frame hoping to see the flaw behind the glass.

“But the kill?” A pause.

“That was personal.”

Ro didn’t speak. His gaze flicked between Rek and Parrot’s form, the three hands behind him slowing their orbit like planets sensing a gravitational shift.

Rek’s fingers hovered inches above the ledger now, tracing without touching.

This isn’t just a record. This was supposed to be signed. Or witnessed. Or ruined. But it was never meant to be read.

He turned, slowly, eyes scanning the walls now—the upper corners, the vents, the spaces where shadow lived without permission.

Then, finally, he looked again at the body.

Why here? Why him?

The Archive Vault remained silent. Not reverent. Not tragic.

Just… holding its breath.

And somewhere, in the quiet hum of security logs and locked doors, the truth was already trying to erase itself.

....

Rek leaned in now.

Closer.

One foot shifted forward with barely a sound, weight shifting into the balls of his feet. Balanced. His breath even, steady, but his eyes had sharpened — not predator, not prey — just a creature who understood how death spoke when it was still trying to lie.

Parrot’s skin had paled, but not to gray. The blood loss had been significant, but not instant. The slice was surgical. Top of the carotid. Slight downward angle.

Tall assailant. Or Parrot was seated already.

The slit itself had a second line — a tremor, a hesitation, just beneath the primary cut. Not sloppy. Just... emotional.

That’s not rage. That’s reverence. Or fear. Or regret.

He crouched again, slower this time, letting the coat brush the floor. His fingers hovered just off the edge of the desk.

The quill was not a standard estate pen. It was antique. Dark-feathered, silver banded. Rek recognized the make — decorative, primarily. It could write, but it wasn’t meant to. It was meant to be held during announcements. Readings. Ceremonies.

Parrot chose this one. Or someone chose it for him.

He narrowed his eyes at the ledger again.

The page was clean, but the quill was inked, red.

So where’s the mark?

He turned to the floor. Marble again. Polished, reflective — but now veined with dried blood in gentle curves. 

There—just beside the chair leg—an ink blot. Not large. Not dramatic. Just enough.

He tried to write. Or he dropped it first. But the hand never relaxed. Death came before the release.

He rose again. His coat swayed gently as he stepped to Parrot’s side. His face never flinched. Not at the wound. Not at the slack jaw or half-lidded eyes.

But his gaze lingered on the fingertips.

There was a smear there. A partial curve. Dried.

Not ink.

He brought one gloved hand from his pocket and traced near the edge of Parrot’s wrist, close enough to stir the fabric, but never touching. The cuff had been straightened. The buttons aligned.

Too aligned.

Someone fixed him. After. Or he did it himself, before. That’s not something most victims get the chance to do.

He exhaled slowly.

The smell of ink, blood, and aging paper filled his lungs. It was cold, but not freezing. The room hadn’t changed temperature since they entered — but it felt colder.

He turned slightly toward Ro, not to ask, but to confirm.

“No blood outside this room?”

Ro nodded once. “Not a drop.”

Rek gave a low hum, then circled behind the chair. He glanced upward. No cameras inside the vault. Of course not.

High security meant no leaks. But it also meant no witnesses.

He leaned closer now, speaking more to the room than to the man.

“You came here willingly,” he said. “You sat down. You lifted the pen. And then someone made it mean something else.”

He stepped back. Let his eyes rest one more time on Parrot’s face.

A slight curve in the lips. Not a smile.

But not fear either.

Surrender?

Or anticipation?

He didn’t decide. Not yet.

Instead, he stepped away — quiet, deliberate — and finally let the silence fill the space between him and the body.

There was nothing more the corpse would say now.

But Rek wasn’t listening for the corpse anymore.

He was listening for everything else.

The West Wing was not a prison.
It was curated restraint. Elegantly shut.

Rek stepped through the tall doors behind Ro, immediately immersed in a room thick with expense — gilded paneling, imported tapestries, wine-glass echoes. It smelled of roses and cold sweat. The chandelier above swung gently, disturbed earlier by something — someone — restless.

Thirty-eight remained. Well, thirty-seven.

Either way, only a fraction were here, within sight, clustered like figures in a low-resolution painting. Enough to show you the brushstrokes. Not enough to see the whole thing.

Minute stood near the tallest window, still as a portrait, white eyes tracing nothing. His black hands folded neatly behind his back, his red bowtie unwrinkled even now. He did not turn to acknowledge Rek, but something in the room shifted when Rek arrived — like Minute allowed the moment to begin. He was not surprised.
He was tracking this timeline too.

At Rek’s side, Ro murmured, “They’ve been like this. Split into their own corners.” His floating hands gently adjusted his comms. Rock hovered by his right hip now. Paper was behind his back.

Rek’s boots made almost no sound on the plush rug. But every head turned, one by one.

ClownPierce was first to speak. He sprawled across a velvet lounge, gloved fingers drumming against the side of his mask. “So…” he said, voice smooth as silk scraped over glass. “Is this where you ask which one of us did it? Or is that later, when the thunder claps and the lights flicker?”

No thunder. No drama. Just a long hallway filled with too many secrets.

“I’m not here for theatrics,” Rek replied, gaze cutting sideways but never stopping his pace.

Clown laughed softly. “Oh, you are, my dear sleuth. Just not the kind you can admit out loud.”

Rek let that one slide. No need to engage a performer in his own show.

Reddoons leaned forward from the mantle where he’d planted himself, lowering his sunglasses just enough to peer over the rim. “Wait— hold on. You’re him, aren’t you?”

Rek didn’t respond. He just kept walking.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Spepticle muttered from near the back, fiddling with the wire on his headphones. “The raincoat guy. Sandwich guy. Detective Parker, right?”

Rek finally stopped in the middle of the room. He glanced to Roshambo. “You didn’t tell them?”

Ro grunted. “They guessed. Or Googled.”

“You all get reception?” Rek asked, deadpan.

“Nope,” Clown chirped, popping the 'p' and folding one leg over the other. “But Leo does. Probably. He has a satellite in his kneecap or something.”

Leo, across the room, said nothing. His all-white form sat statue-still, one hand resting on the edge of a marble tabletop. His eye behind the “LW” eyepatch didn’t blink. The other eye… also didn’t blink.

Ashswag drifted closer, his glitched side flickering faintly in the chandelier’s reflection. “We figured you’d show eventually,” he said, voice smooth. Too smooth. “Someone like you doesn’t miss the storm.”

“Detective Rekrap,” Chief said, stepping forward like a man on a stage he didn’t know he’d entered. “I studied one of your older cases in university. The ‘Salma House Affair.’ I wrote a thesis on—well, you don’t care about that.”

“Correct,” Rek said.

Chief hesitated, then gave a small nod, taking the rejection in stride.

Across the room, Block Facts stood near a decorative pillar, arms folded tightly. He hadn't spoken. Not once. Just kept his eyes low. Mouth drawn tight. He flinched a little when someone laughed — a short, involuntary twitch.

“Block?” Ash prompted, tilting his head.

Block shook his head without looking up.

“Let him be,” Flame muttered from his pacing route by the far wall. His shoulders were squared. Controlled fury. “We don’t all need to perform.”

“Listen,” Reddoons broke in, setting his drink down a little too hard. “Nobody here did anything, alright? We’re all freaked out. And we’re not criminals, for whatever happened, just because we’re in the fancy wing.”

Clown turned his masked face toward him. “Speak for yourself.”

Red gave him a glare. “You know what I mean.”

“No,” Clown said, softly. “I really don’t.”

Zam lifted a golden goblet into the air, grinning too brightly. “To confusion and fear!” he cheered. “May it bind us in mystery and good company!”

“Mister Zam,” Leo said coldly, not looking up, “not the time.”

And just like that, the temperature dropped again.

Rek absorbed it all — not just the words, but the tones. The flickers. Who looked at whom. Who didn’t. The glances traded without sound. The way Ash’s hand subtly tensed whenever Leo’s name came up. The second delay between Minute’s micro-blink and Flame’s pivot. The way Spepticle kept his eyes on the walls, not the people. Listening for something the others couldn’t hear.

They don’t see a murder yet, Rek thought.
They see a lockdown. An inconvenience.
They still think this is about someone else. Not them.

Minute, still silent, finally turned his head. Just a little. Enough to meet Rek’s gaze directly.

Rek met it, not flinching.
And for a second…
He wondered who was really investigating whom.

Either way, both Ro and he left the room eventually, now heading towards the sublevel dormitories. Staff time!

The metallic hiss of the access door cut into the stillness as Ro keyed in his clearance. A moment passed. Then a heavy thunk, and the door eased open, revealing a narrow hallway bathed in clinical white light. The hum of the ventilation system was steady and low, like something breathing deep beneath the estate.

Ro’s coat barely rustled as he stepped through, one hand adjusting the comms in his ear. His three floating hands—rock, paper, scissors—trailed him like quiet guardians, their movements deliberate. He spoke without looking back.

“We split them. Estate administration in this room. Domestic staff and keepers next door.” His voice was smooth, low. “This group’s tighter with Parrot. They’d know more—if they’re talking.”

Rekrap said nothing at first. He paused just inside the doorway, eyes drifting from floor to ceiling, taking in the tension already thick in the air. His coat hung open, rain-stained, his expression unreadable. When he spoke, it was casual, almost lazy.

“Dead man’s office locked. No struggle. No mess. No noise. Someone did this clean.”

Ro nodded once. “Too clean.”

They pushed into the dormitory lounge.

It wasn’t meant for comfort—tile floors, stainless steel fixtures, blank gray walls. Fluorescents hummed overhead, throwing pale light across stiff furniture and locked cabinets. The room felt like a waiting room for war.

Eight members of Elmswood’s top staff were already gathered—some seated, some standing, none relaxed. Nine if you'll count Roshambo, but that's for later.

Spoke sat on the arm of a couch, elbows on knees, hands tightly knotted. His rainbow bracelet twisted as he fidgeted, jaw tight, eyes hollow. He looked like someone who hadn’t slept, because he hadn’t.

Planet stood in a shadowed corner, back straight, one foot crossed over the other as he thumbed slowly through a weathered black notebook. His expression was unreadable, serene even. He didn’t speak. Just hummed, faintly, like a ticking clock in the back of the room.

Branzy leaned lazily against the wall, arms spread wide behind his head like he owned the place, but his eyes were quick—too quick. They tracked every movement from Rek and Ro like a man reading a chessboard ten moves ahead.

Mapicc stood near the kitchenette, fangs bared in a lazy half-smile, tail flicking in slow arcs behind him. His crimson eyes watched the others with amusement, like this was some elaborate prank.

Derapchu perched rigidly on a bench, both feet flat on the floor, gold accessories clicking as he adjusted his sleeves for the third time. His tail coiled tight around the leg of the bench, and he hadn’t blinked in far too long.

Jepex was posted up by the far door like he’d rather be anywhere else. He kept shifting from foot to foot, eyes darting between Spoke and Mapicc. His arms were folded too tight, like he was holding something in.

Subz leaned against the fridge, face unreadable beneath the horns that curved back from his head. A black streak trickled from one eye like an ink stain—his eye didn't blink. He was the stillest in the room, next to one other.

Vitalasy sat with one leg neatly crossed, both hands folded in his lap. His violet cat-like eyes blinked slowly. He said nothing. He hadn’t moved in minutes. Just watched.

Rek stepped forward. The silence tensed around him like a held breath.

"Spoke already said what happened, correct?" He started.

Some nodded in response, others were unbothered.

“Great then. You were Parrot’s inner circle. Last to see him. Closest to him.” He looked up, voice soft. “So. Let’s talk.”

Nobody moved.

Then—Spoke.

His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “He wasn’t answering his comms. He always answers.” He swallowed hard. “I—I went to bring him mint tea. Like always. He wasn’t there.”

“You got worried?” Rek’s tone was flat.

Spoke nodded. His leg bounced.

“He’s like my brother. He lectures me like one. Checks my work. Calls me out. But he cares. I thought he just fell asleep or something stupid. But he wasn’t in his room. Or the study. I checked everywhere.”

Ro’s arms crossed. One of his floating hands—the paper one—settled beside his head, as if listening.

“Why the east wing?” Ro asked.

“Gut.” Spoke’s fingers gripped the edge of the cushion beneath him. “I just... knew. Something felt wrong.”

“And you found him?” Rek stepped a little closer.

Spoke’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Yeah.”

Silence followed. Tight. Breathless.

“Some blood,” Spoke added quietly. “And— there was a cut. Maybe two.” His voice faltered.

“Here.” He raised a shaky hand to his own neck, fingertips hovering just beneath the jawline. “Like someone sliced right through. With blood. And just... open.”

Mapicc scoffed, sharp and loud. “Could’ve at least left a note. ‘Sorry for the body in the east wing. xo’.”

Rek turned toward him. “You think this is funny?”

“I think it’s clean.” Mapicc’s arms stayed folded. “Too clean.”

“You were alone?” Ro asked.

“Checking inventory. Backroom terminals.” He tilted his head. “Of course, no cameras now.”

Ro’s jaw flexed. His eyes didn’t blink.

Derapchu cleared his throat, voice tight. “You think one of us did this?”

“No,” Rek said. “I think one of you saw something. And you’re pretending you didn’t.”

Jepex’s lip curled. “Check Branzy. Spin doctor’s been twitchy.”

Branzy flashed a tired grin. “Takes nerves to run comms for a murder estate, Jeppy. Try it sometime.”

“You lied about that memo,” Ro said. Voice flat.

Branzy’s grin didn’t drop, but the corner of his eye twitched. “To keep morale intact. The moment fear spreads, we’re done. I spun it because people like you panic.”

Rek didn’t even blink. “You’re not good under pressure, Branzy. That’s clear.”

Planet finally spoke, softly. “Three names were purged from the archives. Old guests. Records don’t vanish on their own.”

Ro’s gaze locked on him. “You’re certain?”

“I’m the estate archivist. I don’t guess.” His halo gleamed slightly in the overhead light.

Rek turned. “Subz?”

Subz’s voice was dry, arms still folded. “I’ve been sweeping scandals under the rug since before most of you were hired. This? This feels intentional. Whatever was done—it was clean, fast, and scared someone enough to make the kill feel... gentle.”

Stillness again.

All eyes flicked toward Vitalasy.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched, like he already knew the ending and was waiting to see if the rest of them would catch up.

Derapchu finally muttered, “He’s sometimes like that.”

Spoke’s voice was a whisper now. “We need to find them. Whoever did this... they didn’t just kill Parrot. They tore a piece out of all of us.”

Of you. Maybe someone else's, though, that's for later; you'll see, reader. But clearly, not of all.

Ro’s voice was quiet but hard. “We will.”

Rek turned, eyes sweeping across the room one last time.

“Keep them here. No one leaves. The guests too.”

Ro followed, the door sealing behind them with a hiss.

The silence left behind was heavier than before.

They quickly walked towards the other room.

The common room, normally a space for shared warmth—late snacks, stolen gossip, and the occasional card game—now felt frozen in place. Overhead, the estate’s emergency lights cast sterile amber shadows. The elegant but well-worn couches and mismatched mugs on side tables suddenly looked exposed. Vulnerable.

The door opened. Ro entered first—his lavender coat crisp, boots soundless. Behind him, Rekrap2 stepped in like he’d always belonged, the faint swoosh of his raincoat trailing silence. A floating hand shut the door behind them with a click.

The room, once murmuring, fell still. Pajamas mixed with partial uniforms. Steam curled from a lone mug, ignored.

Bacon, arms folded over his orangish-white chef’s coat, was the first to speak. “Evening. This about the lockdown?”

Rekrap gave a short nod. “That’s right.”

He let the silence hold.

“We’re checking in,” he added. “Just want to hear where everyone was when the lockdown was triggered. Not an accusation—just procedure.”

Ro’s floating hand—Paper—hovered gently near his shoulder: easy does it.

Jumper, perched beside Bacon, twisted the ribbon in her hair. “So... not an emergency drill?”

“No.” Rekrap’s voice didn’t rise. “Just questions.”

Pangi set down his mug on the side table, bracelets chiming softly. “I was doing room checks. West Wing staff areas. Some rooms were still messy from gala prep—had to... remind people. I was halfway through my list when the alarms started.”

“Anyone with you?” Rekrap asked.

“No,” Pangi said simply.

“And Bacon?”

“In the kitchen,” the chef replied smoothly. “Securing equipment. Locking fridges, sealing leftovers. Jumper was with me.” He gave a lazy nod toward her.

“She was labeling the sauces.”

“She was,” Jumper echoed. “I always triple-check the labels. It's… you know. The thing.”

“Anyone else in the kitchens?” Ro asked.

Bacon shook his head. “Not then.”

Rekrap turned slightly. “Corridor?”

The pastry chef leaned against the far wall, sunglasses still on. “I was near herb storage. Double-checking the cooler seals. Walked past the back garden entrance. Didn’t see anyone.”

“Before or after the lockdown?”

“Right before. Less than five minutes.”

“Noted,” Rekrap said, then turned toward the couch.

“Pentar?”

The younger housekeeper gave a half-salute. “Folding towels. Sorting tags. Pangi had me on linen duty. Also, just browsing a few old notes for fun.”

“Fun,” Pangi repeated, glancing his way.

“I like cataloging,” Pentar said proudly. “Helps me keep calm.”

Kaboodle yawned dramatically. “I was folding too. My own, though.” She gestured at the neat stack of pastel laundry beside her. “The laundry room creaks. Weird echoes lately.”

Rekrap raised an eyebrow. “Echoes?”

“Like voices. But... not words. Pipes, maybe.”

“I’ll check them,” Terrain quickly said. “I was under the gala hall, actually. Maintenance access tunnel. Had to fix a panel. Heard a few footsteps up top.”

“Footsteps?”

“Dress shoes, I think. They weren’t dancing.”

“Time?” Rekrap asked.

“Ten minutes before the lockdown, maybe fifteen.”

Rekrap made a note, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Vortex?”

The dragon-featured groundskeeper was half-shadowed near the window. “Gardens,” he said softly. “Far side. I saw two people. Talking. Couldn't see who. Too far.”

“Did you approach?”

Vortex shook his head. “Didn’t want to disturb.”

Rekrap let it settle. “Hannah?”

The flower arranger swayed slightly, seated beside a basket of half-trimmed stems. “I was near the stairwell. Heard voices. Didn’t see faces. But... it sounded like an argument.”

“Time?” Ro asked.

“Right before the lights changed.”

Rekrap nodded. “You wrote it down?”

She smiled faintly. “Of course.”

He turned. “Woogie?”

The butler’s stance was formal, arms folded. “In my quarters. Reviewing service logs. Preparing end-of-day notes.”

“And Wemmbu?”

The younger butler looked startled by his own name. “Uh—cleaning trays. Then I brought one upstairs for... I think for a guest. I didn’t linger.”

“Pangi?”

“He did,” Pangi confirmed.

Rekrap shifted toward the second half of the room: the Library Wing.

“Poafa?”

The historian’s voice was soft. “In the Archives. Reviewing restoration reports.”

“Alone?”

“As usual.”

“Pear?”

The lion-featured binder technician grunted. “Basement binders. Nobody else down there. Trust me—I’d know.”

“Mid?”

The crowned librarian folded her hands in her lap. “Sorting logs. Writing timestamps. I can retrieve them.”

“Do,” Rekrap said. “Squiddo?”

“Typing,” she said proudly. “I was finishing a chapter. It’s intense.”

“I’m sure,” Rekrap muttered.

“Cube?”

The archivist twisted a Rubik’s cube. “Adjusting the case fans near the restricted section. They were buzzing again. Someone should fix them.”

“And SB?”

The penguin-like cleaner tugged at his fedora. “Cleaning near the old archive steps. Found a folder half-open. Didn’t read it. Just closed it.”

Ro gave a soft tap against the wall with Rock—done.

“That’s everyone,” Rekrap said.

He turned, but paused when Bacon spoke again.

“This a routine check,” the chef asked, “or is something off?”

Rekrap didn’t answer right away. “We're just building a timeline,” he said finally. “Something changed tonight. We're trying to understand when.”

Then he and Ro left the room. The door whispered closed behind them. Conversations resumed—low and wary. Nobody laughed.

The corridor stretched long and silent, echoing faintly under the boots of two men who knew how to walk without speaking.

Rekrap led, his coat slightly flared at the back, dark fabric catching the occasional glint of chandelier light overhead. The detective’s stride was neither hurried nor idle—somewhere between a stroll and a stakeout. His hands were in his pockets. His shoulders were relaxed. Too relaxed.

Behind him, Ro followed with military precision. Lavender coat pristine, expression fixed. One of his floating hands drifted ahead of him—‘Rock’—spinning slowly, aimlessly. Or maybe not aimlessly. Maybe it was watching.

They hadn’t spoken since the last door shut. Since the lounge of staff had gone quiet behind them, the scent of polished wood and fear lingered in the air. Neither man had asked if they were done—because of course they weren’t. This was Elmswood Estate. Nothing was ever done here.

They say silence is peaceful. But this kind of silence? This silence carried knives.

Rekrap’s eyes flicked over the edge of a half-drawn curtain as they passed. The window behind it had a fingerprint smudge. He catalogued it without meaning to. Third from the right. Not cleaned recently. Not Parrot’s standard.

At the end of the hall, they passed the spot where a vase once stood—someone had moved it, probably after the lockdown. Or maybe before. Maybe someone had knocked it over while dragging a body.

No, no. That’s just dramatic. Surely.

Ro cleared his throat once. It wasn’t a request to speak. Just sound. Just a human trying to stay human in a place suddenly full of ghosts.

Rek didn’t stop walking.

He’d read the room back there. The tension in Jumper’s knuckles, the tremor behind Branzy’s bravado, the sideways glance Planet gave when no one was watching. All pieces. All misaligned. He didn’t need confessions—he needed patterns. And someone had tried to scramble those.

He knew what that meant.

You’d think a security director would notice that sort of scrambling. Wouldn’t you?

Rek glanced sideways—not at Ro, not directly—but at the floating hand that was now mimicking a paper fold. Smooth. Flat. Harmless. Symbolic.

Ro looked forward, calm as ever. His footsteps never faltered. His posture never shifted.

Rekrap wondered what would happen if he stopped suddenly. Would Ro bump into him? Or sidestep automatically, like someone trained to never touch unless necessary?

There was a kind of choreography to them now, he realized. Ro always walking just far enough behind to not shadow, just close enough to guard. He didn’t speak unless addressed. He didn’t offer.

Too perfect.

Then again, maybe he’s just that competent. Or maybe you’re just that paranoid. But you’ve been right before, haven’t you?

The hallway narrowed slightly as they passed into a marble-toned corridor. Here, the sconces were older, the air heavier. The portraits watched more closely.

Rek glanced up at a painting—Parrot’s predecessor. Different eyes. Same posture.

He wondered how long Ro had served under that man. Wondered what Ro had done when he died.

They turned a corner. No footsteps followed them. No staff lingered. Just the two of them now.

Just the detective.

And the man with too many hands.

The corridor was colder here. Not just chilly—hollow. As if the air had been sitting still for years, untouched by footsteps or breath. Rekrap’s coat flared slightly as he stepped through the threshold, one hand tightening around his small penlight, its beam carving a narrow path forward.

Behind him, Ro followed with quiet precision, his lavender-toned coat whispering with movement. He raised his wrist, projecting a focused line of light along the wall. Each detail revealed by their torches looked out of place—forgotten.

The hallway was short, but every inch of it had a story it no longer wanted to tell. The wallpaper, once dark green with a gold damask pattern, was scorched along the upper corners, curling at the edges like old leaves. The wood paneling below bore gouges, some from heat, some from force. A fire had happened here—but not the kind that started by accident.

At the end of the hallway stood a door with no handle. Brushed steel, faintly warped, with a matte finish dulled by soot and years of grime. Rek halted in front of it. He tilted his head slightly, studying the weld lines that sealed the seams shut.

“What kind of fire requires welding the door closed after?” Rek asked, calm but pointed.

Ro didn’t answer right away. His gaze swept the wall beside the door, then lowered toward the baseboard.

“This section was deemed unstable. The flames spread through the wall cavities. They didn’t want risk of collapse or mold.”

“Sure.” Rek’s voice didn’t carry sarcasm, but his brow twitched—not convinced. “And the security feed to this entire wing just so happened to be down tonight.”

Ro’s mouth tightened. “A coincidence. But it’s being investigated.”

Rek reached into his coat and pulled out a compact scanner—slim, palm-sized. He ran it across the edges of the metal door. The reader clicked softly, then displayed heat irregularities across the middle seam.

“This isn’t just a fire barrier. It was resealed in the last few months.”

Ro’s floating hand—Rock—rose slowly behind him. Wordlessly, he guided it forward. The stone limb hung for a moment, then drove itself like a sledgehammer into the upper corner of the door.

Boom. The metal bent. Dust puffed outward in a slow exhale.

Another hit. This time lower.

By the third strike, the welded seam cracked. A sheared strip of metal peeled back with a loud shhhhhnk, revealing an uneven gap. Stale air, dry and metallic, rolled out into the corridor.

Rek stepped forward first.

The room beyond was rectangular—about 20 by 12 feet—and sunken an inch lower than the hallway. The walls were scorched, but not entirely blackened. The fire here had been selective.

Against the left wall was a collapsed bookcase, its shelves charred into skeletal shapes. Blackened spines of books crumbled under Rek’s touch as he knelt to inspect them. The floor beneath the shelf bore old water damage—clearly from when the fire was extinguished. But it hadn't been done professionally.

The right wall bore a jagged crack down the plaster, leading toward a built-in cabinet that had partially melted and re-fused. Inside, behind warped glass, were the remnants of a tea set—intact. Too intact. Untouched by fire.

Ro approached the far end of the room, angling his light toward a wall that seemed… cleaner. Not unburnt, but cleared.

A desk lay overturned in the center of the room, half-charred, with brass drawer handles warped into strange curls. Near it, a cracked monocle, the hinge warped shut. Ceramic fragments were scattered beside a chair—its upholstery burned, but the frame unbroken.

Rek’s gaze moved sharply. “This wasn’t accidental.”

He walked to the far wall. Written in soot—or was it ash?—was a symbol. Not large. Not obvious. But intentional.

A perfect circle, split vertically in half. One side dark, one side clean.

Ro’s light caught it, and he froze.

“That wasn’t here before,” he said under his breath.

Rek glanced back at him. “You sure?”

Ro didn’t respond. His jaw had set again, harder this time. His three hands hovered slightly higher than usual. Defensive posture.

Rek took a slow breath. “This room was active more recently than you want to admit. Someone came here. Maybe the killer. Maybe Parrot.”

He knelt again, inspecting the soot near the baseboards. “There was movement here. Not long ago. Smudged footprints… partial at best.”

Behind them, the corridor creaked. Not loudly. Just enough to suggest weight had shifted—somewhere further down the hall.

Rek and Ro turned in unison.

Nothing.

But the sound was real.

And the symbol remained.

Detective Parker stepped back into the Grand Atrium, brushing water off his sleeves, eyes scanning the room automatically.

The space was quieter now. Too quiet. Most of the guests were now there, lingering, standing near columns or clustered on velvet couches, murmuring among themselves. Some looked tired. Others just looked annoyed.

From the stairs, MinuteTech descended, calm as ever, hands behind his back like he was pacing through a private gallery.

The guests glanced toward him, then toward Rek. The tension hung unspoken.

Minute stopped halfway down.

“Detective,” he said smoothly, “are we in danger?”

Rek didn’t pause. Just glanced up and replied flatly:

“Only if you’re interesting.”

That earned a few head turns. Someone laughed under their breath. Ro, nearby, didn’t smile.

Rek leaned slightly toward him and muttered low:

“Told you to keep them there.”

Ro didn’t bother defending himself.

Rek straightened and looked to the group.

“Alright. Everyone — back to the West Guest Lounge, please.” His tone wasn’t aggressive. Just final. “We’ll come back to you shortly. For now, we need the floor clear.”

No dramatic explanation. No big speech. Just a direct order with the weight of someone who didn’t ask twice.

Clown tilted his masked head, but moved without argument. Ash offered a small nod before walking off, glitch flickering faintly around his shoulder. Chief hesitated, looking back once, but followed the others. Flame muttered something and adjusted his coat. Reddoons pushed his sunglasses up higher on his nose. Even Prince Zam didn’t say anything cheeky — just smiled and walked.

Minute lingered a beat longer at the bottom of the stairs.

“You’ll tell us if there’s a real problem, yes?”

Rek looked at him.

“If it’s real, you’ll hear it before I say it.”

Minute held his gaze, then gave a faint smile and walked off.

Ro waited until they were all out of earshot.

“You think they’re getting nervous?”

Rek’s hands slid into his coat pockets.

“If they’re not yet,” he said, turning, “they will be soon.”

They headed towards a balcony.

They didn’t go far. Just two floors up, through a side stairwell only the staff ever used. The kind that curved in tight switchbacks and creaked under its own weight, never meant for polished shoes or noble guests. The walls here were narrower, and the sconces older — flickering with a more orange, antiquated light.

The corridor narrowed, then opened into a shallow alcove. One of the old balconies — unused, unremarkable, half-forgotten. A faded crimson curtain hung limp against the frame, pushed aside just enough for them to slip through. The carved latticework shielded the view from the Grand Atrium below, like the blind eyes of a cathedral.

Beyond the latticed railing, the Grand Atrium stretched vast and dark — its chandelier dimmed to a hush, its marble floor gleaming only faintly in the rainlight.

Ro stood just inside the alcove, arms folded across his chest, back to the balustrade. His scissors-hand hovered beside him — the fingers clicking open and closed slowly, like a quiet metronome. Tension made mechanical.

Rek paced forward toward the edge, his steps slow, deliberate. He didn’t look at Ro. He looked down — at the now-empty floor below, where the guests had gathered not fifteen minutes ago. Where eyes had followed Minute down the stairs. Where whispers had begun to curl like smoke. Now the floor was still. Just marble and silence.

“Thanks, by the way,” Rek said. He kept his eyes forward, his voice even. Letting the words rest in the air like dust. “You’ve been a solid lead so far. Clean files. Fast information. You handled the lockdown better than most would.”

Ro didn’t answer at first. His expression didn’t shift. The scissors-hand stilled mid-flick, pausing in midair like it was listening too. Finally, he gave a small nod — almost like a bow, but smaller. A soldier’s acknowledgment, not a friend’s.

Rek exhaled through his nose. A single breath. Then:

“That said…”

His voice dipped lower, cooler. Not dramatic. Just honest. The kind of quiet that made you lean in.

“I can’t fully trust you either.”

Ro finally looked up, head tilting slightly. Not insulted. Not defensive. Just present.

Rek turned toward him, slow. Meeting his eyes now — not a stare, not a threat, just… clarity.

“Parrot trusted you,” Rek said. “Enough to let you handle the full estate grid. Every comm line. Every surveillance channel. You were his wall. And he still wound up dead in your house.”

Ro’s jawline shifted — just barely. A twitch under the skin. No words. No excuses.

“You’re not the only one who keeps things tidy,” Rek went on, his tone now almost amused. “And I’ve learned something about tidy people. Most of the time? They’re covering for mess.”

The floating 'rock' hand — the heavy one — clenched slightly tighter, fingers curling in like stone gripping stone. But Ro kept his posture still.

“Duly noted,” he said, voice flat.

The silence stretched again. But now it was heavier — not angry. Just aware. The kind of quiet that knew how long the hallway was behind them.

Rek stepped closer to the banister, palm resting lightly on its edge. The wood was cold beneath his glove — polished but dry, untouched for months. Maybe years.

“I need them held where they are,” he said. The edge was back in his voice, sharper now. “Guests in the West Lounge. Staff in the dormitories. No more wandering. No more whispered chats behind closed doors. And if anyone even thinks about the gardens—”

“I’ll lock the gates,” Ro interrupted.

“Good,” Rek nodded once. “Lock the wings too again, if you need to. I don’t care if it feels excessive. No one else dies on my shift.”

Ro's brow lifted slightly. “That’ll spook them.”

“They’re already spooked,” Rek muttered, brushing his hand across the banister. “Better they start accepting it. This isn't a manor tour anymore. It’s a crime scene.”

Ro gave a short exhale. Not quite a sigh. More like friction.

“And when they ask why?”

Rek shrugged, stepping back from the railing. His coat swayed gently at his knees.

“Tell them it’s protocol. Tell them the top detective in the world is asking nicely.” A pause. His voice dipped lower — softer. “Tell them it’ll be okay.”

For a moment, that part just… lingered. The static of rain, the distant groan of a pipe somewhere behind the walls. Ro stared at him a second too long, as if searching his face for a sign the detective even believed himself.

Then Ro turned, the scissor-hand giving one last twitch before folding back into its neutral curl.

“And your team?”

Rek’s voice flattened again, stepping away into the curtain’s edge.

“En route. Once they’re all here, we talk. All of us. Until then…”

He cast a glance back over the rail, at the sleeping silence of the estate below.

“…we keep the lid on the pot.”

Behind them, thunder rolled low across the sky. Soft, drawn-out.

Like something had just shifted beneath it.

Ro left without another word.

His coat swept behind him, silent and purposeful, like a curtain closing on a scene too dark to name. His last floating hand—paper—paused in the doorway, curled slightly into a “rock,” then hovered, wavered, and vanished through the curtain like a breath held too long.

Rek didn’t move. Didn’t follow. He just stood with both arms braced on the wooden banister, fingers curled tight. The stairwell behind him fell quiet. Only the faint patter of rain remained, tapping against the narrow pane of glass at the end of the corridor like it was asking to be let in.

Somewhere distant—maybe near the west wing gardens—a bird called. One note. Low. The kind that made people superstitious.

Rek reached into his coat. Not fast, not dramatic. Just muscle memory. He fished out a scratched black phone with a busted corner and a smudge that never came off. His other hand found a coin—thin, light, older than it should be. He started rolling it across his knuckles, slow. A restless habit dressed up as poise.

He hit a contact.

It rang once.

Twice.

“Please tell me you didn’t find another body,” said the voice on the other end—clear, familiar, already tired.

Rek exhaled faintly. “Nope. Just the same one.”

“Oh, great. Recycling now. Real eco-conscious of you.”

“It’s Parrot.”

A pause. Immediate.

“I know.”

Another beat.

“You okay?” Jaron asked, tone leveled out now. No more sarcasm. No more padding. Just a quiet weight.

Rek looked down at the floor, at the way the dust caught in the light. Rain crept down the tall glass behind him, silvering the air.

“I’m not the one who knew him for fifteen years,” he said.

Jaron let out a breath. “Yeah, well. I’m not the one standing in his house.”

Neither of them said anything for a second.

Rek thumbed the edge of the coin, let it bite gently into his skin. The silence filled back in.

Then: “I need a team.”

“You got me dude. Liaison.”

“No—I need a team. Full suite. I want a forensics specialist and a team, a digital analyst, an imaging team, someone who can model the crime scene in 3D, chemical sweepers, the whole shebang. Bring some damn boots this time. Not another intern in patent leather.”

“You got it.”

Rek hesitated.

“And I need a profiler.”

Silence again.

“Rek…” Jaron’s voice flattened. “You really wanna do that?”

“I have to.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“You know he’s gonna break.”

“I know.”

“You don’t,” Jaron snapped. “You’re good, Parker, but you’re not a prophet. That man—he called me last week just to talk about Parrot’s birthday gift. He was building it by hand. You think he’s gonna walk into a chalk outline and go, ‘Ah yes, fascinating tissue spatter’?”

Rek’s jaw worked, just once. He stared out at the fogged-up moon. The kind of night where the stars didn't even bother showing up.

“He’s the best behavior profiler alive, in our precinct.”

“He’s your friend, Rek.”

“He was Parrot’s friend too.”

Jaron let the silence drag this time. Let it say the things he couldn’t.

“You sure this isn’t about punishing him?” he asked eventually. “Or punishing yourself?”

That one hit like a cold slap.

Rek didn’t reply right away. He flipped the coin again. Let the metal click in his fingers.

The rain had thinned to mist. The crow from earlier let out another low caw, closer this time. He watched it circle a rooftop peak beyond the trees. One lone silhouette in the dark.

“No,” he said, eventually. “This isn’t punishment.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’m not dragging him into this,” Rek murmured. “I’m giving him a way through it. You know what it’s like—when someone dies, and nobody lets you help. They pat you on the shoulder, call you ‘kid,’ and keep you away from the sharp edges.”

He turned slightly, watching his own reflection blur in the rain-streaked glass.

“I’m not gonna do that to him.”

Jaron didn’t answer.

“You don’t have to like it,” Rek added, voice lower now. “You just have to make the call.”

A long pause. Then: “I already did.”

Rek blinked. “What?”

“I already did,” Jaron repeated. “Soon as you sent me that first message. He’s already on the list.”

“You knew I’d ask.”

“Of course I did, you emotionally constipated detective goblin of a roommate.”

Rek huffed a laugh. “Takes one to know one.”

“Yeah, well. You better be the one to tell him.”

“I will.”

“I mean it, Rek. If you try to avoid that call, I’ll reroute your crime lab to Guam.”

“Appreciate the threat. Real motivating.”

A softer pause followed.

“We'll arrive maybe forty. You holding up?” Jaron asked again.

Rek looked down at his badge. The yellow and blue beads beside it swayed faintly.

He said nothing.

Just flipped the badge so the metal faced inward. Pressed it against his chest, hidden beneath the coat.

Then said:

“Just bring the birds.”

And hung up.

Outside, the wind shifted. The moon cut back through the clouds—brief and silver. The bird circled once more, then vanished into the branches.

Rek stayed at the railing. One hand on wood. One hand in his coat.

The coin was warm now, etched with fingerprints.

He slipped it back into his pocket.

And turned, heading into the dark.