The gas lamps flickered in the evening fog, their dim light casting restless shadows over the cobblestone streets of Cinderfire. Detective Yahya Kasim pulled his coat tighter against the chill, his boots clicking with each step. His breath rose in pale clouds, vanishing into the mist. This city had a way of swallowing everything—light, warmth, even hope—leaving only a faint echo of life behind.
It was a city of contrasts, where the crumbling mansions of old wealth loomed over soot-covered slums. Tonight, Yahya found himself summoned to one of those mansions: the Cinder estate, a relic from a time long past. The call had come just after sundown—another death, this time a politician. It was always the rich, wasn't it? Yet, something in the messenger's voice had put him on edge.
He approached the towering iron gates of the estate, their rusted hinges groaning as they swung open. A wiry man stood waiting just inside—a butler named Harun, his threadbare coat doing little to mask his unease. The faint glow of a nearby gas lamp revealed trembling hands and a face pale with fear.
"The body's upstairs," Pak Hassan muttered, his voice taut. He gestured for Yahya to follow, and they entered the dimly lit foyer. Yahya stepped over the threshold, hesitating for a moment before removing his boots and placing them neatly by the doorway, alongside a row of shoes. Old habits.
The mansion's grandeur diminished over time due to persistent humidity, crooked wooden shutters, and broken Peranakan-inspired flower tiles. Yahya's eyes caught a tray on a nearby side table: a cold cup of kopi O and a half-eaten slice of kuih lapis, abandoned mid-meal.
As they ascended the staircase, Yahya noticed the grand bay windows framing the silhouettes of ketapang trees outside. Their broad leaves trembled in the faint breeze, though the air inside was still.
The butler led Yahya through a corridor lined with dusty portraits. The painted figures stared down at him, their eyes seeming to follow his every step. Ahead, a man in a dark blue coat paced through the shadows, shuffling a deck of cards. His movements were fluid, almost hypnotic, and for a moment, Yahya wondered if he'd stumbled upon some street magician.
The man glanced up, his eyes meeting Yahya's briefly—unreadable, calculating. Then, without a word, he disappeared into another room, leaving only the soft shuffle of cards behind.
Pak Hassan stopped at the door to the master bedroom, refusing to enter. Yahya gave him a curt nod and stepped inside alone.
The room was heavy with silence, the air oppressive and cold despite the roaring fire in the corner. Frank Denavolt, head of one of Cinderfire's most powerful banking families, sat propped against the headboard. The man's hands were so tightly tied that his knuckles turned white, his eyes were wide open, and his mouth was frozen in a silent scream.
Yahya approached the body cautiously. Denavolt's expression was characterised by pure, unfiltered terror as if he had witnessed something beyond comprehension.
"So, what happened to you?" Yahya muttered, crouching beside the bed. The room was immaculate—too perfect, as though someone had erased every trace of life. Yet, near the bay window, something caught his eye.
He knelt to inspect faint markings etched into the wooden floorboards: swirling patterns, intricate and deliberate, reminiscent of batik designs or the carvings on a keris hilt. He traced lines with his fingers, but the room temperature dropped abruptly before he could comprehend them.
Suddenly the light in the room flickers and the shadows lengthened and stretched strangely forming a figure with pure white dress at the corner of his eyes. He froze, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. There was an old saying people used to say: If the hair on your handstands, it's probably just you. But if it's the hair on your neck… it's something else.
The silence was broken by a loud crash, followed by the sound of marble hitting thye floor. With the revolver in hand, Yahya whirled around, but the room was empty. No shards, no intruders. Just silence.
His heart pounding, he retreated into the hallway. The butler was anxiously wringing his hands while he waited by the stairs.
"You hear that?" Yahya asked.
"Hear what sir" The butler startled and responded nervously
"Never mind then. You found him like this?" Yahya asked.
Pak Hassan nodded. "Yes, sir. Just before supper. I called for help right away."
"Did you see or hear anything unusual?" Yahya pressed.
The butler hesitated. "There… was a man. Earlier in the evening. I spotted him outside the mansion. He was playing with cards—like a magician."
Yahya's eyes narrowed. "Cards?"
"I remember him because of this strange trait. I thought he was a swindler so I ignored him. One of them was… strange. A tarot card. It had a figure on it—like Mr. Denavolt. The man didn't stay long, but something about him… unsettled me."
Yahya frowned, his mind racing. The markings, the cold, the shadowy figure—you can almost hear the sound of his brain trying to make sense of what happened.
As he stepped outside, Yahya lit a cigarette, the ember casting a faint glow in the fog. This city had its secrets, and tonight, he had seen the first whispers of something far more dangerous lurking in its shadows.
"Not bad for the first case," he muttered, taking a drag. But his thoughts lingered on the man with the cards and the eerie markings. He flicked the cigarette into the night. He wasn't ready to quit—not yet.