The first hints of dawn began to creep through the heavy curtains, bathing the room in a dim, silvery glow. The cold light made the desk, the walls, and even the letter on the desk appear spectral, as if they, too, were remnants of a past that no longer existed.
But Sunny didn't move.
The memory of his father lying here—his life drained, his expression fixed in a final, silent warning—wrapped around him like a vice. It wasn't just the violence that haunted him; it was the stillness. Everything had been too precise, too clean. It wasn't a burglary. It wasn't random.
Sunny closed his eyes and pressed his hands against his face, the parchment's words still burned into his thoughts. The debt has been paid. Let silence remain. He wanted to scream, to shatter the unbearable stillness, but something deeper held him back—a gut instinct, born of fear and survival, telling him the silence wasn't just a demand.
It was a rule.
But rules could be broken.
Sunny opened his eyes, his gaze falling on the hollowed section of the desk. Could there be something else hidden there? With renewed determination, he pushed the letter aside and began exploring the hollow more thoroughly, his fingers searching for hidden catches or compartments.
Sunny paused, his hand still resting on the edge of the desk as the words of the detective settled over him like a cold shroud. The sudden interruption pulled him from the depths of his thoughts, but the unease in his chest remained, gnawing at him.
He glanced at the door, then at the photo and papers spread across the desk, the contents of the box now laid bare. He hadn't been expecting anyone—not in the dead of night, certainly not a detective. He quickly straightened his posture, hiding the papers beneath his hand and making an effort to mask his unease.
"Yes," Sunny replied, his voice hoarse from days of barely speaking, his words carrying an edge of caution. "This is the Willhem estate."
Detective James J. Burns stood tall, his uniform neat but showing signs of the wear of a long day—his eyes sharp, a look of practiced focus behind them. Beside him stood a young woman, no older than Sunny himself, her expression calm, her gaze alert, but distant. Miss Holmes. The name didn't ring any bells.
Burns continued, "I'm Detective Burns, and this is my associate, Miss Holmes. We've come to inquire about the recent… tragic events at the estate. I understand you're the son of the late Alwin Willhem?"
Sunny nodded slowly, his throat tight. He fought to keep his voice steady. "I am. And… I'm not sure what you're looking for, Detective. The investigation… it's ongoing, I presume?"
Burns' eyes flickered to the door behind him, then to Miss Holmes, before settling back on Sunny. He took a step forward, his posture professional but somehow unsettling, as if he were already measuring the weight of this moment.
"Unfortunately, the investigation has been slow. There have been… complications. We believe there may be more to your father's death than initially assumed."
The words struck Sunny like a sudden gust of wind. He stiffened but tried not to show it. The detective's tone, though calm, held an undertone of something deeper—an implication that something was lurking beneath the surface, something dark.
"We've found no obvious clues—no signs of forced entry, no motive, nothing to indicate why your father and Beatrix would have been targeted. That's why we're here, Mr. Willhem. We need to understand what was going on here. What your father was involved in."
Sunny's blood ran cold. His pulse quickened as he felt the weight of the detective's words sinking in. Involved in. It was the same phrasing from the papers. The debt. The vow. The strange insignia. The unspoken conclusion began to form in his mind, but he wasn't sure if he was ready to confront it.
"Mr. Willhem?" Burns pressed, noticing Sunny's hesitation. "Do you know if your father was involved in any… sensitive matters? Any associations or groups we should be aware of?"
Sunny's mind raced. The documents on the desk, the cryptic note, the photo of the strangers with his father—Beatrix—it was all converging too fast. His hand instinctively tightened on the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white as he searched for the right words.
"I… I don't know," he said, his voice coming out quieter than he intended. "My father was a man of many connections. Military service, alchemy… But nothing that I know of would explain…" His voice faltered, his thoughts tangled. "Why this happened."
Burns studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. "If you think of anything—anything at all—we'll need to know. There are too many questions, Mr. Willhem. Too many loose ends."
The young woman beside Burns, Miss Holmes, stepped forward slightly, her presence calm but assertive. Her eyes scanned the room, lingering on the desk before shifting back to Sunny. "Sometimes, Mr. Willhem," she said, her voice soft but carrying an edge of wisdom, "the answers lie not in what you remember, but in what you've overlooked."
Her words, though gentle, felt like a quiet challenge.
Sunny felt an odd shift in the air between them. She wasn't just here as an observer; she was part of the investigation. And for some reason, he couldn't shake the feeling that she knew more than she was letting on.
The silence stretched for a long moment before Burns cleared his throat, pulling Sunny's attention back to him. "We'll be brief. But we may need to speak with you again, once you've had some time. If there's anything… unusual that comes to mind, don't hesitate to reach out."
He turned, and Miss Holmes gave a small nod before following him toward the door. But as Burns stepped out of the room, Sunny's eyes were drawn back to Miss Holmes, her calm gaze locking with his for a fleeting second before she stepped away.
The door closed softly behind them, leaving the room in silence once more.
Sunny stood frozen, his mind working furiously to process what had just happened. Was this a simple inquiry, or had they known something he didn't?
The envelope, the photograph, the strange debt—none of it had been random.
With the detective's visit lingering in his thoughts, Sunny turned back to the desk, his gaze falling once again on the papers. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was hiding in plain sight. And now, it wasn't just his father's death weighing on him—it was the possibility that there was a greater conspiracy at work, one that had claimed his parents' lives and might yet claim his own.
There was no more time to waste. He had to find the truth. And if he had to break every rule to do it, then so be it.