Detective Harold Grant sat in his dimly lit office, the soft glow of a desk lamp casting long shadows across the room. He leaned back in his chair, a thick report spread out before him, his eyes methodically scanning the text with the precision of a man who had seen too much and forgotten too little. The weight of the words on the page felt heavier than it should have.
A sharp knock at the door shattered the silence.
"Come in," Harold said, his voice steady but tinged with a faint weariness.
The door creaked open, and Red stepped inside. He moved with deliberate purpose, closing the door behind him before taking a seat opposite Harold. His sharp gaze settled on the detective, his expression as grave as the questions hanging in the air.
For a moment, neither man spoke. The tension between them lingered, unbroken, until Red finally leaned forward and spoke.
"Captain," he began, his tone low but edged with frustration. "Why him? Of all people, why does it have to be him?"
Harold didn't answer immediately. He remained focused on the file in front of him, flipping through its pages with a furrowed brow. Only when he set the papers down did he glance up at Red.
"Silas," Red pressed, his voice firmer now. "What's so special about him?"
Harold sighed, rising from his chair. He walked over to the window, the faint city lights casting a cold glow over his silhouette.
"That boy…" he began, his voice carrying an inscrutable weight—regret, perhaps, or something darker. "He's caught up in something dangerous."
"And yet," Red interrupted, his tone sharper now, "why involve him? Have you forgotten why the Fire Church established Vermilion and the Mystic Security Division?"
"To regulate mysticism and control unnecessary rituals," Red continued without waiting for an answer, his words clipped and precise.
Harold chuckled dryly, though it carried no humor. "That's the official line, yes. But there's more to our task than that. Something they don't speak of so openly. We are here to protect the people, Red—even when they don't realize they need protecting."
He turned to face Red, his gaze sharp, unyielding. "Silas may not seem special to you, but there's something about him. Something… different."
Red leaned forward, skepticism etched across his face. "Different how? He's just a kid—reckless, naive."
Harold's lips twisted into a faint, bitter smile. "Weren't we all, once? But Silas... he's drawn the attention of the Nightcrawler."
Red's eyes widened slightly, his disbelief evident. "The Nightcrawler? Are you sure?"
"Certain enough," Harold replied grimly. "The murder of Mr. Calvin wasn't random. It was orchestrated by a Nightcrawler operative."
He slid the file across the desk to Red, who picked it up and began reading, his frown deepening with every line. Harold continued, his voice lower but no less firm.
"Another body was found near the scene. Lifeless. Marked with sigils tied to dark magic—symbols unmistakably linked to the Nightcrawler. they don't see Silas as just another kid. They see him as a threat."
"If we do it right, we might be able to catch the NightCrawler that's after Silas"
Red set the file down, his brows furrowed in thought. "And you think he's worth the risk?"
Harold nodded, his expression resolute. "If the Nightcrawler has taken notice of him, there's more to Silas than even he understands. That makes him worth protecting—whether he likes it or not."
Red lowered his head, his voice subdued yet resolute as he spoke. "Fine. But understand this—he works under me."
Harold's lips curled into a faint smile, one that held an air of quiet satisfaction. Without a word, he returned his attention to the file spread before him, the soft rustle of paper filling the room.
Taking that as his cue, Red straightened and turned toward the door. His footsteps echoed softly on the wooden floor as he exited Harold's office, the door clicking shut behind him.
__________
The next morning.
the rain had ceased, leaving the streets glistening under a pale dawn. The city seemed to hold its breath, the usual hum of activity oddly muted, as though the world itself awaited the unfolding of some unseen event.
Silas stood on the steps of the Church of Flame, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets. He gazed at the horizon as the first rays of sunlight pierced through the gray clouds, their light failing to dispel the chill lodged deep in his bones. Despite the tranquil morning, he couldn't shake the sense that something unseen was watching him, its gaze heavy and unrelenting.
"Did you even come home last night? "
The voice cut through the stillness, and Silas turned sharply to see Red standing a few steps away, his arms crossed over his chest. Red's sharp eyes scrutinized him, as if dissecting his very thoughts.
Silas shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "I came here early, when the rain stopped this morning, before it finally started raining again."
Red stepped closer, his boots clicking softly against the stone steps. "You're not the only one."
For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence between them taut with unspoken tension. Finally, Red broke the stillness. "We need to talk."
Silas raised an eyebrow but said nothing, waiting for Red to elaborate.
"You've been drawn into something far bigger than yourself," Red said, his tone steady but weighted with meaning. "Whether you realize it or not, the choices you make now won't just shape your future—they'll ripple outward, affecting lives, operations, maybe even the fragile balance of power in this city."
Silas smirked, though his expression lacked humor. "No pressure, then?"
Red ignored the quip. "I'm serious, Silas. Harold might see something in you, but potential means nothing without discipline. If you can't prove you're worth the risk, this world will chew you up and spit you out without a second thought."
Silas's expression darkened, his jaw tightening. "I didn't ask to be part of this. I'm just trying to survive."
Red's gaze softened slightly, though his voice retained its firmness. "Survival isn't enough anymore. If you're here, you're either all in, or you're out. There's no middle ground."
Silas turned away, his eyes settling on the distant horizon. "And if I don't want to play by your rules?"
"Then you'll die," Red said bluntly. "And worse—you'll drag others down with you."
The weight of Red's words pressed down on Silas like an iron chain, heavy and unyielding. For a moment, he stood frozen, the enormity of the path before him threatening to swallow him whole. He had spent his life fighting to protect himself and those he cared about, but this… this was something far darker, far more insidious than he'd ever imagined.
"Fine," Silas said at last, his voice low but resolute.
Red's lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile forming. "We'll see how long you lasts."
Without another word, Red turned and began walking toward the main entrance, his movements brisk and purposeful. "Come on. Harold's waiting, and there's work to be done."
Silas hesitated for a moment, before followed Red's lead as they entered the Church of Flame, the heavy wooden door creaking softly as they pushed it open. Inside, an eerie silence dominated, with only the sound of their footsteps echoing through the hall, lined with rows of wooden pews and statues of revered saints. The faint glow of candles illuminated the room, casting flickering shadows of the flames against the stone walls.
"Be careful " Red said without turning, his voice firm yet almost a whisper.
They passed the main altar, heading toward a small door beside a statue of a towering paladin holding a flaming sword. Red pulled an odd key, shaped like a sigil, from his pocket and inserted it into a barely noticeable keyhole in the wall. With a soft click, the statue shifted aside, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling downward, leading into darkness.
....
Down the spiral staircase, the air grew heavier, as if time itself had settled within the walls of the ancient tunnel. The stone beneath Silas's boots felt cold and weathered, yet the passage was well-guarded, its silence ominous.
He walked beside Red, his eyes flickering over the shadows, each corner and crevice hiding secrets long forgotten. Despite the lingering tension in the air, Silas couldn't shake the faint sense of calm that Red exuded, as if the path ahead was something they had both walked before.
Though the eerie quiet gnawed at him, Silas harbored no immediate suspicion toward Harold or his comrades. They had not given him reason to doubt, yet the pull of the unknown lingered like a shadow just beyond reach.
As they moved deeper, the tunnel seemed to stretch on forever, the faint flicker of torchlight casting long, dancing shadows on the stone walls.
While Silas surveyed the area, Red, who had been leading the way, spoke in a calm tone, "We're here."
Silas turned his gaze ahead, and to his surprise, a towering gate began to open before him.
For a brief moment, hesitation gripped him, but with a quiet resolve, Silas stepped forward and crossed into the shadow of the imposing Vermilion gate,
With a little hesitation, Silas forced himself to enter the towering Vermilion gate.
As the towering doors of Vermilion Headquarter closed behind him, he couldn't help but feel he'd stepped into something far greater—and far darker—than he could ever escape.
The faint hum of activity greeted them inside: agents moving with precision, the low murmur of voices blending with the occasional clink of equipment. Red led Silas down a long corridor, its walls lined with portraits of past captains and operatives. Their painted eyes seemed to follow him, their expressions grave, as if silently judging him unworthy of treading their path.
At the corridor's end, Harold stood waiting, his expression unreadable.
Beside him stood a tall figure, exuding an aura of quiet authority. As Red and Silas approached, the figure's face gradually became visible, revealing a man whose years of experience were evident in every line and wrinkle.
An old man, somewhere between fifty and sixty-nine years of age, his hair predominantly white. His features were sharp, yet softened by the passage of time, each wrinkle telling a story.
There was a peculiar calmness to his expression, an eerie stillness that seemed to defy the tension of the moment. His eyes, however, carried a quiet judgment—a gaze that seemed to see through the very core of those it fell upon.
Despite the intensity of his stare, he smiled—a smile that held no warmth but a certain knowing, as if he had long accepted the secrets that others feared.
"Greetings, Harold Grant," Red said with a respectful bow of his head.
Silas, following his own habit of maintaining proper politeness while on Earth, mirrored the gesture.
"Greetings, Mr. Harold," Silas said, his voice carrying the weight of courtesy as he bowed his head slightly.
(Who is this?..) Silas muttered as he take a glance at the figure beside Harold.
After a brief exchange of words, Harold finally turned to introduce the individual who had been standing quietly beside him.
"Silas, Red" he said, his tone cool and precise, "this is Oswald Kaen. He is an elder of Vermilion and will serve as your mentor in mystical knowledge... for the next month."
For a brief moment, Silas stood still, unsettled by the weight of the old man's gaze and the silent authority that clung to him..