After we finished eating, I turned to Valter, wanting to know more about him. As he spoke, his voice steady but controlled, a sudden notion broke through my concentration, like ripples in a silent lake.
"Wait, Valter," I said, my eyes narrowing slightly. "You attend school, don't you? It is Monday. Did you skip high school to come here?"
He sighed, his expression clenching slightly to indicate discomfort. "I dropped out."
I looked at him briefly, shocked by how casually he admitted it. Oddly, I found myself calm, though his words lingered like an unanswered riddle.
"You know that could ruin your future, right?" I asked, my tone more interested than accusatory.
Valter shrugged, his eyes moving to the floor. "Maybe. But what type of future are we talking about? College? A job? None of that was ever truly an option for me. I am not even that strong in magic to become a Law Knight."
"Did you just decide that? You are sixteen. There's time to figure it out."
He shook his head "Time does not fix everything. Sometimes it just reminds you of how shattered everything is."
I observed him carefully, evaluating my words. "You think that because of what happened to your family?"
Valter flinched, holding his hands. "Partly. But even before then, it was as if I were invisible. Teachers did not care. My friends didn't care. "And my parents..." He paused, his voice cracking slightly. "They tried, but they couldn't understand either. School just seemed pointless."
I adjusted my tone, realizing how sensitive this was for him. "So you choose to leave it behind. But now what? What is the plan?"
He laughed quietly. "The objective was to find someone willing to listen. Someone who could assist me figure out what had happened. That's it." His eyes met mine "So, here I am."
I sighed and looked out the window at the faint city streets. "Life does not come to an end simply because you leave one element of it. Dropping out may have seemed like taking control, but it was not a solution. If you desire answers about your family and a better life, you must continue to go forward."
His stare did not waver. "What about you?" Is this what you are doing? Moving forward?"
The question stayed in the air between us, piercing deeper than I had anticipated. I stared at him, unsure how much I could say without unraveling myself. "I'm trying," I confessed finally. "But it isn't easy. Some days, I'm not sure if I'm moving forward or running in circles."
"Perhaps that is all we can do. Just keep running."
"Maybe," I responded, but the words didn't feel right. "However, it's best to have a destination in mind. Even if it's only a guess."
We sat in silence for a minute, allowing the weight of the discourse to settle between us. Then I broke it with a slight smile. "You know, working as a detective's assistant does not come with a degree or a pension plan. If you want to stick around, you'll have to figure out what else you're working on."
Valter smirked, his face softening. "I will figure it out." But for now, I'll stick with you. Seems like you need help."
I chuckled and shook my head. "Do not expect me to let you off the hook for missing school. There's more to life than what you're experiencing right now, Valter. Remember that."
"Sure," he responded carelessly, but his tone had a hint of truth. "I'll think about it."
Valter fell asleep soon. He was wrapped up on the bed. I had taken the couch, its springs cutting into my back, but it was no worse than the places I had previously rested. But tonight, sleep left me.
The air in the room felt dense with unanswered questions. Who was behind the murders? What was Falsemaw's goal? And Valter—what hadn't he told me? His parents' deaths affected him, but I couldn't help but think there was more to the story.
I sat up and massaged my temples. The memories were really vivid. The details of this world—the smells, sounds, and sensations—were extremely accurate, as if they had been effectively attached to my consciousness. They weren't mine, but they fit too perfectly, like a mask I couldn't take off.
Unable to sit still any longer, I put on my coat and went outdoors, allowing the cool night air to pass over me. The city was quieter now. My footsteps echoed quietly as I went around, attempting to make sense of everything.
Then I saw him.
A boy leaned casually against a wall, lighted by the moonlight. He appeared to be no older than eighteen, his purple hair disordered with purpose. His pale pink eyes, which were stunning and unusual, greeted mine with an uncomfortable serenity.
"Out for a midnight stroll, Detective?" His voice was smooth, almost mocking, but his posture had a feeling of confidence. He was not surprised to see me; he had been waiting.
My instincts screamed at me to take things carefully. "And who's asking?"
He pushed over the wall and approached me slowly. "Adam Elyon," he said, "Word goes around. You've been busy the last several days. Falsemaw has noticed."
The name hit me like a punch to the chest, but I kept my expression calm. "And what's your connection to him?"
Adam lowered his head "You could say I'm a collaborator."
My breath caught, but I forced myself to remain calm. "Interesting recruiting method. Does this entail approaching investigators in the middle of the night?"
He chuckled lightly, like a breeze rustling through the trees. "Not quite. Let's simply say I was interested in you." He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering. "Falsemaw dislikes others messing in his affairs. But you're not like them, are you? He said you are going persistent."
"And you're awfully chatty for someone working with a killer."
"Let us call it a professional courtesy. I prefer to give individuals a chance before things become harsh."
"If you're here to scare me, you're wasting your time."
He chuckled again, but not with compassion this time. "Oh, I am not here to terrify you. I am here to warn you." He hesitated, his eyes refining. "Falsemaw is closer than you realize. He's more than simply a tale to keep detectives awake at night. He's real, and he doesn't follow your rules.
"Then why tell me this?" I inquired, my voice steady despite the increasing tension.
Adam's expression softened only a little. "Because you fascinate me, Serena Law. You have the ability to notice things that others do not. "That could make you dangerous—or useful." He reached into his pocket and tossed a little thing to me. I recognized it right away: an old tarnished key.
"What's this?" I inquired, inspecting it.
"Let's call it a breadcrumb," he remarked softly. "Follow it; you might discover some answers. Or you may not. Either way, it will be entertaining for me to see."
Before I could ask him more, Adam took a step back, his lavender hair striking the moonlight. "One more thing," he continued, his tone becoming serious. "Falsemaw is not the only threat in this country. You'd be wise to remember that."
Then, he went onto the road and disappeared into the shadows, leaving me alone with the key and a thousand new questions.
After coming home, I think the key felt heavier than it should have been, pressing against my hand as if it carried the weights of all it had unlocked—or closed away. The motifs on the surface glinted softly in the moonlight, having a power I recognized and despised. Magic. A weapon for the desperate and dangerous.
My thoughts rushed as I turned it in my hand. The symbols were not decorative; rather, they followed a pattern. A language, perhaps, but not one I was familiar with. Not yet. Nonetheless, the loops and angles meant purpose, and accuracy.
I didn't trust it.
Magic had always looked to me like a wild beast, valuable only to those who believed they could tame it. In both of my lives, I have witnessed what occurred to those who relied on such things. They lost themselves, their ambitions eaten by forces beyond their control.
But it wasn't about trust. This was about necessity.
I placed the key on the desk, not touching anything else. As I stepped aside, I felt an uncomfortable sensation run up my arm. Was it the key itself, or was my mind playing tricks? It seemed colder the longer I held it, like if it was feeding off the warmth of my thoughts...
Behind me, Valter moved. His arm clenching in his sleep, and he whispered something faint—only a word, but it cut through the silence like a knife.
"Leon…"
The name tugged at my mind, unfamiliar. A place? A person? Is there a clue?
I turned to look at Valter more closely. His breathing had calmed down again, and his expression had softened into something almost pleasant. Whatever he was dreaming, it had made an impression.
I took a mental note of the name and returned to the key. The longer I stared at it, the more it appeared to mock me. Adam Elyon referred to it as a breadcrumb, but breadcrumbs were not designed to help you; rather, they were supposed to take you deeper into the darkness.
"Fine," I mumbled "Let's see where you lead."
The next day, I went with Valter to where the key was supposed to go. The mansion was in ruins, its decomposing facade barely holding back the vine. Even in its deterioration, it had this old pride, like someone who thought they were untouchable.
Valter followed me closely as we entered, his steps cautious. The door had been forced recently, but not hurriedly. The breaking around the lock was planned as if done by someone who had experience in the process.
I looked at the ground. The dust patterns revealed faint shoe prints leading to the middle of the room. Heavy shoe with purposeful spacing. A man, possibly tall. His weight was inconsistent suggesting an injury or limp.
The living room was a rotting scene. The air was thick with dust, which settled over the ruins of furniture like a funeral blanket. However, the table in the center was clean.
I approached carefully my eyes scanning the room for any signs of traps. The table held a map, its surface damaged by odd lines and handwritten comments.
Valter leaned in next to me. "What is it?"
"Patterns," I responded. "The places are too dispersed to be random. Look, each one corresponds to a victim from the previous six months. "But these..." I highlighted the unmarked places. "These are future targets."
His face turned pale. "How can you be sure?"
"Because my name is here."
Silence fell between us as his eyes shifted to where my finger was on the map. Serena Law was written in the same spiky style as the others.
II continued to examine the map. The dates were distributed randomly, but the spaces between them were decreasing. A pattern inside a pattern. Falsemaw was speeding up. Why?
"Look here," I remarked, pointing to the scribbled comments around the edges. "Methods. strangulation, stabbing, and poisoning. And these words: 'Practice. Perfection'."
"What does that mean?"
"It means he's refining his technique." My voice remained calm, but inside, anxiety coiled like a snake. "These aren't just killings; they're experiments."
A creak above us broke the tension.
"Someone's here," Valter said quietly.
"Stay close," I ordered.
The sound of footsteps walked over the ceiling, slowly. They were testing us and waiting to see how we would react. As I walked toward the staircase, I motioned for Valter to stay behind and kept my senses on high alert.
But the footsteps ceased. The house fell silent, except for a faint whistling of wind from broken windows.
"They're gone," I finally responded
However, I knew better than to stay around. Whoever had been here wasn't one to leave open possibilities.
Back in the apartment, Valter sat on the side of the bed, his hands holding the knife he pulled out earlier. The way he handled it told me everything, it wasn't simply for display.
"You've fought before," I remarked, seated across from him.
He did not look up. "Why does it matter?"
"Because I need to know who I'm working with."
He sighed and ran a hand over his hair. "It wasn't like I had a choice. My family didn't live in a particularly pleasant neighborhood."
"And the scars?" I inquired, pointing to the small scars crisscrossing his forearms.
He paused. "Sometimes, people like to remind you where you stand."
I examined him attentively. He wasn't lying, but he didn't tell me everything.
"And your parents?"
"They are gone. That is all that matters."
No, I thought. That is not all that matters. But I did not press him. Not yet.
The phone's ring interrupted my thoughts,.
I grabbed up the phone. "Serena Law."
"Ah, Serena," Hapet's voice came through the line like slime. "I trust you're not too busy failing at whatever you were attempting today?"
"What do you want, mister Hapet?" My tone was monotonous.
"Something has come up. You and your assistant may find this suitable. Report to the bureau. Don't wait."
He hung up before I could react, leaving both the receiver and the air around me cold. Typical Hapet—condescending, vague, and always ensuring he had the final word.
"What did he want?" Valter asked
"A case," I answered simply. "Or another opportunity for him to remind me where he believes I belong. Either way, we're going."
The Department of Investigation stood like a gravestone against the grey metropolitan sky. As we entered, the murmur of voices and the loud noise of typewriters filled the air, creating a symphony of order and disorder. My gaze swept the room, noting every detail: the faded carpeting, the piles of disorganized paperwork, and the coffee stains that covered desks like battle scars. The passengers, preoccupied, fatigued, and frustrated, barely noticed our entrance.
Hapet waited, arms folded, his regular chuckle set in place. He held out two badges, the gesture mocking rather than formal.
"Welcome to the Department Bureau of Investigation," he said, faking grandeur.
I took the badge without commenting. It felt cold in my hand, the weight both real and symbolic. Valter paused before receiving his.
"Try not to embarrass us," Hapet continued
I forced myself to stay neutral, even while my thoughts registered every facet of his expression. He wasn't just smug; he was expectant as if he was setting a trap and waiting to see if I would fall into it.
As he went on, my focus drifted. Across the room, a Restricted Archives door remained open. A keypad lock flickered slowly beside it. My eyes detected a tiny movement: an officer quickly putting in the code. 5-7-3-9-4–1.
The sequence printed itself on my consciousness, and Hapet's voice vanished into the background noise. My focus had already shifted.
After Hapet dismissed us, I found a moment to escape. The archives attracted me as a challenge, the unanswered question at the heart of everything.
The keypad faithfully replied to the code I had remembered. The door clicked open, and I entered, the cool air of the archive brushing across my skin.
Columns upon rows of cabinets stood before me, their labels an assembly of precision and carelessness. My fingers proceeded reflexively, scrolling until they discovered the name: Falsemaw.
The drawer resisted at first, making a mechanical groan in protest of the invasion. However, it provided me with an incredible treasure of files: victims, criminal scenes, witness statements, and suspects. Every aspect is properly documented, but nothing concrete. Falsemaw remained a phantom, a shadow that evaded all attempts to capture him.
I grabbed the files free and exited as quietly as I had come.
Back at my new desk, where Valter was reading an investigation book, I spread the documents before me, my mind already diving into the labyrinth of data. In the room, no one was at their table, it seemed they were probably gone somewhere. I printed each person's table name.
Falsemaw. The name alone carried a weird horror, a ghost that haunted the collective consciousness of law enforcement. But ghosts didn't leave behind bodies or blood trails. Falsemaw wasn't an abstraction—he was precise and terrifyingly real.
The files were a mess of contradictions. Victim profiles spanned every demographic: young, old, rich, poor. Methods varied—stabbings, poisonings, strangulations. No clear motive tied the murders together, no single thread that made sense.
But patterns always existed. You just had to look harder.
My pen moved across the page, forming schematics and collecting notes.
My first theory was that Falsemaw works alone. The precision of the crimes that he commits without any other single suspect, someone meticulous and calculative. The only problem is there are too many variables. No single individual could maintain this level of control without leaving additional proof. And there was Adam, a pretended collaborator. This lead to my second theory, Falsemaw is a group. A collaborative effort could explain a variety of tactics and victim profiles.
Problem: The signature remains consistent. Even when the tactics change, a psychological fingerprint shows a demand for control.
Theories tied and dissolved in my thoughts, each branching out into other possibilities. Falsemaw was not only killing but also testing. Each murder improved a skill and removed a weakness.
"Did you find anything, Serena?" Valter's voice cut through my thoughts.
"More questions than answers," I admitted. "But he's not doing these murders randomly. He's working toward something."
"What?"
I paused. "Perfection," I finally replied. I had barely finished answering Valter's question when footsteps boomed down the hallway. The door opened without hesitation, and a man walked in with an enthusiasm that changed the mood of the room. He moved as if he belonged everywhere he went, with a calm yet authoritative posture.
He was tall, with sharp features that were only slightly softened by his childish grin. His brown hair was ruffled just enough to give the impression that he didn't care—or wanted you to believe so. His outfit, while finely tailored, was worn carelessly, as if the effort to appear professional was more of a favor than a must.
"Serena Law," he said, his voice pleasant and teasing, but with just enough edge to indicate he wasn't here to waste time. "And you must be Valter." He nodded to Valter before returning his attention to me. "I've been hearing things about you two."
"Good things?" Valter inquired hesitantly.
"Good enough," Stefan said with a smile. "You've been creating waves, and believe me, it's not easy in this environment. Has Hapet complained about you? That is practically a rite of passage. That means you're doing something right."
I stared at him, maintaining a neutral tone. "And you are?"
"Detective Stefan Doyle, at your service," he said. "We're on the same team, and I don't blame you for not knowing. Hapet's approach of team development is to throw individuals into chaos and hope they figure it out." He took a look at the papers sprawled around the desk. "And judging by the state of things, you've been tossed into the deep end already."
I looked at him for a second. His grin, his easy posture, the way his eyes covered over the room—it was all calculated, but somehow genuine. "You're part of the team?" I inquired, even though I already knew the answer.
"That's right," he replied, leaning nonchalantly against the desk. "We are Team Hapet. Isn't it glamorous? We are officially eight. Me, you, Valter, and five others. I felt because Hapet is too preoccupied with his own significance to give you a good introduction, I'd take the initiative."
Valter frowned. "Five others?"
"Yeah," Stefan replied, counting them off with his fingers. "There's me, obviously, and then there's Marie Crane. She is our tech specialist, and she spends half of her day committed to her computer. Don't let her calm attitude fool you; she's as sharp as a razor. Then there is Justin Carr. He's more of a field man, ex-military, a little rough around the edges, but reliable when it counts."
I nodded, even if i knew all the names of our team. "And the others?"
"Let's see," Stefan added. "You have Elaine Raddick. She's certainly the most experienced of us all, but don't expect her to offer advice. She's the type of person that prefers to figure things out for themselves. Quiet, intense, yet brilliant. Then there's Percy Vinter—he's new like you two, but he has an extraordinary ability to encourage others to speak. It is almost disturbing how lovely he can be."
"And the last one?" Valter asked, seemingly interested.
Stefan paused for a time, his grin fading somewhat. "Henn Easton. Hapet's golden boy. Although effective, he has a tendency to strictly conform to rules. If you ever find yourself in a difficult situation, don't expect him to support you."
The room was quiet for a moment as we processed the names. It wasn't a small team, but it was diverse, each person with their strengths and, presumably, their own flaws. I couldn't help but wonder how they all fit together—and where I and Valter fit into the mix.
"You sound like you know them pretty well," I observed him closely.
Stefan shrugged. "We've been working together for a while. Everyone offers something to the table, even if it isn't obvious. It isn't a flawless system, but it works." His eyes looked into mine, and his grin returned. "And now we have you two. Fresh blood. Hapet must notice something in you."
"Or he expects us to fail," I explained simply.
Stefan laughed, his tone warm and sincere. "Maybe. But, in my opinion, Hapet is not quite as brilliant as he believes. You have a better chance than he realizes."
"And you?" Valter inquired, his tone almost challenging. "Where do you fit into all this?"
"Me? I am the guy who keeps things interesting."
"Interesting how?" I asked, my interest piqued despite myself.
"Let's just say I've got an eye for finding answers in places most people don't think to look," he murmured. "You'll see soon enough."
Something about his tone made me believe him. Stefan Doyle was more than just a brilliant detective; he was a dangerous one. Not because he was careless, but because he understood people. He understood how to read a room, adapt, and play the game better than most.
"Well," he said, pulling away from the desk and arranging his jacket, "I'll leave you to it. I just wanted to introduce myself and give you the lay of the land. If you ever need anything—advice, backup, or simply a strong drink—don't be afraid to ask."
When he turned to leave, something stopped me. "Stefan," I called, and he paused to look back.
"Yeah?"
"Why now?" I asked. "Why introduce yourself today?"
His grin vanished, replaced by a gentler, even serious expression. "Because first impressions matter," he told me. "And because I have a feeling for you, Serena. You can say it's instinct."
With that, he exited, the door closing behind him.
Valter sank back in his chair, feeling a bit disturbed by this introduction. "What do you think his deal is?"
"He's part of the team," I stated simply. "That's enough for now."
But in the back of my mind, I couldn't shake the suspicion that Stefan Doyle was more than he appeared. And if he was on the same team as us, I needed to figure out where his true beliefs lay—and whether they would be compatible with mine.