Arshen slowly opened his eyes, his vision blurry before finally focusing on the high ceiling adorned with crystal chandeliers. He was lying on a soft bed, surrounded by luxurious furniture that exuded an aura of opulence.
"Where am I now?" he murmured, his voice hoarse and filled with confusion.
He sat up, his eyes scanning the room. A large window with lavish curtains, an intricately carved wooden table, and a thick red carpet beneath his feet—everything felt unfamiliar, yet somehow, there was something familiar about it. He turned to the mirror in the corner of the room. His reflection looked the same: a tall body, dark gray eyes, and the long brown coat he always wore.
"It seems I'm still Arshen," he whispered, trying to reassure himself.
Arshen got up from the bed, his feet softly stepping on the carpet. His eyes were drawn to the large window illuminated by a purplish moonlight. He stepped closer, curiosity overcoming his caution.
Through the glass, he saw a small garden filled with blooming tulips. In the middle, there was a set of table and chairs with tea utensils neatly arranged. A sturdy iron fence surrounded the house, and the streets outside looked deserted, bathed in the purplish moonlight.
"This... Dove Street?" he muttered, his expression turning to one of shock. "But how? Am I...," his words trailed off.
He took a step back, his brow furrowed, and his temples tightened. Everything looked so clean and well-maintained, as if time had never touched this place. The walls, the window glass, even the garden—everything seemed freshly renewed.
"This must be a dream, right? I don't remember what happened, but I'm sure this is a dream, right?"
Without thinking further, Arshen clenched his fist and punched the transparent glass window in front of him.
Bang!
His fist landed hard, but the glass didn't even scratch. Pain shot through his hand, forcing him to take a step back.
"Ahh! Damn it!" he cursed, clutching his reddened wrist. "Is this Commoner's doing?"
Curiosity and frustration filled his mind. He tried pushing, hitting, even throwing objects around—but it was all in vain. Nothing could damage or even scratch the surface.
"This is really strange," he muttered, his breathing becoming heavy. "The pain is real, but this feels like a dream. Am I trapped in another dimension?"
He tried to calm himself, taking a deep breath. Panicking would only make things worse. As a detective, he knew he had to think logically.
"Alright, Arshen," he whispered to himself. "Calm down. Find another way."
He turned and saw the bedroom door tightly shut. Slowly, he approached and opened it carefully.
Click...
A long corridor adorned with various decorations and luxurious furniture stretched before him, dimly lit by the glow of burning candles, yet there were unlit lanterns placed in various spots. Paintings of elegant young men with blue eyes in black tuxedos lined the walls, as if watching his every move.
Arshen stepped cautiously, his eyes scanning every corner. He didn't know what awaited him at the end of this corridor, but his instincts told him he wasn't alone.
"Is this Hendrik's painting?..., no, I can't confirm it."
Finally, he reached a large room with a luxurious sofa, a carved wooden table, and a statue of a woman in a black dress holding a clock face against her chest. The clock's hands moved silently, pointing to twelve and six.
"A silent clock," Arshen muttered, his eyes drawn to the statue. But he held back from touching it. Something about the statue felt... wrong.
He continued his exploration, opening every door he encountered. The kitchen, the bathroom, empty rooms—all were well-maintained, but there were no signs of life.
Until finally, he reached the last room. The door creaked open slowly, sending a shiver down his spine.
Inside, there was a large bed, a full bookshelf, and a large painting depicting a blond young man offering an apple to a woman draped in red cloth. The painting was so detailed, it seemed almost alive.
Arshen was transfixed, his eyes unable to look away from the painting. Unconsciously, his hand reached out, his fingers wanting to touch the surface of the painting.
"No...!"
His mind suddenly snapped back. He jumped back, his heart pounding. There was something wrong with that painting—something dangerous.
He grabbed an oil lamp that had been lit with a candle from the wall and threw it at the painting.
Crash!
The fire ignited, consuming the painting in an instant. A woman's scream shattered the silence, echoing throughout the room.
"AAAHHHHH...!!!"
Arshen covered his ears, his face pale. He didn't know what had just happened, but one thing was certain: he had to get out of here—as quickly as possible.