The carriage rocked gently over the uneven road, wheels rattling against the trail. Inside, Rumi sat in silence, his gloved hands resting on his lap. The outline of Hollowvale loomed in the distance—its towering spires and gas lamps flickering through the fog.
He had been away. A brief reprieve. A chance to step away from the weight of his double life, though he knew the ghosts of his sins never truly left him. They followed, unseen, clinging to the edges of his mind.
The driver pulled the reins, slowing the carriage. "Water break, sir." the man called, voice hoarse from the cold.
A short distance away, a pond laid still and silent. He knelt at the edge, scooping water into his palms, watching as it slipped through his fingers. How many times had blood stained these hands instead? As he drank some of the water, he thought back to the countless murders he had done without ever bringing suspicion to himself.
If anyone found out…
The thought clung to him, sinking in deep. He had lived these years in careful balance, every step measured, every action calculated. But no amount of planning would save him if his secret was unraveled. A detective who kills criminals—no court would weigh his reasoning, no jury would ponder his justifications. His life, his work, his words—all of it would be undone.
He let the water slip between his fingers one last time before standing. Hollowvale was waiting. The breeze gently brushed against his black hair as he looked into the distance. Bad things were coming.