I stepped out of Derrick Rose's villa.
Didn't hire a carriage. Didn't feel like it. Too much noise in my head. So I just walked.
I let the air cool my thoughts while my boots scraped across the cobblestone. Not the most efficient method, but maybe the act of walking helps the brain sift through things better.
Alright, first things first—
The Derrick Rose incident and the Stanton family mess?
They're not the same. Not exactly. But there's a common thread. The kind that keeps itching at the back of your skull even after you've taken off the hat.
Both cases... weren't too serious.
No casualties. Nobody dead. No limbs torn apart or anything gruesome. Not even permanent trauma. Just a dog.
That poor mutt.
So—what does that tell me?
Well, maybe the person doing this doesn't want it to escalate. Doesn't want big waves, or attention from... higher places. They want panic. Quiet panic. The kind that spreads quietly and fast. Just enough to make people leave.
Which means—yeah. There's something in that villa. Something hidden. Something that can't be easily moved, otherwise they wouldn't go through the trouble of... all this elaborate theater.
Think about it—if I were the one doing this, how would I go about it?
First—scare off the owner. That's Derrick Rose. Spook him good. Make him run.
But if someone else buys it afterward? What then?
Start again?
No. Too many variables. Too risky.
Better solution? Buy it yourself.
Which is what Mrs. Stanton did.
Interesting.
She's now suspicious. Sort of. Maybe. Well—she is.
And then... she "woke up" on the lawn? Not the bed, not the porch, not even in the hallway?
Carried.
Why would she be carried if she could walk?
Theatrics?
But then again, all of this is still just me... guessing. Stacking guesses on top of more guesses until they collapse like wet paper.
Still, there's one weird thing that keeps stabbing at my brain:
If she's behind this... why would Umar—Mr. Stanton—move the whole family from Brando back here?
And go along with her buying that damned villa?
If she's the puppeteer, then what's his role?
Is he a prop? A fool? Or... something else?
I stopped walking.
For a few seconds, I stood in silence, then shook myself out of it.
Wait. The job.
The commission.
I was hired to investigate a "Enigma." That's what they said. Nothing more. Nothing about creepy villas or dogs with glazed-over eyes. But this thing's starting to spiral into something more. Something possibly dangerous. Bigger than it first looked.
So now I had to ask myself—do I really want to stick my head in this?
No, I'm not some idealist. Never was.
And I don't exactly enjoy the idea of dying for a stranger's puzzle.
I do things if they benefit me. That's it. No romantic story behind it.
But then again... if Mrs. Stanton is doing all this over "something," then that thing must be worth a fortune.
Or maybe it's something rare. Or odd. But probably not... supernatural. It doesn't feel supernatural. Just feels—expensive.
Still, maybe it's worth trying.
I remembered back when I was still a resident doctor—whole city choked with smoke after that twenty-five-car pileup.
Thirty people injured. The hospital turned into a mad house. Everyone in panic mode.
No qualified surgeon was free. No one stepped up.
Well—except Zhang Yang.
He just did it. Took the case. Pulled it off. Not pretty, but... successful.
From that day forward, smooth sailing for him.
So...
Yeah. Maybe I'll be ruthless too.
Take a shot. Worst case? I walk away limping.
Best case?
I score big. Maybe even a promotion. Heh.
I sighed. I already knew I was going to do it. I think I knew five paragraphs ago. My brain just had to play catch-up.
Alright. Now, how do I go about it?
And then—boom.
I saw it.
Green sign. Wooden pole. Little rusted edge.
A post office.
...
Evening.
Fourth floor suite at the Frank Hotel.
Umar sat on the edge of a large, unnecessarily fluffy bed, his expression unreadable, which looked annoyed more than it should have.
His wife—yeah, her—was on the bed, her face flushed and glistening with sweat.
Fever.
A towel covered her forehead. One of those silver water basins stood nearby.
Umar changed the towel every few minutes. Adjusted the blanket. His face never changed. Not once.
Then—knock, knock.
"Come in," he said.
A maid entered. Young. Quiet. Thin shoes.
Envelope in hand.
"A letter from a man named Feron Mornez," she said softly.
Uriel glanced at his wet hands.
"Read it," he murmured.
"Yes, sir."
She broke the seal.
"Dear Mr. Stanton..."
(That's me. Still sounds weird when someone else reads it aloud.)
"...after receiving the key, I conducted two surveys. The first, at noon. Nothing found. The second, at midnight. There were... some results.
Something is hidden inside the villa. Possibly the source of the disturbance.
I will investigate further tonight. Updates to follow.
Yours,
Feron Mornez."
Umar said nothing.
Just waved her off, then went back to wiping his wife's forehead.
...
After mailing the letter, I coughed up 35 copper Narcs for a carriage, got home, and collapsed into bed.
Didn't dream.
Didn't want to.
By the time midnight rolled around, I was already outside the Stanton villa. Dressed better than usual.
Didn't tell Jaden. Couldn't risk it. He'd probably insist on coming, and if something did happen...
No. Safer for him this way.
I looked around.
Didn't feel watched this time.
No eyes on the back of my neck. No pressure in my gut.
Had the letter worked?
Maybe it threw them off.
...Or maybe they were just better at hiding now.
I hesitated. Then—shrugged it off. Decided to go in again.
Last time was terrifying.
This time? Just... mildly terrifying.
I reached the villa gate.
Lit the kerosene lamp by the path.
Routine. Familiar.
Then—cold.
A biting gust.
And that sound.
Wind? No. Not wind.
A whisper slicing through air—
Shit. Shit. SHIT.
I moved left. Barely.
Too slow.
Still heard it—puchi.
Something tore into my right chest.
Hot metal. Cold shock.
Blade.
Blood.
So much blood.
My legs wobbled. My body wanted to fold.
But I was alive. That mattered.
A second too slow and... I wouldn't be.
I tried to turn, just to see—
But another force slammed into me.
Like a ram.
I flew.
Hit the ground. Rolled. Pain flared like wildfire.
Then I looked up.
And—
Oh no.
No no no no—
That suit.
That beard.
That snake-shaped hilt.
It wasn't her.
It wasn't her.
It was Umar.
"Cough—" I sputtered, blood slipping past my lips.
Why?
Why the hell was he the one trying to kill me?
My thoughts screamed for logic, but my instincts grabbed something else.
I activated regeneration. Quietly. Silently.
Flesh knitting. Bones humming. I kept it hidden. Pretended to write.
"Mr. Stanton..."
My voice came out in a rasp. Small. Confused. (Fake.)
"...why?"