The silence in my house after Inspector Dior and his companion left was heavier than a lead blanket. Judy had cried herself out, a storm of grief that left her small and still against my side on the couch. My own tears were frozen somewhere deep inside, a solid block of ice where my heart used to be. I felt hollowed out—like someone had scooped out my insides and left an echoing void where my best friend used to be. His laughter, his terrible jokes, his unwavering belief in our dreams—gone. Sleep, when it finally dragged me under, was a restless pit, a black hole offering no comfort. Sleep, when it finally dragged me under hours later, was a restless, dreamless pit, a black hole that offered no respite, only a deeper sense of falling.
The next morning, the world felt tilted. The twin suns, Solara and Helios, painted cheerful stripes across the floor, but the warmth mocked the fog in my head and the slug filling my heart. Every action felt like wading through mud. Judy called, her voice raw. "You can't just sit here, Nick. We still have our shift today."
I couldn't imagine pretending life was normal. "At Future World?" I asked, the name tasting like ash.
"Yes, Future World," she confirmed, her voice a whisper wrapped in grim resolve. "We have to. Maybe… seeing where it happened... where they found him..."
The bus ride to the park was a special kind of torture, a blur of motion and noise that grated on my raw nerves. The usual cheerful jingles advertising Future World's latest "Thrill-tastic Adventure!" or "Taste of the Cosmos!" promotions felt like deliberate, sadistic nails on a chalkboard. The park itself, when we passed through the main gates – no casual employee entrance for us today, we were just part of the grieving public, invisible in our pain – was a cacophony of forced joy, a relentless assault on the senses. Laughter echoed from unseen crowds, high-pitched and carefree. Music blared from every themed zone, a dozen different melodies clashing into a disorienting symphony of manufactured happiness. Families bustled by, faces bright with excitement, clutching souvenir maps and oversized novelty drinks, completely oblivious to the chasm that had opened in our world. It was like walking through a nightmare where everyone else was inexplicably, cruelly, having the time of their lives.
Each familiar sight, each themed land we passed, was a fresh stab of memory, a painful echo of Scott's presence. There was the "Cosmic Cones" stand in the Kid-Zone Cosmodrome, where Scott had held court, juggling ice cream scoops and terrible puns with equal flair, now manned by a nervous-looking trainee fumbling with the flavor dispensers. There was the "Wonders of Tomorrow" pavilion, its gleaming, optimistic surfaces reflecting our own grim, haunted faces as we passed; Judy usually commanded that space, her calm voice explaining the marvels of the future. Today, its promise felt like a lie.
We didn't speak much, our silence a shared language of grief. We just moved with a heavy, unspoken purpose towards "Neptune's Realm," the sprawling aquatic sector of the park, a world of artificial reefs, bioluminescent flora, and simulated ocean currents. Word had spread quickly among the shell-shocked staff, a hushed, horrified whisper network that bypassed official channels: Scott had been found near the "Palace of Shimmering Ice," one of the Realm's signature underground attractions, a place usually filled with delighted shrieks and the flash of tourist cameras.
Police-issue barrier tape, a stark, utilitarian yellow against the whimsical, deep-sea-themed murals of smiling squids and playful dolphins, cordoned off a dimly lit service corridor. It was a jarring intrusion of grim reality into this carefully crafted fantasy. A uniformed park security officer, young and looking profoundly uncomfortable, like he'd rather be anywhere else in the galaxy, stood guard, his posture stiff. Beyond him, through the archway, we could just make out the entrance to the grotto itself, its usual enchanting blue and silver lights now casting an eerie, clinical glow that did nothing to dispel the shadows.
And there he was. Inspector Dior.
He was exactly as he'd been in my living room: impeccably dressed in that tailored suit that seemed out of place yet perfectly natural on him, his movements precise, measured, almost theatrical, as he knelt, examining something on the damp grotto floor. A younger man in plain clothes, presumably his assistant, Jean Pierre, stood nearby, dutifully taking notes on a datapad and occasionally aiming a sophisticated-looking scanner at different points, its soft hum a counterpoint to the distant, echoing drips of water. They were deep within the grotto, their voices too low to carry over the ambient sounds of the Realm's water circulation systems.
I watched them work, mesmerized by the uncanny silence between movements, as if they existed in a separate dimension of time. Dior leaned in closer to the floor, narrowing his eyes at what looked like a faint discoloration along one of the tiles. Jean Pierre immediately adjusted his tablet's display, logging something with swift, fluid taps.
Then—abruptly—the moment shattered.
A loud voice, shrill and barking, echoed off the icy walls. "How much longer will this section be off-limits?"
A new figure stormed into view: Brady Thompson, owner of Future World. He was red-faced and sweating beneath a suit too tight for his frame, his neatly combed hair already beginning to wilt from the humidity. His gaze darted between Dior and the crime scene, not with grief, but with barely contained frustration.
"Inspector!" Thompson's voice was a low, agitated hiss, clearly meant for Dior's ears only, but sharp enough, in the suddenly quiet corridor, to carry to where we stood. "With all due respect, and I do mean all due respect, how much longer will this particular section be off-limits? This is the 'Frostfang Grotto,' Inspector, a cornerstone attraction for Neptune's Realm! We're rerouting thousands of guests! The daily revenue impact is... considerable. My guests are expecting the full Future World experience, not police barricades and hushed whispers running amok, blazing all over the park like a wild fire!" He gestured vaguely, as if swatting away an unpleasant insect.
Inspector Dior straightened up slowly, a deliberate, unhurried movement, turning to face Thompson. His expression was unreadable, a mask of professional calm, but his voice, when he spoke, was like chilled steel wrapped in velvet. "Mr. Thompson," he said, his tone impeccably polite but utterly unyielding, his gaze unwavering, "a young man, an employee of your park, Mr. Brandt's best friend, has lost his life under violent and, as yet, unexplained circumstances. My investigation, therefore, will take precisely as long as it needs to uncover the truth, every facet of it. I trust," he added, a slight, almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes, "the esteemed reputation of Future World can withstand a temporary, and I assure you, necessary inconvenience in the pursuit of justice, non?"
Thompson sputtered, his jowls quivering, clearly unhappy but visibly outmaneuvered by Dior's implacable logic and quiet authority. He shot a venomous glare toward the police tape, as if it were personally responsible for his financial woes, then froze.
His eyes narrowed.
"Oh, for the love of..." he muttered, squinting past the cordon. "Are those—? Of course. Of course, it's another group of employees wondering. Haven't your ilk hovered around enough today? What is this, some kind of employee gossip column now?"
He jabbed a finger through the air in our direction like he was swatting a persistent fly. "You're not press. You're not some mystery solvers. You work here. Or have you forgotten that? You've all been skulking around like the rest of them. All morning like starved paparazzi hyenas. Shouldn't you people be at your posts? This is a workday, not a spectator sport."
I felt Judy stiffen beside me. Her voice was quiet, but she met his scowl without flinching. "Mr. Thompson, Scott was our friend. Our best friend. We're not here to gawk—we're here because we care."
Thompson exhaled hard through his nose, rubbing his temples like we were a particularly stubborn migraine. "Look, I'm not heartless. This whole thing is—awful, obviously. But I've got investors breathing down my neck and a PR team in a full-blown meltdown. I can't have employees loitering around a crime scene, making us look even worse."
He gestured at us with a flick of his hand, dismissive. "Take the rest of the week off. Paid. Call it a grief leave, I don't care. Just… stay out of the police's way. Don't give the press any more faces to zoom in on. Got it?"
He didn't wait for us to answer. Just turned on his heel, muttering something about "shareholder optics" and "containment messaging" as he marched back the way he came, the soles of his expensive shoes squeaking faintly on the damp floor.
I didn't realize my fists were clenched until Judy's hand slipped into mine, her grip sharp, grounding.
"He doesn't care," I muttered.
"Not about Scott," she said. "Not about any of us."
We stood there a moment, soaking in the cold light and the ache in our chests.
Then Judy's voice cut through the silence. "We have to see."
I turned to her, startled.
She didn't look at me. Her eyes were fixed on the glowing grotto entrance, jaw tight, breath shallow. "Maybe there's something they missed. Something only we'd notice. Scott wouldn't just... he wouldn't go down without trying. Maybe he left us something."
It wasn't certain. It was desperation—flickering, irrational hope—but it was better than helplessness.
And I nodded.
Before doubt could stop us, we slipped under the tape, hearts pounding.
The air was colder, the smell of chlorine stronger. And beneath it—something metallic and faintly organic.
We didn't get far. The grotto entrance loomed, a gaping maw of sculpted ice and shimmering, artificial light.
"Ah, young Mr. Brandt and Ms. Dusza, I presume." Inspector Dior's voice, still unnervingly calm, but now laced with an unmistakable note of authority that brooked no argument, stopped us in our tracks. He hadn't even turned around fully, merely tilted his head as if listening to a faint melody, but it was clear he'd been acutely aware of our clumsy approach.
"Your grief is understandable—a testament to your friend," Dior said, finally turning to face us. His eyes were sharp, watchful, taking in every microexpression, every twitch of our hands. "But this is an active investigation. A delicate, deliberate process. Your presence, while well-meaning, introduces variables—unhelpful ones."
He gave a slight nod, barely perceptible, to the flustered officer trailing behind us. "Officer Fields, if you'd be so kind, please escort these two somewhere more appropriate. We'll speak again—" his gaze lingered on us, unreadable, equal parts weight and warning "—when the time is right. And it will be."
There was no room to argue. No wiggle in his tone, no kindness to grasp. Just a wall of ironclad certainty.
Frustrated, humiliated, and steeped in a grief that hadn't even had time to settle, we let ourselves be led away. I didn't look back, but the cold image of the grotto—its blue-lit walls, the place where Scott had last been alive—was seared into my thoughts.
Back in the main walkway of Neptune's Realm, the manufactured joy clawed at us. Bright music, distant laughter, the splash of water from a nearby ride—it all felt grotesque. We found a bench tucked beside a dry fountain shaped like a frozen jellyfish, its glassy tentacles curling mid-dance. The water had been turned off, another casualty of the investigation.
"He knew," Judy muttered, her voice low and tight, fists clenched in her lap. "He knew we'd come. He was waiting for us."
I nodded slowly, eyes locked on the flow of oblivious guests drifting by, clutching snacks and neon toys. "He watches everything. But what did he mean—'unhelpful variables'? Us? Or something else he didn't want us to notice?"
Before she could answer, I spotted Dior again. He stood just outside the tape, speaking to Jean Pierre in hushed tones. In his gloved hand, a small evidence bag caught the light. Even from here, I could see the glint of something metallic inside—crystalline, maybe. Whatever it was, it was small.
He held it up, gestured with it, then turned and vanished into the grotto once more.
Back into the cold.
What we couldn't see, what we could only imagine with a fresh surge of helpless anger, was Dior returning to the heart of the Frostfang Grotto. The "Palace of Shimmering Ice," a grand, multi-tiered structure of artificial glaciers and intricately carved crystal formations, loomed in the background, its facets catching and refracting the stark, white investigative lights. He knelt again, not at the exact spot where Scott's body had been outlined in temporary bio-luminescent paint on the damp, faux-rock floor, but a few feet away, near a cluster of artfully sculpted ice stalagmites that glittered with an unnatural sheen. He pulled out his datapad, the screen illuminating his focused features. It displayed the glossy, horrific images from the initial crime scene photos, side-by-side with the preliminary findings from the medical coroner's report.
"Curious, is it not, Pierre?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble that barely disturbed the grotto's cold silence, more to himself than to his assistant, who diligently noted his every word. "The report speaks of… considerable duress. Given the subdermal patterns, there is significant bruising consistent with restraints, perhaps even energy-based ones. A struggle, one would imagine, of some ferocity, a desperate fight for life." He gestured with a gloved hand to the relatively undisturbed area around the body outline – no overturned decorative ice shards, no deep scuffs on the floor, no signs of a chaotic, violent confrontation. "Yet here, the scene is… almost pristine. Too pristine for such a desperate battle, eh? One might even say… artfully arranged."
His gaze, sharp as a freshly honed scalpel, fell upon a small, almost invisible data chip, no bigger than a fingernail, nestled artfully between two translucent ice formations, the item he'd briefly bagged and examined moments before. It glinted faintly. "And this…" he mused, picking up the evidence bag containing the chip again, holding it up to the light. "This feels like a prop, carefully, almost theatrically, placed by a rather clumsy stage manager, not a vital clue dropped in the heat of a fatal encounter. Its placement is too… convenient. Too… deliberate. The narrative presented by this immediate vicinity… it has the distinct aroma of fabrication, of a carefully constructed illusion."
He rose, pacing slowly, his polished shoes making almost no sound on the grotto floor. His eyes scanned every detail – the sculpted ice walls designed to mimic a natural cavern, the shimmering water channels that snaked through the exhibit, the silent, intricately detailed animatronics of deep-sea creatures embedded within the artificial ice, their glass eyes seeming to watch him with cold indifference.
"The body was found here, they say," Dior continued, his voice a soft, thoughtful rumble that echoed slightly in the icy chamber. "The official report, the initial responders, all concur on the location. But was the life taken here? Was the final, brutal act committed in this specific, aesthetically pleasing alcove?" He paused, a thoughtful, almost intrigued expression settling on his face, the look of a connoisseur appreciating a complex, if flawed, piece of art. "The story this tableau tells… it is a compelling one, visually. Dramatic, even. But it does not ring true to the ear of experience. The notes are… discordant." He tapped a finger against his lips. "So, if this is not where the true tragedy unfolded, if this is merely the stage for the final scene, then where did the preceding acts occur? And why expend such effort, such meticulous care, to direct our eyes, the eyes of the investigation, to this particular, rather picturesque, but ultimately… misleading, performance? Who, Pierre?" he looked at his assistant, a glint of something like intellectual challenge in his eyes, then back at the empty, silent stage of the grotto, "is our playwright? And what, precisely, is the story they are so desperately trying to sell us… or, perhaps more accurately, to hide from our view?"