Moonlight spilled softly through the sheer curtains, casting a silver glow across the quiet room. Beneath the covers, a figure lay sleeping—serene, still, untouched by the world's chaos.
Her face, delicate and luminous, shimmered faintly in the pale light. Peaceful. Unaware.
Outside, a shadow stirred.
It crept across the balcony, silent as breath, and paused at the glass doors. A moment passed. Then the figure slipped inside, closing the door with practiced quiet. Step by step, they approached the bed—slowly, reverently.
And stopped.
Watching.
The figure on the bed didn't stir.
A hand lifted, trembling slightly, reaching toward her as if to brush a strand of hair from her face, or perhaps to feel the warmth of her skin—
"My love..."
The whisper shattered the silence.
And with it came the memory.
The noise.
The screaming.
The fire.
Her body in his arms, blood soaking through his sleeves. Her breath shallow. Her eyes locked on his.
"Isaac..."
He recoiled, hand snapping back as if burned.
The memory was too much.
Too cruel.
He stood there, frozen, as silent tears traced down his cheeks.
After a long breath, he steadied himself. Then turned, box in hand, and moved toward the table to leave it behind.
A thought to leave quietly lingering in his mind.
But just as he reached for the surface—
"Isaac..."
A soft voice broke the silence.
"Isaac..."
He froze.
Patricia was awake.
She had felt him—his presence in the room, the way he'd reached for her and then pulled away. She'd felt the hesitation, the ache behind it. And now, watching him stand there like a ghost caught in the act, she knew something was wrong.
Very wrong.
He was avoiding her.
And she didn't like it.
Not one bit.
Isaac turned slightly, just enough to see her sitting upright in bed, her eyes locked on him through the shadows.
He swallowed hard, then forced a smile.
"Sweeches... you're awake."
He crossed the room and crouched beside her.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."
Patricia said nothing.
She just watched him.
"How are you feeling now?" he asked, voice low.
Still, she didn't speak.
Then—without warning—she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a warm, steady embrace.
A breeze slipped through the open window, stirring the curtains. Moonlight spilled in, bathing them in silver.
Isaac didn't move at first—too stunned to respond.
Then he felt her hand gently rubbing his back, slow and soothing.
"It's okay..." she whispered.
"You don't have to hold it in. Just let it out. I'm right here."
And that was all it took.
He folded into her, burying his face in the curve of her neck, and let the tears fall.
Patricia held him, feeling the tremors in his body, the weight of his sorrow. Her own tears slipped silently down her cheeks as she stroked his back, grounding him.
They clung to each other, tighter and tighter, as if afraid the world might tear them apart again.
No words were needed.
The tears said everything.
The pain.
The fear.
The love.
The release.
In that moment, the silence between them was sacred.
And the embrace—everything.
.....
Later
"I guess things just got more complicated... haven't they?" Patricia murmured, lying beside Isaac with her back to him. His arm was wrapped gently around her waist, the other propping up his head on the pillow.
Isaac exhaled, the weight of the day pressing into his voice.
"You have no idea... but don't worry. We'll get through this. That's a promise."
Patricia sighed softly.
"I hope so. I just want the storm to end. I want peace. Justice."
She reached down and laced her fingers through his, the hand resting on her waist.
"And maybe... finally take that honeymoon. With a horse."
She chuckled.
Isaac laughed quietly.
"I think I can guess which horse you have in mind. He'll appreciate it very much."
"Yeah," she smiled. "He will."
Isaac sat up, shifting on the bed.
"Speaking of him... I got something for you."
Patricia turned to face him, curiosity lighting her eyes.
He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small object.
"A golden box!" she gasped, bolting upright. She took it from his hand with reverence, her fingers tracing the delicate filigree.
"Where did you find it?"
"At the old McCoy mansion," he replied.
Her smile deepened as she reached into her nightgown and pulled out a golden keychain—the key shaped like a horse mid-gallop.
Their eyes met. A shared memory passed between them, unspoken but understood.
She flicked on the bedside lamp.
The box shimmered under the soft amber glow.
Patricia inhaled, steadying herself, then slid the key into the lock and turned it.
Click.
The lid creaked open.
Inside was a single piece of folded paper.
Patricia frowned, pinching the bridge of her nose. She glanced at Isaac, who was watching her closely, his expression unreadable.
She lifted the paper.
There was only a title.
Isaac's eyes widened in recognition.
"The Dark Knight and His Tulip?" Patricia read aloud, brow furrowed.
"What the hell?" She pouted, shaking the golden box as if expecting something else to rattle out.
"There's nothing else in here. Not even a hard drive. What do you think it means?"
Isaac exhaled slowly.
"It's a book."
Patricia turned to him, puzzled.
"Huh? A book?"
"Yeah. Davis and I found it at Blake's mansion. That title—it was the password to open the safe where..."
He hesitated.
"...where we found that box."
Patricia's eyes narrowed in thought.
"A password to a safe. So maybe... maybe Dad wanted me to meet Blake somehow. To find the box myself?"
Isaac shook his head.
"Maybe. But how would you have known the clue was at the old McCoy mansion? How would you have even thought to look there?"
Patricia nodded slowly.
"True. Even though I researched them and found out they were the Plumberrys' in-laws, how could I have guessed their mansion held something I've been searching for my whole life? We only realized their importance after Alisha was kidnapped by Mr. X. Otherwise..."
She trailed off.
"...we never would've guessed a thing."
Isaac stared at the box, his thoughts spiraling.
'We found the box after Blake died. We found that chest after Alisha was kidnapped by Mr X. Every discovery tied to a tragedy. Why is it always me? Why do I keep finding these things?'
'Why do I get the feeling that these things are happening in a pattern. Like something is manipulating the events. Manipulating our lives. Manipulating me.'
His pupils dilated.
'What the hell is that thing? And why me? Why am I the one it's using? Is it because of what I saw? Does it want to help me get revenge? But why?'
"Isaac?" Patricia's voice resounded in the background. .
'What does it want from me? Is it the one orchestrating all this?'
"Isaac?"
'Is it truly helping me... or just using me for its own ends? What is it?'
'Chronalis.'
The word echoed in his mind like a whisper from the void.
'Is that its name? Chronalis... but what does it mean? What is it?'
"Isaac!"
He jolted, blinking as Patricia's voice snapped him back to the present.
"Huh?"
She was glaring at him now, arms crossed, clearly irritated.
He'd zoned out too long.
And judging by her expression, she'd been asking something important.
And he hadn't heard a word.
"Aaah... I'm sorry, Sweeches," Isaac murmured, pulling her close.
"I just got lost in my thoughts. I'm sorry, baby."
Patricia rolled her eyes and sighed.
"What's got you so worked up lately? You keep zoning out. I don't like it—it feels like you're ignoring me."
She pouted, her voice soft but firm.
"No, no, Sweeches. I would never..."
He leaned in, pressing gentle kisses to her shoulder blade, then the nape of her neck.
"I'm sorry. Truly."
Patricia melted into his arms, her tension easing.
"It's okay. I know it's complicated. Every answer just leads to more questions... and the cycle never ends."
"Mmm... true," Isaac murmured, his fingers threading through her hair.
"It's like a maze—no, mazes. Each exit just leads to another. But we'll find our way out. One day. We'll get the answers. We'll get justice. And peace."
"Yes..." she sighed.
"We will. And when we do, maybe we can finally breathe. Just be... us."
She nestled deeper into his embrace.
"This feels nice. You and me. Together. In each other's arms. I missed this. So much."
"Mmm... me too," Isaac whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He truly missed this. Every time he was caught in a dilemma he often yearned for moments like this and he never felt more comfort than holding her in his arms. This was nice. It was peaceful. And he couldn't have it any other way.
"We should do this more often," she murmured.
"Because in this storm, the only comfort I have is you. And I don't want it any other way. Don't you?"
Silence.
"Isaac?"
Still silence.
She lifted her head, a small smile tugging at her lips.
He was fast asleep.
His breathing was slow. Steady. Peaceful.
Patricia leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips, then gently adjusted his head onto the pillow, careful not to wake him.
She curled against his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist.
And closed her eyes.
This—this moment—felt like home. Felt like everything.
This was very nice.
....
Meanwhile
Clank! Clank!
"Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!"
The Bulldog was a storm of fury inside the old McCoy mansion—once his sanctuary, now a shattered tomb of failure. He tore through the room like a beast unchained, smashing furniture, flipping tables, and hurling anything within reach.
"Raaaargh!" he roared, launching a chair across the room. It splintered against the wall with a deafening crack.
"How?! How the hell did we lose them?! How did those bastards slip through our fingers?!"
A vase exploded against the floor.
His subordinates flinched, pressed against the walls like cornered prey.
"HOW?!" he bellowed again, eyes wild, veins bulging.
One of them dared to speak.
"S-sir... they used a decoy car. Led us on a goose chase. They knew we were coming. They were prepared. We—we failed you. I'm sorry, Boss!"
The Bulldog turned slowly, eyes narrowing.
"Oh, damn right you did."
He raised his gun.
"You. Did. Fail. Me."
The subordinates shuddered in fear. Their hearts pumping in their throats. They knew one of the bullets was going to land on one of them. They could feel his boiling fury and knew that it was going to explode at any minute.
The muzzle hovered.
The subordinates froze, hearts pounding in their throats. One of them whimpered. They knew what was coming. They braced for the shot.
Closed their eyes to prepare for the painful impacts.
But it didn't come.
Seconds passed.
Nothing.
They then slowly opened their eyes only to see something they never thought they will ever see in their lives.
Their boss stood frozen in place.
His hand holding the gun was trembling.
His face—ashen.
Pale like blood was completely drained from it.
His eyes—darting, frantic, scanning the room like a hunted animal.
"No..." he whispered.
"No... it can't be..."
He staggered back, gun still raised, but now it swung wildly from wall to wall.
"You're not out... you can't be out... you're not free... you're not free!"
Bang! Bang!
He fired into the walls like a maniac—random, panicked shots that echoed like thunder.
"You're not free! You're not free! NOOO!"
He dropped the gun with a clatter and bolted from the room like a madman.
He burst through the front door, stumbled down the steps, and collapsed into the dirt, scrambling backward like something was chasing him.
"No... no... no..."
He turned, clawed at the car door, flung it open, and threw himself inside. The engine roared to life.
Tires screeched.
Dust exploded into the air as the car tore down the road, vanishing into the night like a demon fleeing daylight.
His men rushed outside, too late.
All that remained was the echo of his screams and the fading growl of the engine.
They looked at each other, stunned.
Then, without a word, they climbed into the remaining cars and followed.
Silence returned to the mansion.
Until—
A shadow moved behind the upstairs window.
Its eyes glowed an eerie, electric blue.
And then—
A smile.
Sinister. Inhuman. Glowing with the same unholy light.
Watching.
Waiting.
The game is just starting.
How thrilling it is going to be.