Ruben trailed Fionn through the winding corridor, his steps soft but quick, every sound dulled beneath the storm's muffled roar outside. The boy's small legs carried him unerringly to the door of his father's room, as though instinct or grief alone guided him there.
Ruben almost called out, almost told him to stop, but the child's shoulders were set with a stubbornness that reminded him too much of himself. When they reached the door, Fionn halted just long enough to press his palm flat on the wood. Then, without hesitation, he slipped inside.
The smell hit at once, sharper than before. It was thicker and coppery, a humid weight in the air clung to their throat and made it hard to swallow. Ruben lingered on the threshold, his pulse skittering, then stepped in after him.
The room seemed darker than he remembered, the curtains drawn tighter, shadows stretching long across the blood-soaked carpet where the body had lain. The air had aged more in less than half an hour, heavy with grief and iron.
He saw the boy stiffen, his narrow shoulders trembling under the invisible weight pressing down on him. Ruben laid a hand on him, steady and firm, feeling the faint shake through Fionn's jumper.
He guided him gently away from the darkened patch on the carpet, away from the smell that seemed to breathe sorrow into the walls, and toward the far side of the room. The rain streaked down the glass in restless sheets, silver against the gloom, and Ruben let the boy settle onto the narrow window ledge.
The glass rattled faintly with each gust, and for a moment, the sound of the storm became the only thing either of them heard. Ruben stayed standing, pacing a slow path behind him, the rhythm of his steps grounding him as he searched for the right words to say.
"I'm sorry Fionn," he said. "I'm sorry for your loss. I wish that someone had been here sooner. Maybe me. Or just anyone who could have helped your father." He wanted the words to be a balm, but they tasted brittle as they left his tongue.
The boy's gaze stayed fixed on the rain, his reflection fractured in the glass. His hands clutched at his knees, and Ruben saw the way his chest rose and fell too quickly, shallow breaths fought back against a tide of emotion that he didn't want to release.
"You don't have to hold it in," Ruben told him quietly. "If you need to cry, then cry. It doesn't make you weak."
But Fionn only bit his lip, his jaw trembling with a strength that seemed far too old for his years. The tears rimmed his eyes but didn't fall. He shook his head, small movements sharp with denial.
Ruben lowered himself slightly, his gaze level with the boy's. "Then tell me about him," he said gently. "Tell me about your father. What was he like?"
For a long moment Fionn rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, blinking back what he didn't want to show. Then, haltingly, he turned his head toward Ruben. His voice soft and fragile, the words stuttering from his lips like broken glass.
"I don't… I don't have a lot to say. I spent most of my time with my mum. Dad was always… working. Always busy. My parents split when I was younger. So I live with my mum, but it was still really close to my dad's house. He would bring me on trips, but…" His mouth twisted as if the words themselves hurt. "Even on those trips. He was working. He never stopped."
They boy's small fingers tugged at the edge of his jumper, pulling the fabric tighter to himself as though it could shield him. "He never seemed happy around me. I don't know why. It was like he didn't know what to do with me. But he was still kind. I just wish I knew him better." The last words broke apart on a tremor, and at last the tears fell, silent and then wrenching, spilling down his cheeks as his shoulders shook.
Ruben stood rooted in place, every word burrowing into him, echoing somewhere deep. He saw the boy grieving a father he had barely known, crying for time he'd never had, and something inside him twisted sharply.
Because wasn't he the same? He thought of his own father, back in his old world. An abusive drunk who taught him fear and rage before anything else. A man he had killed with his own two hands. And yet, beneath that, a jagged guilt ran raw. Because he had a baby brother, Isaiah, who would now grow up without that father who had begun changing. Maya too, would be left with a hole, still only just beginning to warm to him.
For Ruben, his father had been nothing but a monster, and he had hated him. But standing here, watching Fionn cry for a man he never got to truly know, he realized the damage of what he had done rippled outward, striking children who weren't even given a choice.
Isaiah would live with only an absence where a father should have been. Maya would live with silence instead of answers. And Ruben, he had thought only of himself. Only of his own pain, his own history. But families, he realized, split in ways far crueler, and his action, they had probably carved scars as deep as this boy's grief.
Shame burned in his chest, sharp and suffocating. His hands trembled slightly as he crouched, lowering himself beside the crying boy. Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around Fionn, holding him tight against him. The child's sobs broke against his shoulder, raw and small, and Ruben whispered over and over, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
His voice was hoarse, shaking as he tried to steady it.
Then, softer, he murmured into the storm of grief between them, "I'll find who did this. I'll find them, and I'll make them suffer for it. I swear it to you." It was the only promise that felt like justice, the only thing that might balance the weight pressing on his chest.
When Fionn's sobs slowed to quiet hiccups, Ruben rose again, pacing once more across the room, his eyes catching on the rain-washed window. Something tugged at his attention. The frame was open, just slightly, and there, dangling in the storm's wet breath was the rope.
Thick and damp, the very noose that had dragged Cormac Ó Briain into death's spectacle. But Ruben's stomach tightened with unease. That rope hadn't been there before. He was certain of it. He and Corbin had left the room locked behind them. Which meant someone had returned. Someone had come back.
The thought clawed him. His gaze dropped to the dark stain on the carpet, the place where the first strike must have landed. He crouched, lowering his face to the air above it, and inhaled cautiously.
Blood, metallic and choking. But beneath it, something else. A faint trace, citrus, bright against the rot. He blinked. It was the same scent that lingered in the hotel lounge when he had first walked in, cloying but pleasant, as though someone had recently tried to clean.
But it wasn't the carpet or rug that they had tried to clean.
He looked around and at the table, it was only then he had noticed that the cups of tea were missing. He looked to the sink and noticed that they were sitting clean by the washing up rack.
He straightened slowly, his chest tight with realization. Someone had been here again. Someone who carried that smell with them. Cleaning up their trace?
Fionn hadn't had the room key, but the door was opened when he came back just now. Ruben checked the corpse of Cormac Ó Briain too and there was no key. The mistake was gnawing at him.
He wasn't relying on his senses now, he summoned a couple of dragons to search the room for any signs of life.
After some time they all appeared back with nothing. There was no one in the room.
It would be easier to search if he knew what to look for. But maybe he would have to ask the clerk at the desk.
He turned back to Fionn with a gentle voice. "Fionn," he said. "We can't stay here. We need to head to the lounge with the others. Just for now." His gaze lingered on the child's pale, tear-streaked face. "We'll figure this out. But not here."
***
Ruben found the lounge already filled when he arrived with Fionn in tow. The space itself felt less like a sanctuary and more like a courtroom.
Corbin was the first familiar face he spotted, hunched into a broad leather chair that swallowed his frame. His eyes, sharp as ever, flicked immediately to Ruben. Without needing a word, Ruben guided Fionn to a beanbag nestled against Corbin's chair, the child sunk down into its soft mass like a stone into water.
Ruben himself claimed the chair beside his friend, its cushions sagging slightly under his weight. He had only just let out a steadying breath when he heard the low measured sound of boots.
Sera Weber entered. She took in the room with a glance that swept every face before finding Ruben. A faint quirk ghosted across her mouth. "Surprised," she said lightly, "that I didn't actually have to go searching for you."
Ruben didn't answer, but her words earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his jaw. Then, her voice grew louder, carrying across the lounge like a gavel strike.
"This hotel is now under lockdown," she announced, every syllable crisp. "No one leaves this room unless I say so. I'll be keeping an eye on each of you until we have clarity on everybody's positions."
The eyes in the room shifted and flickered, restless as a flock unsettled by thunder. Murmurs rose, but she cut that out as she lifted her hand. "We will start with names. State who you are, if you possess an Ego, and where you were between two and a half and three hours ago. We will do this in order. Staff first."
Annelise straightened, her voice clipped and professional. "Annelise Croft. No Ego. I was at the desk up until just before the news was brought to me."
An older woman with broad shoulders followed. "Marta Smith. No Ego. I was overseeing the laundry in the basement."
Then Tibo Costel, he was shifting around nervously from one foot to another. "Tibo Costel. I have an Ego. I was in the changing rooms, getting ready to start my shift. Around the time you mentioned." His voice cracked, and he flushed.
"Good," Sera said, and her eyes then swept the guests.
The older couple sat close together, the lady's hand went over her husband's. Then the husband spoke first, his voice was that of a professor, steady and warm. "Benedict Holloway. No Ego. We were in our room, reading."
His wife added softly, "Camille Holloway. No Ego. I was with him the whole time."
A fragile silence pressed after them before another man spoke after them. It went clockwise. He cleared his throat. He was Mr Byrne, from earlier. "Tomas Byrne. No Ego. I was in my room. Asleep. Wanted some more rest before I thought of checking out."
And then there was a woman who was in the lobby when the two boys first arrived. She had light platinum hair and bright turquoise eyes. "Atalanta de Clair. Yes, I have an Ego." She chuckled a little as she saw the reaction of the larger man across from her shift in discomfort.
"As for my whereabouts, I was in my suite, taking a bath." Her laugh was bright, but her eyes missed nothing.
Another girl's voice came next, slow and drawn out, every word drawn out like a cat in the sunlight. "Willow McCarthy. I also have an Ego." Her smirk deepened. "I was in the bar earlier, then I moved upstairs to my room on the third floor."
And now the larger man who made the face of discomfort was out to speak. "Gareth Whitlock. Retired Warrant Officer. No Ego." He let his badge gleam briefly in the lamplight, his voice carried authority. "I was in my room cataloguing my supplies. Order is what I am used to."
Sera's eyes shifted finally toward the boys. Ruben opened his mouth to speak, to lie but Sera cut him off with a lift of her hand. She had something else in mind.
But before she could explain, Willow leaned forward, her smile sly. "Why don't we guess what comes next?"
"No." Gareth barked out of nowhere. His voice was like gravel. He jabbed a finger toward Ruben and Corbin. "Why don't we hear from the boys?"
"They arrived far after the incident took place." Sera said coolly.
Her choice of words snapped the room taut. "What incident?" Several voices echoed similar questions, and unease tightened the air.
Sera let it hang only a moment before she delivered the truth. "There has been a murder in room three-oh-two. I am gathering statements because the murderer may be here among us."
The room erupted in a low murmur. Shock and disbelief.
Gareth's voice sliced through the noise. "If it happened hours ago, why would the killer still be here?"
Sera's tone sharpened to match. "Because the man who died was not just anyone. His name was Cormac Ó Briain, Chief of Justice of Eirath's Supreme bench. His body was revealed scarcely ten minutes ago. Which means the killer may still be here."
Groans rippled across the lounge. The Holloways exchanged a troubled glance, Tomas nearly shrank into his chair. Camille's voice quavered. "Then… What about outside aid?"
"There are people on their way. Paladin as well as police." Ruben and Corbin gave each other a little look at that, knowing they would have to find a way out before then or at least hope that it is just Lea and Kade.
"But Brumália's outskirts don't usually see trouble. Reinforcements will be delayed because of the heavy rain and mudslide."
Gareth rose half out of his chair, his jaw was clenched. "Then that is all the more reason for everyone to state their names and exactly what their Egos are. Someone with abnormal abilities would find it easier. That much is obvious." His words dripped with disdain.
"You are not in charge here." Sera shot back. "And don't forget, the killer may not have an Ego at all."
Gareth's eyes flashed. "Then at least let me see the body. I demand to assist in this investigation."
"You're in no position to demand anything." Sera countered, voice cold as rain.
Willow's laugh broke the tension, lilting and cruel. "You're not in the army anymore, old guy. Sit still like a good civilian."
For a moment Gareth looked ready to bark again, but then his shoulders slumped with a frustrated sigh. "I only wanted to help," he muttered. "I've managed crises before."
"And I appreciate that," Sera replied coolly. "But here, I am the authority. I want you safe. All of you safe."
It was Atalanta who tilted her head then, turquoise eyes gleaming with mischief. "But Ms. Detective," she said sweetly, "aren't you also a guest? Shouldn't we know of your whereabouts… and your Ego?"
The room shifted, eyes turning. For the first time, Sera hesitated. Then she nodded once, curt and composed, and revealed both. She was in her room at the time.
And her Ego. Schism 1999, to Ruben it was such an interesting power. It was far too great a power for her position.
Tomas spoke what others felt. "I'm sorry, but… that makes it difficult. Talking freely, I mean. Knowing you're…" He faltered.
"I understand." Sera said calmly. "But I assure you, I've not used my Ego since we met. And as a member of the BPA, I am obliged to answer truthfully if asked."
Ruben leaned back slightly, the thought settling heavy.
At last, Sera turned to Marta Smith. "Are there cameras?"
"Yes." Marta replied firmly.
"Then I want access to the footage. Where should I go?"
Marta shifted uncomfortably. "I can bring the computer here. I hardly know how to use it anyway."
"Perfect," Sera said. "That will be most useful."
As Marta slipped away, the room seemed to breathe again, restless but subdued.
Atalanta, amused, drifted toward the boys like a butterfly seeking fire. She leaned on Ruben's armrest, a smile sharpened by curiosity. "And who might you three be?"
"Ruben Rayo," Ruben answered flatly.
"Corbin Monet." Corbin followed.
Her eyes sparkled as they turned to Fionn. "And you?"
Fionn's lips pressed together, his small shoulders tight under the weight of so many stares. Before he could stutter a word, Corbin's voice cut smooth and sharp. "Fionn."
The name lingered and Atalanta put her hand forward to shake the kid's hand and he reached for it to do so.
Gareth stared and narrowed his eyes. He stared at the child, and then he gained a look of recognition.
"Fionn Ó Briain," he said slowly. "The son of Cormac Ó Briain. The man who just died?"