The sunlight was gentle, almost lazy, spilling through the narrow window of the small wooden house. It drew long, pale lines across the floorboards, warming dust motes that drifted in the air.
A young 19 years old boy lay sprawled on the floor. Naked. Unmoving. His black mid length hair clung damply to his forehead, and sweat traced thin paths down his temple, gathering at his jaw before falling soundlessly to the wood.
His eyelids fluttered.
A sudden gasp tore through the quiet. He sat up abruptly, chest heaving, eyes wide with confusion and a sharp, unnamable fear glimmering in their dark depths. For a moment he stayed there, breathing shallowly, gaze darting around the room as if expecting… something.
The place felt familiar, yet wrong.
His throat tightened. Unwanted tears welled up and blurred his vision. He rose to his feet, shaky, every movement deliberate, and turned toward the mirror propped in the corner.
The figure reflected back was entirely bare. Vulnerable.
He stared. His brows twitched downward, his jaw clenched. His fingertips trembled before he raised them to his cheeks, brushing away the tears that kept breaking free.
Step by step, he approached the mirror. When he stood before it, his breathing slowed. A cold unease crawled along his spine. Slowly, he extended one hand until a single fingertip met the glass, pressing there as though it could answer him.
"What the fuck is going on?" His voice was hoarse, quieter than he intended.
A sudden crash shattered the moment.
He spun toward the sound. A black cat had leapt onto the table, knocking over a glass. It slipped and hit the floor with a sharp yowl, then darted into the shadows. The broken glass glittered faintly in the sunlight.
But it wasn't the glass that held his attention.
There were two envelopes on the table. Thick paper, slightly yellowed at the edges. One was unmarked. The other bore a single word, written in bold, uppercase letters: ROYAL
He stepped closer, each pace measured, as though he feared the envelopes might vanish if he moved too quickly.
He reached for the marked one. The wax seal broke with a muted crack, and he drew out the folded letter within.
The handwriting was neat, almost cold in its precision.
For Detective Araki — King Harald invites you to discuss certain cases. Arrive at the palace by 1 P.M.
He read it twice, his expression caught between disbelief and a strange, uneasy resignation. Slowly, he set the letter back on the table.
The second envelope rested on the table like an unanswered question, its corners slightly bent as though it had waited too long to be opened. Akira's gaze lingered on it for a moment before he reached out, his fingertips brushing against the coarse paper.
CRACKK!!!
He tore the seal open with a soft crake, sliding the folded letter free. This one carried no crest, no elaborate flourish, only a short line written in hurried strokes: Meet me at Retro Bar at 10 P.M.
He read it twice, the words somehow growing heavier each time, as though meaning hid between the letters. Slowly, he lowered the paper back onto the table, exhaling through his nose.
"Why the fuck is everything so confusing… and who could it be?"
A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes. He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, fingers threading into his hair.
"Aughh… I've got to go." His voice was a quiet growl, as if saying it aloud might make sense of the day.
---
The wooden door groaned faintly on its hinges as Araki stepped outside. The morning air met him with a gentle chill, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and blooming flowers. The yard beyond his threshold stretched in a broad rectangle, hemmed in by a low concrete wall the color of old ash.
On the right, his small garden swayed lightly under the touch of the breeze, thin stalks crowned with red, yellow, and white blossoms, their petals trembling. On the left, a wooden chair sat under the shadow of the wall, one leg slightly shorter than the rest, making it rock with the smallest push.
The sun had climbed high enough to paint his shirt in pale gold. Today he wore a crisp white shirt tucked neatly into black trousers, the fabric still faintly smelling of soap.
He pulled the door shut behind him with a muted click and cast one last glance at the quiet interior of his home.
"The day is so strange I could write a whole book on it."
He started toward the gate, his footsteps crunching lightly on the stone path. The shadows of the garden leaves wavered across his shoes. Just as he stepped beyond the low wall,
THAPP!!!
A sudden weight slammed into his shoulder.
The force jolted him backward a step. The other figure, slighter, quicker, stumbled as well but caught herself. Without even looking back, she darted forward again, her pace wild and uneven.
She was a girl, though her face was mostly hidden beneath a strip of black cloth tied over her mouth and nose. Even in that fleeting moment, Akira saw her eyes. Wide, glassy, and trembling. Her body moved with the desperation of prey still hearing the predator's footsteps.
Araki didn't follow. He simply stood at the edge of the gate, watching her vanish down the street, her steps fading into the distance.
"Why was she in such a rush? She looked scared… like someone was chasing her."
He turned his head toward the narrow alley from which she had come. The street there ended abruptly in a bare stone wall, cold and featureless. No sound, no movement. Just emptiness.
"That girl looked… familiar." His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth
TSK!
"I guess I'm thinking too much."
Araki stepped out through the narrow wooden gate, the chill of the morning air brushing across his face. The path leading toward the palace wound through cobbled streets, damp from last night's drizzle, each stone glistening faintly under the mid-morning sun.
Yet, as he passed the corner where the alley met the open street, his pace slowed. At the far end of that shadow-choked dead-end, a place even sunlight seemed unwilling to touch, stood a man.
He leaned casually against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, the curve of his shoulders relaxed in a way that only deep familiarity with danger could produce. The dimness concealed his features entirely, his face was swallowed in shadow as if night itself had gathered around him. His hands remained buried in his coat pockets, and an unlit cigarette rested loosely between his lips.
Without warning, a faint hiss broke the stillness. The cigarette's tip bloomed into orange ember, lit without match, spark, or flint. A soft curl of smoke spiraled upward. The man did not move, nor did he acknowledge Araki.
A prickling sensation ran down Araki's spine. His gaze lingered a moment too long before he forced himself to turn away. The palace awaited.
---
The streets widened the closer he drew to the kingdom's beating heart. Soon, he arrived at the main crossroads of Thalvarin, a bustling convergence where four roads intersected in the shape of a great "X." Here, commerce thrived: traders hawked ripe fruit, bolts of cloth, and glimmering trinkets from stalls pressed close together like tightly-packed teeth.
In the center of the crossroads rose a stone pillar plastered with notices, proclamations, and newspapers hanging from twine. A small crowd jostled around it, murmuring in excitement.
From atop a short crate stood the town crier, his voice a brass bell cutting through the din.
"Hear me, hear me! Big news stirs the ground, marvels the likes of which you've never seen! Don't remain blind to change. Purchase a paper and watch the future unfold before your eyes!"
The cadence of his cry caught Araki's attention.
"New invention?" Words of thought rolled in his mind.
Weaving through the throng, Araki fished eight copper thorns from his pocket and handed them over.
"Thankyou, sir."The crier said with a tip of his cap, already turning to bellow again.
Araki stepped out of the crush of bodies into an open patch of cobblestones. Unfolding the paper, his eyes fell first upon a precise ink sketch of a firearm, sleek, compact, its barrel short yet menacing. The accompanying article praised it as a "hand cannon," lighter than the traditional musket, capable of swift fire yet devoid of large blasts.
He ran a finger along the sketch, his brows knitting.
"A gun, huh? A light cannon you can hold in one hand… seems it's getting mainstream far too quickly."
Turning the page, his gaze snagged on a bolder headline:
Many young women have been kidnapped in recent weeks. Our noble forces are doing everything in their power to locate the culprits. Any citizen with information is urged to report to the nobles. A reward of twenty gold solmarks will be given for proof leading to their capture.
"Twenty gold solmarks. The sum was enough to feed a small family for years". Thoughts rolled in araki's mind
Araki's pulse quickened.
"Why are the nobles so desperate? Was the girl who ran into me one of them? There's something behind th—"
Then. Suddenly. A sharp stab bloomed behind his eyes.
The newspaper slipped from his grip, landing in a soft thwup against the damp stone. The noise was distant, muffled, as if he were hearing it from the bottom of a well.
Then the pain swelled.
It came in waves. Slow, deliberate, cruel. Each one crashing harder than the last. The air thickened, pressing against his skin, making every breath feel shallow. Araki's knees buckled, and he dropped to the cobblestones, the cold seeping through his trousers.
His hands clawed at his temples, fingers digging in as if he could pry the agony out by force.
"Ahhh… not… again…!" The words rasped from his throat, broken and hoarse.
The marketplace sounds faded further, replaced by a low, thrumming vibration that filled the inside of his skull. Shapes began to swim in his vision, shadows sliding over shadows. His heartbeat became a pounding drum in his ears, each thud spiking the pain sharper.
The shadows merged into a vast hall.
Dark pillars rose into an unseen ceiling. At the far end, shrouded in a halo of dim, otherworldly light, was a throne. Upon it sat a figure, posture regal, chin lifted ever so slightly. The face was half in shadow, half lit in a way that revealed just enough to send a shiver down Araki's spine.
His breath caught. The figure's eyes watched him with an expression that was not his. Cold. Knowing. As though it had been waiting for him to arrive.
The image tightened, sharpening until it was almost real, and the pressure in his head built to a scream. Araki squeezed his eyes shut, but the vision burned brighter against the darkness behind his eyelids.
THEN. SUDDENLY. It was gone.
The pain broke like a wave withdrawing from the shore, leaving him stranded, chest heaving. The sounds of the marketplace trickled back in: hawkers calling, wheels clattering, the faint caw of a distant crow.
He stayed kneeling for a few moments longer, trembling faintly before forcing himself upright. His vision wavered, but he steadied it with a long breath.
"This headache.... will kill me someday…" His voice was low, bitter. "Why the fuck does it happen? Ever since I was sixteen, it just—"He stopped, swallowing against the lingering taste of copper in his mouth. "…it just won't stop. It's been three years."
Araki exhales deeply and inhales slowly and slowly starts walking.
----