An ancient painting, bound by a thousand years of love and resentment—
where the living and the dead cross paths once more.
Case records: PA1-01 to PA1-10
Date: 2025-11-25(ISO)
---
— Behind the Red Veil —
The moment I stepped into the bar, my breath caught for no clear reason.
I paused at the doorway.
"The energy here is... off," I said quietly.
Selene gave me a sidelong look.
"This is my cousin's place—the Boundary Bar. He wanted to welcome us back from Kailash."
The name lingered.
Boundary.
Jasper stood behind the counter, polishing a glass that already looked clean.
He smiled when he noticed us.
"Welcome, Mr. Arcturus," he said.
"Music, drinks, and dreams. At The Boundary, even stiff souls loosen up."
I nodded, unsure what to say.
Everything inside appeared normal.
Music played softly. Laughter drifted between tables. Glasses clinked.
Several people glanced toward us at the same time.
Long enough to register.
Then they returned to what they were doing.
The moment we stepped into his office, the air changed.
It felt heavier, denser, as though the room had been sealed more carefully than the rest of the building.
The door closed behind us.
I became aware of a faint disturbance along my forearms,
more like pressure than contact.
Then I saw it.
The painting.
It occupied the far wall alone, centered, as though the room had been arranged around it rather than the other way around.
A woman in red, dancing alone in half-shadow.
The fabric of her dress flowed in mid-motion, frozen between steps.
A sheer veil covered the lower half of her face, translucent but impenetrable.
Only her eyes were visible—bright, unreadable, and unsettlingly aware.
Her fingers hovered lightly, curved as if about to trace an unseen pattern in the air.
Her posture was poised—restrained, deliberate—
the stillness of someone who had learned patience over centuries.
Around her stood men from different eras:
a knight in chainmail,
a Renaissance scholar,
a Victorian gentleman,
an East Asian scholar in flowing robes,
an Ottoman courtier,
a sunburned gunslinger from the American frontier.
Their clothing, their ages, even their stances did not match.
They did not look at each other.
Every one of them was staring at her.
Not admiration.
Not fear.
Something heavier.
Something desperate.
The pressure in the room deepened, settling against my lungs.
My chest tightened again.
What brushed against me this time was not curiosity.
It was a pull—subtle, persistent—
as though the space between myself and the canvas was being quietly negotiated without my consent.
"You like it?" Jasper's voice yanked me back.
I exhaled slowly. My pulse still felt trapped inside the painting, echoing against my ribs.
"Where did you get this?" I asked, forcing my breathing to slow.
"A friend gave it to me," he shrugged.
"No idea who painted it. If you want it, take it."
No title.
No signature.
No date.
Too clean.
I stepped closer.
The air grew colder by a fraction—just enough to notice.
For a brief moment, something shifted beneath the veil—
a flicker, like a reflection catching light at the wrong angle.
An eye.
A curve of the lips.
Intent.
My breath caught in my throat.
Then the door swung open.
---
— Omen —
Selene stepped into the room.
I noticed it before she spoke.
The color had drained from her face, as if the warmth of the bar had never reached her. Her shoulders were held tight, not from cold, but from restraint—like she was trying not to react too quickly.
She didn't look at me at first. Her eyes went straight to Jasper.
"Did you put a camera in the dressing room?" she asked.
Jasper straightened so fast his chair scraped softly against the floor.
"What? No. Why would I do that?"
"When I was changing," Selene said, after a brief pause, "I felt someone watching me."
Her voice wasn't raised. That made it worse.
I turned toward her. "Are you sure it was—a person?"
She hesitated, searching for the right words. The silence stretched, thin and uneasy.
"No," she said finally. "It wasn't that. I felt it the moment I walked into the bar."
Jasper let out a short breath, half a laugh that didn't quite land. Before he could say anything else, his phone vibrated on the desk.
He glanced down—too quickly—and then back up.
"My girlfriend's here," he said. "She's outside."
Selene's posture stiffened.
"Another one?" she said dryly. "Congratulations."
"Stop," Jasper muttered. "You've met her. Bella."
The name landed wrong.
Selene looked at him slowly.
"...Who did you say?"
"Bella," he repeated. "From high school. You remember—"
"Jasper." Her voice cracked on his name. "Bella died. A year ago."
The room went quiet in a way that felt deliberate.
"I went with her mother to the morgue," Selene continued, more softly now. "I saw her body."
Jasper didn't respond. He was staring at his phone.
Bella · Calling...
"She was at my place yesterday," he said at last, his voice hoarse. "We talked. We... I mean, she was real. I didn't imagine that."
I stepped closer and rested a hand on his shoulder.
"Answer it," I said. "Let her come in."
He swallowed. "And if it really is her?"
I didn't answer him.
My fingers had already tightened around the small pouch at my side. Inside it, the artifacts stirred—not sharply, not with alarm, but with a quiet, almost patient resonance, as if something long expected had finally moved within reach.
"The living are living," I said.
"The dead are dead."
I met his eyes.
"We'll know which this is when she walks through that door."
Jasper lifted the phone, hesitated for half a second, then answered.
"...Come in."
Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside—slow, measured, too even to belong to someone in a hurry.
The lights dimmed slightly. Not enough to be darkness. Just enough to feel wrong.
From the corner of my vision, the painting shifted.
Something beneath the veil stirred.
My heartbeat quickened before my thoughts could catch up.
I didn't know what was about to step through the door.
Only that the distance between here and there had begun to close—
as if the world itself had paused,
and leaned in,
to see what would happen next.