CHAPTER 2: -
[THE NIGHT OF THE INCIDENT…]
A couple of hours before the death of Dr. Richard Hemsworth, a group of friends stepped out into the night to run an errand for their foster home mother.
It was a small task—nothing out of the ordinary—but this time, the errand required them to pass through a particular alleyway.
An alley notorious for crime.
An alley that would soon become the site of a murder.
As they strolled cheerfully along the pedestrian walkway, they were—as usual—far louder than necessary. Their excitement was understandable; being trusted to run an errand on their own, without adult supervision, felt like a rare privilege.
Laughter echoed through the quiet street.
Then—
Gunshots.
The sharp cracks tore through the night, coming from the direction of the alley.
The group froze.
Curiosity quickly replaced caution.
Against better judgment, they decided to investigate—at least from a distance.
Approaching the mouth of the alley, they stopped and waited, scanning the darkness. The errand still required them to use this route, but none of them was foolish enough to rush in immediately.
After a tense moment, the gunfire ceased.
The silence that followed felt heavier than the noise.
Straining their eyes, they noticed a figure lying motionless further down the alley.
"A body…?" someone whispered.
When no further sounds followed, they cautiously moved forward.
As they drew closer, it became clear the figure was a man—and he was still breathing.
An elderly man.
Blood pooled beneath him as he lay on his back, gasping weakly for air. Panic swept through the group as they rushed to his side, helplessly watching life drain from him. The severity of his wounds made it painfully obvious: there was no saving him.
Then, faint but unmistakable—
Sirens.
One of them rushed back toward the street to confirm.
"It's the police!" he said urgently.
The group scrambled, torn between fear and hesitation—until the old man suddenly stirred.
With trembling hands, he reached into his coat and pulled out a large envelope.
"P-please…" he rasped.
"Take this… it's my life's work."
He pressed the parcel toward them.
"I entrust its secrets to you."
His breathing grew erratic.
"None of this may make sense now… but when you finally understand it…"
"…that will mark the close of the final chapter."
His eyes glazed as he forced out his final thoughts.
"In the grand scheme of things, we are all puppets… dancing to the tune of a puppet master. We all have a role to play… and my death has initiated the first chapter."
Fear tightened their chests.
"Whatever you do," he whispered,
"don't let them have this parcel… they will come for it."
"Who are they?" one of them asked desperately.
"Why do they want it?"
The old man struggled to speak.
"It's… it's… the Order…"
His lips quivered as consciousness slipped away.
"The… th… fou—"
His body went limp.
He was dead.
The sirens were close now.
Shaken and confused, the group didn't stop to analyze his words. In the chaos of the moment, they convinced themselves he had merely been rambling—final words spoken under the weight of death.
They took the envelope.
Just seconds before the police arrived, they slipped out of the alley and onto the pedestrian walkway, blending into the night as if nothing had happened.
It was too late to finish the errand.
Silently, they headed back to the foster home.
They agreed to keep everything about that night a secret—the alley, the dying man, and especially the parcel—until they could understand what it was and why someone had been killed over it.
The foster home wasn't far.
Before sneaking back inside, they buried the parcel several meters away from the building—a temporary measure to keep it hidden from prying eyes.
Later that night, they climbed in through a window, careful not to wake anyone.
Other children slept peacefully.
They settled into their bunk beds and closed their eyes, pretending the night had been ordinary.
But nothing was ordinary anymore.
Unknowingly, they had become part of something far greater—
And the first chapter had already begun.
[AT THE FOSTER HOME…]
A week had passed since the encounter at the alley.
The group of friends had managed to come up with an excuse—barely believable, mildly ridiculous, but convincing enough—to explain why the errand was never completed that night. It was a calculated move, meant to suppress suspicion from both their foster parents and the other children.
They acted as though nothing had happened.
They reported nothing.
They waited.
Not until they understood what they were dealing with—or rather, who—would they speak.
For a while, it worked.
Everyone at the foster home accepted their explanation without much resistance.
That was, until the news report aired.
The broadcast detailed the incident with chilling precision:
the time, the location, and the victim—Dr. Richard Hemsworth.
It also mentioned a stolen parcel, allegedly containing priceless ancient manuscripts. The suspects were still at large, and the public was urged to report any information directly to the police.
The room went silent.
Every adult at the foster home quickly connected the dots.
The date.
The alley.
The errand.
All of it aligned perfectly with where the boys were supposed to be that night.
[SHORTLY AFTER…]
The foster parent who had sent them on that errand was Ms. Evelyn Ronshire.
Known to the children as "the Iron Lady."
A striking blonde woman in her late twenties, she often dressed in modest, almost maiden-like attire. To most, she appeared kind, nurturing, and composed—a mother figure through and through.
But beneath the surface, she was strict, observant, and dangerously perceptive.
And she missed nothing.
After hearing the news report, she summoned the six boys immediately.
[ROLL CALL]
"Draco."
"Lupus."
"Norma."
"Orion."
"Cygnus."
"Corvus."
The response was instant.
"Yes, ma'am!"
The six lined up with military precision, their bodies reacting on instinct. The title Iron Lady wasn't given lightly. Despite her appearance, she was a monster in combat and weapons training—one who had personally trained each of them.
None of them had ever caught her off guard.
Not once.
Within the foster home, they were known simply as THE SIX.
All orphans.
All born on the same day.
All in their early twenties.
Bound not by blood, but by circumstance—and training.
They were treated differently from the other children.
More discipline.
More expectations.
More brutal training sessions.
Each had earned a name:
Draco — the leader, decisive and leads the pack. The Dragon
Lupus — wild, unrestrained, deadly with weapons and quite attractive. The Wolf
Norma — calm, calculating, intellectually superior. The Carpenter
Orion — agile, perceptive, an information gatherer, assassin type. The Hunter
Cygnus — graceful, lethal in hand-to-hand combat. The Northern Cross
Corvus — Corvus the silent, know as the aggressor, an expert marksman. The Crow
[MS. EVELYN'S PRIVATE OFFICE]
Ms. Evelyn sat behind her desk.
A cup of coffee rested before her, a small bowl of sugar cubes beside it. She stirred the coffee slowly, methodically, as though the motion itself demanded her full attention.
One sugar cube.
Then another.
Then another.
She took a sip.
Across the desk, THE SIX stood in a straight line.
Sweating.
Waiting.
The silence stretched until it became unbearable.
Finally—
"I heard a certain news report," Ms. Evelyn said calmly.
She didn't look up.
"N… news report?" Draco stammered.
"W-what news report?"
"I haven't heard anything… have you?"
He glanced at the others.
Each of them shook their heads in unison.
"No."
"Nothing."
"Not a thing."
"I see," she replied, still stirring her coffee.
"A man was killed in an alley," she continued.
"His name was Dr. Richard Hemsworth. A famous archaeologist."
She paused.
"Coincidentally, it happened on the very day—and at the very place—you were meant to go."
The spoon stopped stirring.
"So tell me, Draco… Lupus… Norma… Orion… Cygnus… Corvus…"
She finally looked up.
"Coincidence—or not?"
Her tone was neutral. Devoid of emotion.
But something else filled the room.
Pressure.
Bloodlust—controlled, restrained, coiled tightly beneath the surface. Her smile flickered between warm and unsettling, never quite settling on either.
"Big Sister Evelyn… if I may," Norma said.
"Yes, Norma. You may speak."
He cleared his throat.
"We decided to come clean," he said carefully.
"That night, we were on our way to complete the errand. But we heard gunshots coming from the alley ahead."
"We panicked," he continued.
"So we turned back. We thought it was the safest choice."
"We didn't see anyone. And we certainly didn't kill the old man."
He hesitated before adding—
"We didn't tell you because you've been busy lately. We didn't want to burden you with something… trivial."
She turned her gaze to the others.
"Is that true?"
"Yes, Big Sister Evelyn."
"That's exactly what happened."
"We were just being cautious."
"Honest."
She nodded slowly.
"I heard a parcel was stolen as well," she said.
Her eyes locked onto theirs—one by one.
"Any idea who took it?"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Her smile remained.
But the bloodlust leaked through the cracks.
And THE SIX knew—
One wrong word…
…and this conversation would turn into something else entirely.
The Six began to sweat profusely. For reasons none of them could explain, the office suddenly felt hotter than usual.
"A parcel?" Orion asked, feigning confusion as he tilted his head. "What kind of parcel was it?"
Ms. Evelyn seemed ready to respond, but before she could, Norma stepped forward.
"Forgive me, big sis," Norma said calmly, though his eyes never left hers. "But I can't help noticing that you're implying we stole a parcel—after we've already explained what happened. Please… why is that?"
He paused, then continued.
"And something else struck me as odd about the errand you sent us on. Everything about it was vague—except the location. That alley. Very specific."
The air in the room felt heavier.
"Normally, news like this wouldn't be a big deal," Norma went on. "But for some reason, you seem unusually invested in an incident that happened in that particular alley. The same alley you sent us to."
He spread his hands slightly.
"Maybe there's a connection. Or maybe there isn't. Who knows?"
For the first time, the room fell completely silent.
Ms. Evelyn took a moment before responding.
"So," she said slowly, "I'll take that to mean you have the parcel, then."
Shock rippled through the group, but none of them let it show. Each boy avoided betraying even the slightest reaction, clinging to the fragile lie they had built.
"No," Norma replied firmly. "No, we don't."
She studied them for several seconds.
"I see," she said at last. "Then I suppose I believe you. I apologize if I harbored any… doubts."
She smiled—beautiful, calm, and deeply unsettling.
"Breakfast is ready. You're all dismissed."
Relief washed over them instantly.
"Thanks, big sis." "You're the best." "Finally, breakfast." "Man, I've been starving."
They turned toward the door, ready to leave, when her voice stopped them cold.
"Oh—and one more thing."
Every one of them froze.
"Now that I think about it," Ms. Evelyn said lightly, "Dr. Richard Hemsworth was an old man, wasn't he?"
Her eyes flicked to Norma.
"I had assumed he was middle-aged. But you seemed quite certain—despite never having met him."
She smiled again, as if it were a joke.
Norma swallowed.
"That still doesn't prove anything," he said evenly. "Besides… it was just a lucky guess."
He closed the door behind them.