The guard's earlier appearance had unsettled him. Security in this kingdom was far stricter than he had anticipated. If more guards began to notice him, it would only invite unnecessary trouble.
Before things got any worse, he decided to leave the square to get away from the location. Midway through his walk, he sensed someone following him—footsteps echoing faintly behind him.
A chill ran down his spine, the hairs on his neck standing on end.. He quickened his pace without looking back even once. Yet, the longer he walked, the closer the sound of the footsteps became.
His hands trembled. His heartbeat grew faster as unease crept into his mind.
'Who is it? A guard—or a criminal?' Panic crept into his thoughts.
He forced himself to stop. Drawing a steady breath, he turned around to face whoever had been following him.
Empty.
There was no one behind him; all that was there were a trash bin and a streetlamp standing upright at the corner of the road. At the same time, the sound of footsteps he had heard earlier had also disappeared.
"Where did the sound of those footsteps go?"
He was confused; the earlier sound of footsteps had suddenly vanished when he turned around. He stepped back two paces, then observed to make sure once again, but still there was no sound at all.
"Could it have just been my imagination?"
A few seconds passed.
He let out a slow breath. After making sure no one appeared, he turned his body back around.
This time, someone was there, which surprised him.
A man stood there, wearing a long black coat, its hem fluttering slightly in the night wind. Under the coat, a neat dark vest was visible, paired with a dull white shirt and a simple tie—not luxurious, but clearly not ordinary clothing.
A dark fedora obscured part of his face, its shadow falling over his eyes and rendering his gaze unreadable.. Streetlamp light glinted faintly off the metal buttons of his coat, emphasizing his sturdy body silhouette.
The man stood calmly, as if he had been there from the very beginning.
"Calm down," he finally said, his voice low and flat.
"I am not a city security officer."
He slightly lifted his head, revealing a pair of sharp eyes that observed Hastora from head to toe.
"I am merely a detective," he continued,
"Could you spare some of your time?"
He stepped closer, his face now fully visible under the dim moonlight. Sharp cheekbones, a high-bridged nose, and a pair of blue eyes that showed no emotion at all—the gaze of someone accustomed to witnessing the downfall of others.
'𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦? 𝘋𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦? 𝘋𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘺?'
Hastora swallowed his saliva, panic and fear raging in his mind. He felt like running away, yet it seemed that would be in vain and would lead him to an undesirable situation.
Even the glimpse of a revolver tucked into the detective's pocket made escape feel impossible.
He truly had no other choice but to deal with the detective.
"O—Okay" he said nervously,
"I—I don't mind at all."
The detective stared at him coldly, then stood three paces in front of him.
"Hann Smith," he said.
"A detective—just as I mentioned earlier."
"And as I suspected, Nolan Ashford, you are safe and still alive to this day. You are not well-known, no one recognizes you. Perhaps that is why you have been able to move freely until now."
The detective's words left his mind blank for a moment.
Safe? Still alive to this day?
Hastora was silent, he truly knew nothing at all. No memories of escape, no hint of pursuit, no awareness that he had ever been someone who "should have died".
Yet the tone of voice of the man before him held not the slightest doubt.
As if everything that had just been said was an old fact.
His heartbeat strengthened again. Not because of direct threat, but because of a far more uncomfortable realization—that there was a story about him that had long been unfolding, without him ever knowing.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Any words felt wrong. Claiming not to know would only sound like a lie. Asking too many questions would only make him more suspicious.
So he was silent.
And behind that silence, a single thought slowly emerged, cold and disturbing.
If everything this man says is true…
Then who does this body actually belong to?
And—
Nolan Ashford? Could that really be the original owner's name?
"Please follow me now."
Hann's words brought Hastora back to his senses from his reverie at once.
"Follow you?" he asked confusedly,
"Where do you want to take me?"
Hann put both hands into his pockets, then narrowed both eyes, as if he had just seen something strange.
"You are one of the people on my list" he replied,
"There is something that must be investigated" he continued,
Hann pulled out a revolver from his pocket, then pointed it at Hastora's head.
"And of course you cannot refuse."
Hastora stood frozen, his muscles tensed, he could feel that he would truly die if he refused.
Hann did not intend to pull the trigger. The threat alone was enough.
Hastora nodded his head in response. Then, without further words, Hann gave a brief signal. Hastora was not handcuffed, yet someone was always two paces behind him.
The path they took led away from the city center—passing through narrow alleys, stone stairs rarely used, until a nameless old building.
There were no guards.
No institutional emblem.
There was not even a sign that the place was still in use.
Yet once the door was closed, the air inside felt different—quiet, heavy, and isolated from the outside world.
"This is not a prison," Hann's voice sounded flat.
He turned slightly.
"Think of it as… a waiting room."
Hann walked ahead first. Hastora followed behind, his steps kept at a distance not too close, yet close enough to make him aware—escaping was not an option.
The building was quiet. Too quiet.
A narrow corridor stretched inward, lit by wall-mounted oil lamps whose light was dim and uneven. The old stone walls absorbed the sound of their footsteps, as if this place had been designed not to leave any echo.
A thick wooden door was opened.
Behind it, a simple room stretched out. Not large, not small—just enough for one table, two chairs, and a low-hanging iron chandelier in the middle of the room. There were no windows. Only one door. And there were no decorations on the walls at all save for old cracks.
The air inside felt cold, though not damp.
Hann closed the door behind them. The sound was soft, yet final.
"Sit," he said shortly.
There was no threatening tone. That was precisely what made the order feel absolute.
Hastora hesitated for a moment. His eyes swept the room, looking for something—anything—that could give him a little control over this situation. Yet there was nothing. The chair across the table stood alone, its position right under the chandelier.
A spot that left no shadow to hide in.
He stepped forward and sat slowly. The chair wood was cold when it touched his back. When he moved slightly, a faint scraping sound could be heard—enough to remind him how quiet this room was.
Hann did not sit down immediately.
He stood across the table, opening his coat briefly just to check something inside his pocket, then closing it again. Only after that did he pull out the chair and sit calmly, his posture straight and symmetrical.
The lamp above them swayed slightly.
Hann lifted his gaze.
His stare was not sharp. Not pressing.
Yet it felt precisely like he was weighing—not a person, but an unclassified variable.
"Very well," he finally said, his voice flat, almost formal.
"We will start with something simple."
He interlaced his fingers on the table.
"You do not need to lie," he continued.
"And you also do not need to explain more than what is asked."
Hastora swallowed saliva.
In his chest, a strange feeling began to take shape—not merely fear, but the realization that since he sat in this chair, every word that came out of his mouth would have consequences.
Hann stared directly at him.
"Now," he said softly,
"Tell me… what is the last thing you remember before the incident that night."
The lamp swayed gently above their heads.
The interrogation had begun.