Chapter 3: Forgetfulness

The morning light poured weakly through the windows of John’s house, the rooms were quiet — too quiet. Noah stepped through the front door slowly, hesitating on the threshold. His boots made no sound on the worn wood. He carried something unspoken on his face — a stiffness in his jaw, a tension in his eyes. He felt it deep in his chest: guilt. It was unfamiliar and uncomfortable, sitting like a stone in his stomach.

This time, he didn’t come to argue.

He came to face what gnawed at him.

If I hadn't stopped the negotiation with Jennifer… would Elizabeth still be alive?

He had asked himself that question a hundred times last night. Now, in the quiet of John’s home, the weight of it was almost unbearable.

He stepped into the room where John sat, expecting resistance or grief-fueled rage. But John was still. Tired. Staring at nothing in particular.

Before Noah could speak, John’s voice broke the silence.

“It's not your fault,” he said hoarsely.

Noah froze.

John didn’t look at him. He simply continued, “If we’d negotiated, another child would’ve died. And I… I couldn't live with that. She already planned everything. You were right to stop it.”

Noah let out a breath — deep, trembling — and realized he had been holding it. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a little. He had no words, not really, so he simply said:

“Then let’s go, John. There are still people we can save.”

The streets of Varethorn were beginning to stir as the two men left the house. But instead of heading straight to the Bureau, Noah veered off to the side, his long coat catching in the wind as he turned.

“You’re going the wrong way,” John muttered.

Noah reached out and grabbed his arm gently. “ You haven’t eaten since yesterday,” he said.

“I’m not hungry.”

Noah didn’t listen.

Minutes later, they were seated on the top tier of a small, classic rooftop restaurant — one of Noah’s favorites, not for the food but for the silence above the city.

John only ordered a cup of tea.

Noah narrowed his eyes. “That’s not a meal.”

Without asking, he waved for the waiter and ordered a plate of warm bread, roasted vegetables, and eggs. When the food arrived, the scent filled the space between them.

John stirred his tea slowly, staring into the cup like it might offer answers.

Noah broke the silence. “There’s been a complaint. To Maplewood Rest Lodge — the nursing house,” he said, running a hand through his sleek black hair.

John didn’t respond. He simply sipped his tea.

Noah studied him. The grief was still there, carved into every line of his face. But behind it, John’s strength hadn’t faded — just dulled.

“John,” Noah said, gently but firmly, “are you sure you’re okay to work?”

John looked up. His eyes were hollow, but steady. “Yes. I’m sure.”

The Bureau buggy hummed quietly as it rolled through the narrow streets.

John finally spoke, voice low. “What kind of complaint?”

Noah leaned back in his seat. “Old man died. Report says heart disease. But when the family came, the staff refused to release the body. Said he was already buried.”

“That’s fast,” John muttered.

“Too fast,” Noah agreed. “The family insisted on cremation, but the lodge wouldn’t let them see the body. No ceremony. Just… buried.”The wind outside carried the smell of coming rain.

“Sounds strange,” he said quietly.

Noah glanced at him. “Exactly.”

They arrived. The shadow of yesterday still lingered — but now, it had purpose.

The iron gate of the Maplewood Rest Lodge creaked open slowly as John held out his Bureau identification card. “We’re here to speak with the owner,” he said calmly.

Two uniformed guards exchanged a glance — subtle, but noticeable. One gave a short nod and stepped aside, allowing them through.

Inside, the nursing home sprawled across a quiet compound with well-manicured lawns. Elderly residents sat under shaded canopies, some speaking softly to each other, others being assisted by nurses in pale blue scrubs. The scent of medicinal herbs and fresh grass hung in the air.

A woman approached them through the front garden path — tall, striking, with waves of deep red hair that fell over her shoulders. She smelled faintly of cherry wine, and her smile was warm, maybe too warm.

“Well, well... what a big day. Two investigators,” she said, her voice smooth. “What can I help you with?”

John didn’t return her smile. “We’ve received a complaint. The family of a recently deceased resident claims they were denied the body. They say you refused to release it.”

The woman gave a soft chuckle, like it was all a misunderstanding. “Oh, that matter,” she said lightly. “Come inside, I’ll explain everything.”

The hallways were eerily quiet. Too quiet. The walls were spotless, the floors gleaming, and the scent of disinfectant lingered just beneath a layer of lavender perfume.

As they walked, she gestured toward a stairwell. “We keep the residents' rooms upstairs. You’re welcome to inspect them if you’d like.”

“No need,” John said firmly, without slowing his pace.

Noah lingered behind for a moment, watching a gray-haired woman struggle to hold her teacup steady. A nurse helped her gently, whispering something into her ear. The woman smiled faintly. Noah’s brow furrowed — something about this place was too clean, too smooth.

The office was sunlit and tidy. A large oak desk sat in the center, spotless. Behind it, glass walls overlooked a garden of trimmed hedges and stone benches. Along the walls, plaques, endorsements, and framed photographs offered a portrait of credibility.

“Please,” the woman said with practiced elegance, “have a seat, gentlemen. I’m Monica — I manage the operations here.”

John remained standing.

Noah nearly sat but straightened again when he noticed John's choice.

“You’re the owner?” John asked.

Monica waved a hand casually. “No. Just the controller. The actual owner is overseas. But I oversee all matters while he’s away. Including this... concern.”

John’s expression didn’t change. “So. The dead body.”

Monica stepped lightly around the desk, her heels barely making a sound. “We had a contract,” she explained, plucking a folder from the desk and handing it to John. “Before residents are admitted, their families sign a full agreement. One clause — very clearly outlined — states that we handle end-of-life procedures, including burial, on-site. It’s part of our decades-old tradition here.”

Her voice was smooth as silk. She flashed a friendly smile toward Noah — too friendly. Noah blinked once, unsure how to respond. He wasn't used to women like Monica: quick-tongued, unnervingly confident.

John flipped through the paperwork, his eyes scanning the signatures and dates.

“Why do you do this?” he asked, tone clipped. “Why bury them here?”

Monica moved closer to the window, letting the light fall on her face as she spoke. “Because this is their final home. This facility has stood for over thirty years. We provide full care until the very end — and dignity in death. Families often don’t visit. Some don’t even know if their elders are alive. We take on the burden they abandon. This contract —” she tapped the paper — “protects us from being blamed when guilt brings families crawling back too late.”

The sun was beginning to dip behind the hills as they stepped outside again. The air was cooler, but tension lingered in every word.

John handed the folder to Noah. “Take this to the family. Explain the terms. Try to resolve it.”

“That’s it?” Noah asked, frowning. “The man died last night. We can order the body to be exhumed.”

John waved him off. “It’s not a big deal, Noah. And I’m not getting involved.”

Noah narrowed his eyes but said nothing. John lit a cigarette, took one slow drag, and stared up at the sky, its edges beginning to darken.

Something about this place didn’t sit right with Noah. Monica’s practiced charm, the sterile air, the too-perfect smiles.

He didn’t trust it.

Not one bit.

In the Bureau's west wing, morning shadows pooled beneath the window blinds. Noah sat silently in the bureau chief’s leather chair, one leg crossed, hands clasped over his lap. His gaze flickered between the dusty beams of light and the argument unraveling in front of him.

David, stood firm, his voice sharp and flat.
“Look, miss. You signed the contract. You agreed. There’s nothing we can do now.”

The girl standing before him was barely in her twenties, grief biting into the edges of her voice. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but fierce.
“My grandfather died yesterday,” she said. “I just want to see him. One last time.”

“No, lady. You can’t,” David replied, his tone rigid. “We’ve already taken care of the arrangements. Go home before I have someone escort you.”

The room tensed with silence. Noah’s fingers drummed the armrest,. The girl continued.“He didn’t have heart disease. They said he died of it. But that doesn’t make sense.” David scoffed. “People die every day with surprises in their bodies. There is nothing we can do”.

Noah leaned forward, voice sharp now. “David. I want every piece of information you can find on Maplewood Rest Lodge—ownership, staff, history. And a list of all deaths there for the past six months. Including causes.”
David blinked. “Your highness, I’ll need time—”
“Be quick.”
David paused. “Yes, Your highness.” He turned and left, his shoes echoing on the marble floor.

The nursing home stood quietly under the crescent moon, its old brick walls washed silver. The wrought-iron gate creaked as she slipped through, careful not to make a sound. Every window glowed with dim yellow light, but the halls inside were eerily silent.

She moved swiftly through the lobby, every footstep swallowed by the soft carpet. Her grandfather’s room was at the end of the east wing. She peeked around the corner—empty.

Click.

The door creaked open. Familiar smells wrapped around her—his shaving cream, the faded scent of books, the blanket he always folded just so.

Her throat tightened.

She moved toward the dresser and opened the drawer. Nothing unusual. But the wastebasket caught her eye—half-tucked beneath the bedframe.

Inside, nestled among tissues, was a small brown bottle. She pulled it out, turning it in the moonlight until the label came into view. Her eyes widened.

She shoved it into her coat pocket, heart racing.

She tried to close the door quietly, but the latch clicked—loudly. Too loud.

Footsteps echoed from down the hallway.

She ran.

The night air slapped her face as she burst out of the side exit. Her legs pumped, aiming for the Bureau. She reached the courtyard—

But the building was closed. Empty. The front gates locked.

She turned—but it was too late.

Two figures emerged from the shadows, fast and silent. One clamped a cloth over her mouth. Her scream never came. The second man pinned her arms, wrapping thick bands of cloth tight around her wrists.

She kicked—once, twice—but her strength waned.

They dragged her between alleyways, then into a long-abandoned storage building on the town’s edge, its roof caved and its walls leaning like dying trees.

Inside, the stench of mold and rust filled her lungs. Her body was dropped onto the cold concrete floor.

One man knelt, gripping her chin. The other unscrewed a cap from a bottle and poured the contents into a metal spoon, then into her mouth—forcing it between her teeth.

She gagged.

The taste burned. Her limbs thrashed once, then weakened. Her heartbeat stuttered. A ragged breath escaped her chest. The men left her there, crumpled like a discarded coat.

The moonlight flickered through broken boards, casting thin shadows across the floor as the girl’s eyes glazed over.

She would never speak again.

The Bureau buzzed with morning light, Noah sat at his desk, half-listening to the murmur of crowd, until a voice passed like smoke:
“Dead girl. Found near the old warehouse.”

Noah stood instantly, gaze narrowing. He scanned the office for David, but the man was gone, still chasing files on the nursing home.

So Noah went alone.

The girl lay crumpled against the cracked stone floor. Her mouth was slightly parted, and small, foamy bubbles clung to her lips. Her body had gone still hours ago.

Noah crouched beside her, heart tight. His thoughts flicked back—the girl from yesterday, the one who cried over her grandfather. He noted the half-spilled medicine vial near her hand. He picked it up, turned it in the light—Succinylcholine. A muscle relaxant. Lethal in high doses. Common in executions. Or cover-ups.

On instinct, he checked her coat pocket.

There it was—a second bottle, smaller, unmarked. Noah slipped it into his coat silently, rising as if gravity had grown heavier. He would need answers. And fast.

The Bureau records later confirmed her identity. No parents. Lived alone. Her grandfather was her only kin.

Knock.

John paused mid-step, frowning at the sound. Morning sunlight filtered in through the half-drawn curtains. He hadn’t expected visitors.

He opened the door.

Monica stood there, smiling softly beneath the shade of a velvet hat, red hair tucked behind one ear.
“May I come in?” she asked, her voice warm like honey.

John nodded, stepping aside.

She slipped in gracefully, unfastening her coat and folding it over one arm.
“I’m sure you’ve heard,” she began, her expression troubled. “That poor girl—the one who had the complaint about us? She… took her own life this morning.”

John's brow furrowed. “I heard.”

Monica sighed, biting her lower lip. “I’m afraid people might try to connect it to us… you know how things can spread.”

John gave a weary smile. “If you haven’t done anything wrong, Monica, then there’s nothing to fear.”

She stepped closer, her hand gently brushing her arm. “Still, I worry.”

The door swung open suddenly.Noah stormed in, coat fluttering behind him. His sharp gaze caught on the moment he didn’t expect: Monica standing close to John, the air thick with something more than concern.

John straightened at once. “What is it, Noah? You didn’t knock.”

Noah’s expression didn’t change. “I never knock. You know that.”

Monica gave a small, composed smile. “Time for me to go. I believe Junior has something important to say.”

She glided past Noah, the scent of cherry wine lingering behind her.

Noah waited until the door clicked shut.
He turned. “What was that?”
John shrugged. “just a small talk.”

Noah’s voice was colder now. “She is hiding something.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out the small bottle. “The girl who died, this was in her pocket. Potassium chloride. In large doses, it causes heart failure.”

John took the bottle, reading the label. His eyes darkened.

Noah continued, his voice low. “And that’s what they said her grandfather died from. But she told us—he didn’t have a heart condition.”

The silence cracked between them.

“You’re saying Monica killed the old man,” John said at last. “And the girl found out. So Monica killed her too.”

Noah nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

John stepped closer, placing a firm hand on Noah’s shoulder.
“Noah… listen. I know you want to build a name for yourself. You want this case to be bigger. But not every strange death is a crime. Sometimes things are just… what they seem.”

Noah stared at him for a long moment. Then he pulled away.

“Fine,” he said quietly, and walked out the door, leaving it ajar.

The corridor smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender oil. The night shift nurses walked through the halls with silent shoes.

In the private room behind the main hall, Monica peeled off her gloves slowly, fingers bare and pale beneath the silk.

“So,” said one of the male nurses, his voice low, “what about him?”

Monica smiled faintly. “John’s grieving. He’s still drowning in his daughter’s death. He won’t look too closely. As long as he’s mourning, he won’t ask the wrong questions.”

She walked to the window, watching the sun begin to rise over the misty compound.

“No,” she murmured. “He won’t suspect a thing.”

John stepped into the main room of Bureau, his coat still damp from the morning mist. His eyes looked heavier than usual—bloodshot, tired, unspoken things behind them.

David, standing near the records desk, perked up.

“Your Highness hasn’t come in today?” he asked, flipping through a stack of files. “Is something the matter?”

John barely glanced at him. “Upset.” His voice was flat, his answer dry and without detail.

David frowned, clearly not expecting that. “Upset? What—who? That’s… that’s not good for us. We’re supposed to prepare for the execution—”

John turned his eyes on him. A slow, deliberate stare. David caught the signal and stopped mid-sentence.

John shifted his attention to the papers David was holding.

“What’s that?” he asked, motioning toward them.

“Oh—uh, the records from the Maplewood Rest Lodge,” David replied, holding them up. “Noah asked me to gather them. Should I take them to his house?”

John reached out and pulled the file from his hands.

“If so,” he muttered, “you’d be the one getting executed.”

He didn’t explain what he meant. He just walked to the desk, sat heavily in the chair, and unfolded the pages.

For a while, he said nothing. His eyes traced line after line, his fingers tightening slightly at the corners of the documents. There were over a dozen death reports. Each one signed by a different doctor, but the diagnoses were the same.

Cause of Death: Heart Failure.

Again.
And again.
And again.

John exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him in a thin, pale stream. This wasn't coincidence. Not anymore.

Now he understood why Noah had been so relentless—why he’d stormed into his house, why he refused to let it go.

John stared at the final page, the one with the youngest girl’s name. A report that claimed suicide, but he could see it now. It wasn’t just about a single girl or a grieving grandson.

It was something bigger.

Something carefully hidden beneath paperwork, protocol, and polished smiles.

John leaned back in his chair. For a moment, the Bureau felt colder.

“I get it now, Noah,” he murmured under his breath.
“You were right to doubt.”

Night cloaked the Maplewood Rest Lodge in uneasy stillness. The quiet was thick—too perfect, too calm. A thin veil of fog wrapped around the fence as John passed through the gate, his footsteps muted by the gravel path.

Inside, Monica looked up from her desk as the door opened. Surprise flickered across her face, but she masked it quickly with a gentle smile.

“Detective John,” she said warmly, standing and smoothing the front of her red silk blouse. “What a late visit. Everything alright?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” John replied, his voice low, eyes unreadable. “Thought maybe a warm cup of tea might help.”

Monica gestured politely to the leather chair across from her. “Of course. I’ll brew some.”

As she busied herself at the corner kettle, the scent of chamomile and mint filled the air. John leaned back in the chair, letting his shoulders sag as if heavy with memories.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I’ve been thinking about Elizabeth. A lot, actually. Nights are the worst.”

Monica paused briefly but didn’t turn. “I’m sorry. No one should lose a child.”

But John wasn’t really here for tea or sympathy. He wasn’t here for comfort either. He was here as bait.

At the same time, David moved quietly through the rear corridor of the nursing home. He had slipped in through the service door with no sound, following John’s instruction. The air was colder in this wing, and the sterile scent of antiseptic mixed with something more organic—faint, metallic.

The funeral wing looked peaceful by day, almost beautiful. At night, it was something else. The white walls reflected the dim emergency lighting with a sickly sheen, casting long shadows down the narrow hall.

David’s boots tapped softly as he passed the empty viewing rooms. Then—he stopped. A door was ajar, cracked open just wide enough for a whisper of sound to leak through.

Voices.

He leaned forward and peeked inside.

“What do you think about Monica and that detective?” one man asked.

“You think they’re... dating?” the other scoffed.
“I heard she was dating the actual owner.”

David exhaled slowly. He was just about to retreat when something in the room caught his eye.

Movement.

He shifted to get a better view and felt the blood drain from his face.

A body.

An elderly man—naked from the chest up—lay lifeless on a cold table. His ribcage had been opened wide, expertly. On a tray nearby, organs were neatly arranged, glistening under a surgical lamp. It wasn’t an autopsy. It was something else.

Something monstrous.

David stumbled backward, foot striking a loose trolley wheel. It rolled with a metallic squeak.

The voices stopped.

A beat of silence.

“Did you hear that?”

David turned and ran. Fast. Boots slamming against the linoleum, lungs pumping hard.

He bolted through the hallway toward the funeral parlor, heart hammering.

Almost there—

But pain exploded in the back of his skull.

A shadowed figure stood behind him, hammer in hand, breathing heavy. David collapsed onto the floor like a marionette with its strings cut.

They dragged him back into the room.

His blood trailed behind them in short streaks.

One of the men stood over him. “He saw everything.”

“But Monica said they’re not suspicious. That we’re safe.”

The first man grabbed a scalpel from the tray, his jaw set hard. “If we let him live, we won’t be safe for long.”

A pause.

Then:

“Finish him.”

The light flickered above. Outside, the fog pressed against the windows, hiding everything from view.

The clock on the wall struck midnight.

John leaned back in the chair, arms crossed. David was supposed to return hours ago.

They had made a clear plan: David would inspect the cemetery, gather evidence. And he would come to the nursing office and tell John to return to the Bureau.John would stay at the nursing home office, holding Monica in casual conversation as a diversion.

But David did not come back yet.

Something was wrong. John could feel it in his chest—a slow, burning twist of instinct he had learned to trust over his long years as a detective.

He rose from the chair, reaching for his coat. “I’m going,” he muttered.

The office door burst open.

Two men stood in the doorway. One had a blood-soaked glove still clinging to his hand like skin. The other gripped a hammer, its metal head slick with something darker than sweat.

The room fell into silence.

Monica’s teacup slipped from her fingers, shattering on the floor. She took a step back, her voice cracking.
“Did… did you see wild animals?” she whispered.
Then she turned her wide eyes on John. “There are too many wild animals”

John didn’t blink. “Where is David?” he asked, his voice sharp, cold.

“Who?” Monica said softly, trying to pretend. Too softly.

But one of the men cracked under the pressure. “They know everything! Run!”

The men lunged forward.

John braced himself just in time. One fist caught his shoulder, the other man swung the hammer down—hard. It struck his left wrist with a bone-rattling crack. Pain tore through him, but he didn’t stop.

He blocked the next strike with his elbow, gritting his teeth. Blood trickled down his arm.

They fought like mad dogs, desperate and untrained. But John fought like a man with nothing left to lose.In the blur of violence, John twisted the hammer from one man’s hand and drove it into the other's chest. The second tried to escape, but John grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the bookshelf. The man collapsed, breathless and broken.

The room was a mess of overturned furniture, broken glass, and crimson trails.

John exhaled, ragged.

Then came the sound of soft footsteps—dozens of them. The old residents had descended the staircase, peeking around corners with eyes wide and trembling.

John stepped out of the office, hand braced on the doorframe.

“Don’t worry,” he said gently, voice firm despite the pain. “You’re all safe. Please, go back to your rooms. Officials will be here soon. Everything’s under control.”

The old men and women stared, frightened. Slowly, hesitantly, they obeyed.

John ran.Down the corridor. Past the framed photos and painted vases. He knew where she’d go.He burst into the rear hall, catching the edge of a long, fluttering coat as Monica fled toward the cemetery.“Monica!” he called.
“You can’t run your whole life!”She turned, breathless, eyes brimming with tears. Her mascara had streaked, dark rivers carved into her pale face.“You don’t understand, John,” she whispered.“You don’t know”. “Then tell me!” he urged, stepping closer. “Tell me everything. Let me help you.”But Monica just shook her head, a sad smile twisting on her lips. She reached into her pocket, hands trembling.“It’s too late,” she whispered.Before he could move, she plunged a syringe into the side of her neck.“No!” John shouted, rushing forward.Too late.Her knees gave out beneath her. She collapsed on the cold stone tiles, her breath already slowing.John knelt beside her, holding her hand.Her eyes locked on his for a moment.Then, she was still.

The morning air was heavy, scented with damp earth and uneasy silence.Shovels scraped against soil in rhythm as Bureau officers unearthed the graves behind Maplewood Rest Lodge. One by one, coffins were opened. What they found chilled even the most experienced among them.

Every body bore the same signs.

Surgical stitching down the chest. Empty cavities where hearts, livers, and lungs should have been. Shells of the people they once were—hollowed out and buried beneath lies.

At David’s funeral later that afternoon, the sky hung low and gray.John stood beside the casket, unmoving, hands folded in front of him. Noah stood beside him, arms crossed.“David always pretended to be indifferent,” Noah said quietly, “but he was a good investigator. Loyal, even if he was a bit two-faced.”

John didn’t respond. His face was carved in stone.

“Why didn’t you come to get me?” Noah asked.

John exhaled through his nose. “I rushed in.”

Noah ran a hand through his sleek black hair, eyes narrowing.
“Or maybe... you didn’t want to admit I was right.”

John turned to him, voice low.
“You really want to argue at a funeral?”

Noah tilted his head. “Did you sleep with her?”

John’s eyes widened.
“Jesus, Noah.”He turned and walked away, boots crunching against gravel.

Back at the Bureau, Noah stood at John’s side again, his voice more restrained this time.

“So... what do you think they did with the internal organs?”

John didn't look up.
“Illegally sold. Black market, probably.”

“Sold where?”

“We’re still investigating.” A pause.The room fell into silence.

John finally broke it.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve trusted you. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

Noah looked down, jaw working.

“People always think I’m selfish, greedy, just looking out for myself.” He looked up. “But I see things. I know David liked black tea—he’d drink a cup before he started work, every day. I know the clerk woman changes her hairstyle constantly—never repeats it twice in a week.”

He gave a short breath, like letting go of something tight.

“And you, John... I know why you didn’t call me last night. You were worried. That’s why you went alone.”John was quiet, listening.

“I don’t like greedy eyes. Or people who pry into everything just to twist it for power. That’s why I live like I don’t care. But with you... I can be honest. Because you’re not like them.”

Before John could reply, a young officer stepped in.
“Sir, the owner of the nursing house has arrived.”

John closed the folder in front of him and stood.
“Okay. I’ll meet him.”

The man who entered was tall, silver-haired, dressed in a clean-cut dark suit. He looked to be in his fifties, though his movements were sharp and energetic. His presence was calm, practiced—like a man who’d spent decades navigating polished halls of business.

“Henry,” he said, extending his hand. “Owner of Maplewood Rest Lodge.”

John shook it. “John, investigator.”

They both sat.

“You knew nothing of what was happening at your facility?” John asked.

Henry sighed and leaned back. “I’ve been living in Velmora these past few years. Maplewood was passed to me through family—it’s more an heirloom than anything. I gave Monica full control. She was efficient. Smart. I trusted her.” He hesitated. “I still don’t understand why she would betray that trust.”

John nodded slowly. “What do you plan to do now?”

“I can’t keep those poor old people there. They’re scared. So tonight, I’m transferring all of them to a secure facility in Velmora.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes,” Henry said firmly. “There’s work waiting in Velmora. I don’t have time to waste.”

John nodded once. “Let me know if you need any help.”

“Thank you,” Henry said, and stood.

Back at the nursing house, under the setting sun, the courtyard was full of movement. Nurses and orderlies packed bags, helped fragile elders into horse-drawn buggies and wagons. The atmosphere was stiff—like a family escaping something unspoken.

Henry stood among them, offering polite smiles and gentle encouragements.

“Don’t worry, everyone. You’re in good hands. A safer place is waiting for you.”

Many of the old residents looked too tired to argue. A few clutched rosaries, or whispered prayers.

Henry stepped aside and looked back at the building. His eyes lingered on the windows of the east wing.

He exhaled—long and deep.

Then he turned and walked, slowly, toward the cemetery. His shoes echoed against the tiled hall.

He stopped at the doorway, now dark and silent. He looked around the cold room—no bodies, no light, only silence.

Then, he whispered under his breath, almost to himself.

“Not helpful at all.”

And stepped inside.

The Bureau was beginning to quiet down. Papers were stacked, jackets grabbed, and the oil lamps dimmed. Everyone was ready to call it a day.

Then the front doors slammed open.

A boy, breathless and pale with urgency, stumbled in.

“We found it!” he blurted. “Where they sold the organs—where the missing body parts went”

John straightened instantly.
“Where?”

The boy shoved a paper into his hand.
“Velmora,” he said. “A zoo. Not a regular one—it only keeps predators. They fed the parts to lions, tigers… They made money off each body—big money.”

Noah, standing off to the side, arched a brow with a dry voice.
“Velmora. That’s Henry’s town, isn’t it?”

The room stilled.

John and Noah turned and locked eyes.

“Look at the town now,” Noah muttered.

John didn’t hesitate.
“Everyone—ready the horses.We’re going after Henry. Now.”

Chairs scraped. Boots thundered. Swords clanged against belts and scabbards.

Noah reached for his usual weapon—his sword—but paused.

His hand hovered for a second, uncertain.

Then he pulled away and chose a bow and quiver instead. Something quieter. Something that could speak from a distance.

Outside, lanterns were being lit along the main road. Soldiers and riders mounted up. The town gate was unbarred, but only temporarily—until the chase began.

“He may not have taken the main road,” Noah said, adjusting his grip on the reins.

“I know,” John replied. “We’ll have to split up. Cover every path to Velmora. Don’t let him vanish.”

The group splintered into squads, spreading through alleys and trails, fanning out toward the forest paths and hidden tracks only smugglers or bounty hunters would know.

In a dusky upper floor of an abandoned house, Goth stood in silence.

Behind him, a woman lay crumpled on the floor, a knife buried deep into her chest—still fresh, her blood soaking into the floorboards. Her eyes, wide open, stared at nothing.

Goth wiped his blade clean with a torn scrap of curtain.

Then he heard it.

Noise. Voices. The thundering of hooves.

He stepped forward and peered through a cracked window.

Below, chaos had bloomed in the quiet town square.

Civic guards. Horses. Officers. Blades and bows.

And the gates—closed.

Goth narrowed his eyes. He recognized the movement of men preparing for war. But this war wasn’t his.

Still, the disturbance... it was perfect.

A cover. A distraction.

Exactly what he needed.

He slipped back from the window and began packing.

By the time anyone thought to look for him, he’d already be gone.

The night had thickened into a deep, black silence by the time Noah and a small group of armed men stood watch at the town’s northern gate. The torches flickered softly, casting shadows on their tense faces.

Noah checked his pocket watch and narrowed his eyes at the road beyond. “He’s not coming this way,” he muttered, snapping the reins and spurring his horse toward the southern path.

Meanwhile, John waited on the other route, watching the empty road, mind weighed down by suspicion. As Noah rode up fast and dismounted, his voice was tight. “He didn’t come through the gate.”

John’s frown deepened. “He’s not here either.”

Noah looked sharply at him. “There’s something wrong. Is there another way out of town?”

John hesitated.

“No time to think, John—you’ve lived here your whole life.”

John rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting in thought. Panic crept in.

Then, a calm voice broke the tension. “The Crooked Mile,” said Goth, emerging from the trees like a ghost in the dark.

Noah stiffened.“You again.”

John stepped forward. “What’s that mean?”

Goth’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Two miles out. Hidden trail, covered in brush and trees. Most folks don’t know it exists. Perfect for smugglers. Or criminals.”

Noah didn’t lower his gaze. “Why are you helping us?”

John asked directly, “Can you take us there?”

Goth gave a dry smile. “Cheerily.”

Noah whispered behind John’s shoulder, “We can’t trust him.”

John mounted his horse, gripping the reins. “Fifty-fifty,” he muttered.

“What?”

But John was already following Goth into the forest. Noah gave a frustrated sigh and followed.

They soon reached the Crooked Mile. Just as Goth described, it was narrow, overgrown, and bathed in shadow. And in the distance, they saw them—three buggies, rolling quietly through the path.

John’s horse pounded against the dirt path, hooves thundering in the still night. The three buggies ahead were distant shadows, flickering in and out of sight between thick trees and bends in the road. They had just enough of a lead to stay unreachable, and John knew—if he calculated honestly—he might not catch them in time.

But he didn’t slow down. Goth stopped at the edge of the woods and watched.

Ahead, the terrain shifted. A narrow grot yawned between the hills, shrouded in darkness and framed by twisted trees. The buggies veered into it. John urged his horse harder, teeth gritted, heart pounding with urgency and dread.

From the high ridge above the path, Noah sat astride his own horse, perfectly still—watching. The cold wind tugged at his coat. He narrowed his eyes, bow in hand, arrow already nocked. His breath was shallow as he scanned the path below, though Henry remained out of sight within the shadowy passage.

Noah exhaled slowly, adjusting his aim toward the mouth of the grot. He didn’t need to see Henry. He’d calculated the angle, the timing, the speed. His fingers released.

The arrow sliced through the night.

A heartbeat later, the lead buggy burst from the grot, wheels squealing across gravel. Henry was at the reins. The arrow whistled through the air and struck its target cleanly. Henry lurched as the steel point pierced through his neck, entering from one side and exiting the other. Blood sprayed across the wooden seat.

Henry tumbled from the buggy, his body rolling into the dust. The reins slipped from his hands as blood pooled around his collar.

From the nearby slope, Goth watched, unmoving. A quiet whistle escaped his lips.
“Nice shot,” he muttered to the wind.

The remaining buggies skidded to a halt. Confusion erupted. John surged forward, sword raised, his voice ringing through the trees.

“Bureau agents! Halt!”

The drivers froze, startled. Within moments, John had dismounted and taken control. The arrests were swift and unresisted.

But Goth stood still, eyes glued to Henry’s fallen body.

As the others dealt with the aftermath, he stepped forward slowly, gaze locked on Henry’s waist.

There—faint, beneath the bloodied fabric—was a tattoo.

Not just any tattoo. The exact same mark his mother bore. The same symbol he had found on the murdered villagers years ago. The same one that scarred his own skin.

He froze.

Goth’s heart pounded as dread crashed over him like a tidal wave. The silence around him felt deafening. John and Noah approached the body behind him, unaware.

Goth turned and fled into the darkness, the trees swallowing him as questions stormed in his mind:

What does it mean? Who was that? Was this nightmare truly over—or only just beginning?

Goth took a step back, then another. John turned toward him, calling out—but Goth was already running. Into the dark, into the unknown, chasing the echo of an answer he wasn’t sure he wanted to find.

{ CHAPTER - 3 END }

Thank you to all my readers for your support. I plan to release a new chapter every Friday, and I hope that works well for you.