Even so, he couldn't lose focus on why he was here.
He drew in a slow, deliberate breath, letting it steady him, before stepping forward toward the shelves. Each step seemed to echo softly against the carpeted floor, yet it also felt as if the room itself was leaning in, pressing him closer to whatever he had come to confront.
Once he reached the shelves, he stopped and studied them carefully, keeping his goal in mind. The shelves were filled with books of all kinds—some old and worn, others newer and pristine. Their arrangement seemed deliberate, not random. A few had no text on the cover at all, while others displayed titles in strange, nearly unreadable fonts.
He reached for one of the newer-looking books, flipping it open carefully. The spine creaked slightly as he turned a page, tilting the book toward the light to read every word.
"Chained Soldier," he muttered, curiosity sharpening his expression. He leaned closer, adjusting his stance to get a better view of the text.
His gaze fell just below the printed words, where Nyx was written in black ink. The dim light made it almost blend into the page, but he could make it out clearly. The handwriting was deliberate, messy, like a subtle clue left for someone paying attention.
Is this a novel? He wondered, sealing the book shut and turning it over. But who reads this these days? He continued, noticing that there was nothing written behind the book.
He sighed, placing the book back on the shelves, and then he noticed a small transparent glass bottle resting just atop one of the many layers of the shelf.
The glass bottle caught the light and kept it, as if it had trapped a warm afternoon inside its ribs. It was filled with apple juice that slept against the clear walls, golden and patient, glowing diluted honey. When he lifted it, the liquid shifted with a soft, lazy roll, producing tiny bubbles that clung near the neck.
Fenn was well known for its apple farms, which made apples more affordable in the bazaar due to their massive production.
"Apple juice," Declan uttered in a low voice while eyeing the liquid inside the bottle. "But why does it look like there's something else mixed in?" He continued.
He knew just thinking about it wouldn't get him anywhere, so he opened it to get a closer look while at the same time paying close attention to his surroundings.
A moment later, he finally figured out what was mixed in with the apple juice; even so, he didn't do anything rash. He only took a small sample of the liquid and placed it in a small plastic bottle, which he took from his case.
Moments later, he headed toward a room that looked like a kitchen storeroom. But when he reached it, there was nothing unusual about it; everything sat neatly in its proper place.
He looked around for a short moment, trying to find anything that could lead him to finding any clues involving the crimson liquid he had seen earlier.
"Strange… no matter where I look, it's the same every time," he murmured under his breath, brow furrowed in curiosity. His eyes kept returning to a small black die with white dots, resting incongruously among the ordinary items. Yet one side stood out, a single red dot, stark against the uniformity, as if it were deliberately meant to catch his attention.
He left the room without touching the die and moved toward another, one that carried a cold draft despite the bright sunlight outside.
He didn't linger; with careful precision, he eased the door open and pushed it inward, padding into the chill that seemed to seep from the room itself.
He was taken aback the moment his eyes fell on whatever lay before him, and he instinctively stepped back, surprise etched across his face.
He paused for a moment, drawing a steady breath before continuing.
He adjusted his coat, a wry chuckle escaping him. Hehe… for a moment there, I almost lost my cool.
"Anyways," he muttered, crossing the threshold and letting go of his coat, bracing himself for anything else that might catch him off guard.
The room was so cramped that there was barely space to move. Ropes lay strewn across the floor, thick with dust and soaked by a clear liquid that seemed to seep up from the ground—though the floor itself showed no cracks or channels where it could have come from.
Faint light barely reached the room, making it difficult to see clearly even during the day. Yet somehow, with a single glance, Declan was able to make out nearly everything inside.
He moved quietly, stepping slowly toward a silhouette that resembled a naked man hanging upside down, his legs bound tightly by a thick rope. The figure was disturbing, notably headless, with a gaping hole where his chest should have been.
As Declan approached the man, his eyes kept darting around the room, taking in the detached heads scattered across the floor and the headless bodies piled in the corners like tattered rags.
The moment he reached it, his golden-brown eyes widened slightly as he realized the person standing before him was one of the guards he had spoken to that very morning.
There was no mistaking it; the victim shared the same body type as the guard; even their hands looked identical. But the detail that made Declan recognize him instantly was the head resting beside the body. Though severed, it bore a sorrowful expression on its scarred face.
Declan muttered under his breath, "How can anyone get away with this?"
In his entire career, he had never encountered murders this brutal, and to make matters worse, they seemed to have been committed by a single person. But that wasn't entirely true. The reality was that he had seen murders like these before, just never on such a scale.
He glanced again at the head, and then his eyes caught another die, identical to the one he had left in the other room. Leaning closer, he realized that this room didn't just contain a single die; a whole pile of them sat atop a wooden desk beside a game board resembling a chessboard. The difference was that the board was printed in several colors, and from the looks of it, the board had clearly seen better days.
Is that a game? Declan wondered, his eyes fixed on the board atop the desk.
As he studied it, his gaze fell on Jack's knife lying quietly beside the board, its blade still stained with blood.
....
Minutes later, Declan emerged from the bungalow, rushing without a glance behind him. His task was complete, the thing he had wanted to confirm had been confirmed, but there was something off in the way he moved. He seemed even more hurried than when he had arrived with Peterson.
Suddenly, a familiar voice called out ahead: "Are you done?"
It was Peterson, still waiting for the detective to arrive. He had sat in the vehicle the entire time, silent and growing restless, even though Declan had told him to head out earlier.
"Huh?" Declan uttered with a surprised voice as he noticed Peterson waiting in the vehicle.
"What're you still doing here?" Declan asked as he reached the vehicle.
Peterson only smiled with a nervous look on his face.
"Well… auh…" He was at a loss for words, having no excuse to offer Declan. Still, Declan felt a wave of relief the moment his eyes met Peterson's. He needed to get out of there fast, and with Peterson's reckless driving, he'd be gone before anyone even realized he had been there.
Meanwhile, as Declan departed with Peterson, Jack sat in one of the bungalow's upper rooms, watching their every move with an excited grin. In his left hand, he held two ordinary dice, identical to the ones scattered across the floor.