The night wasn't supposed to feel like this.
#@&# liked to believe he could read a room the way Sherlock Holmes could read a crime scene—one glance, one inhale, and he'd know everything. But tonight, as he stepped out of the abandoned warehouse and into the fog-drowned streets, the air felt wrong in a way he couldn't explain. The city wasn't sleeping. It was waiting.
Waiting for him.
His shoes clicked against cracked pavement, echoes bouncing off the concrete buildings like warnings. The fog spiraled around him, swallowing the yellow streetlights whole until only faint halos remained.
He exhaled slowly.
"Okay… you survived a warehouse explosion, a masked gang, a disappearing girl, and one homicidal mirror. You can survive a walk home."
But the whisper of unease didn't leave. It clung to him like wet cloth.
For a moment, he imagined the fog had shape—eyes—breath. Watching him.
Ridiculous, he told himself. But he didn't stop glancing over his shoulder. Not once.
---
A Message From Nowhere
Halfway across the block, his phone vibrated.
He almost didn't check it. Almost threw it into the street and stomped on it. But curiosity—his worst addiction—won.
Unknown Number:
Go home. You're in the wrong part of the story.
#@&# froze.
Wrong… part of the story?
He typed with stiff fingers:
#@&#: "Who are you?"
#@&#: "Where's Mira?"
Three dots… typing…
Then nothing.
Before he could react, another message appeared.
Unknown Number:
You ask too many questions. Stop before it's too late.
He swallowed hard.
Too late… for him? For the girl? For the city?
The phone vibrated again—this time with a picture.
A blurry photo of a dark hallway.
A girl's silhouette at the far end.
Head down.
Still.
Alone.
He knew that hallway.
The orphanage basement.
His basement.
His breath hitched.
"Someone was inside… when I wasn't home?"
Suddenly, the city felt even colder.
---
The Van That Shouldn't Be There
He stepped onto the main road, fog curling low like smoke after gunfire. That's when he saw it:
A black van.
No license plate.
Engine humming.
Windows tinted pitch-black.
It faced him directly.
"Oh no," #@&# whispered. "No, no, no—this is how side characters die, not me."
The headlights snapped on.
A blinding white glare.
The humming turned into a growl.
The tires shrieked—
And the van launched toward him.
He ran.
Not gracefully. Not heroically.
He ran like a man who knew death had excellent sprinting skills.
"WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?! I'M NOT EVEN A DETECTIVE! I JUST READ SHERLOCK!!"
The van roared after him.
The street blurred.
The buildings spun.
His lungs burned.
He dove into a side alley just in time. The van slammed its brakes, swerved, and stopped—too big to follow him in.
But its doors burst open.
Two masked men jumped out, silhouettes broad and merciless.
"Okay, #@&#," he muttered, backing into a wall. "Think. What would Sherlock do?"
A beat.
"Right. He'd survive. Preferably without crying."
He grabbed a metal pipe from the ground.
The men approached.
"Come quietly," one said in a distorted voice.
"No thanks," #@&# said. "I already had dinner."
He hadn't, actually, but it felt like a strong line.
They didn't laugh.
Figures.
The first man swung. #@&# ducked instinctively—pure luck, not skill—and jabbed the pipe upward. It clanged off the attacker's mask, startling him enough for #@&# to bolt deeper into the maze of alleys.
He heard footsteps chasing him.
Then the crack of something metallic being cocked.
A gun.
Great.
He sprinted, lungs screaming, feet slipping on damp trash, until—
A dead end.
A tall metal fence blocked the way, its top lined with sharp wire.
The footsteps grew louder.
#@&# stared at the fence.
"No way," he whispered.
A bullet whizzed past his foot.
He climbed faster.
The metal rattled under him. His coat snagged on the wire, slicing a thin tear across the sleeve. One slip and he'd be shredded—but the danger behind was worse.
---
A Door That Should Be Locked
He dashed through backyards, hopping fences like a terrified raccoon, until he reached an old apartment complex. The building looked abandoned and miserable, which made it perfect.
He yanked open the back door—unlocked.
That alone was suspicious.
Inside, the hallway smelled like wet mold and lost hope. Dim lights flickered. The building was silent, as if everyone inside was either asleep…
…or gone.
#@&# leaned against the wall, panting, heartbeat hammering against his ribs so loudly he worried it would echo through the whole block.
"Okay… okay… think," he told himself. "Why would a gang go after me? Why chase someone who barely knows what he's doing? Unless—"
His eyes widened.
Unless they think he knows something he isn't aware he knows.
A clue he picked up accidentally.
A detail they didn't want discovered.
Something connected to Mira.
Connected to the gang.
Connected… to the writer.
The writer whose assistant wrote fake deaths behind her back.
He needed to figure it out before they figured him out.
---
Someone Else Is Here
The floorboards creaked.
#@&# froze.
Another creak.
Then soft footsteps—slow, steady, deliberate.
Someone was walking toward him.
He backed away silently.
A figure turned the corner.
A small figure.
A child?
A little girl, maybe nine or ten, wearing a pale nightdress and holding a small lantern that shouldn't logically be there in a modern apartment.
Her eyes were too wide.
Too sad.
Too knowing.
Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Are you the detective?"
#@&# nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Detect—what? No, no, no—I'm not— I mean— it's complicated—"
She raised a hand, silencing him with a gesture far too calm for a child.
"My grandfather left something behind," she said. "The people who took Mira want it. The same people chasing you."
#@&# blinked, confused, terrified, exhausted.
"Who… are you?"
She lifted the lantern.
Her eyes gleamed.
"My name is Hana," she said. "And if you don't help me find what he hid… we'll both die before sunrise."
#@&# opened his mouth to speak.
But—
CRACK.
A gunshot shattered the silence.
The lantern flickered.
Hana grabbed his hand.
"They're here."
He didn't argue. He ran with her down the hallway, past rusted pipes and peeling wallpaper, until she shoved open a door to the basement.
The air inside was colder than outside.
Wrongly cold.
He felt it before he saw it.
Presence.
Shadow.
Watching them.
Hana whispered, "Grandfather said the basement is where the truth begins."
#@&# groaned.
"I hate basements."
More footsteps.
Masks.
Voices.
They were cornered.
Hana tugged him toward an old metal cabinet.
"Inside. Now."
"But—"
"No time!"
He dove inside the cabinet with her just as the door creaked open. Through a thin crack in the metal, #@&# saw three masked men enter the basement, flashlights slicing through the darkness.
"Search everything," one said. "The girl and the boy are here."
The "boy."
#@&# felt personally offended but didn't dare comment.
The men searched the basement, knocking over boxes, smashing shelves, ripping open bags.
Then one of them turned toward the cabinet.
Hana squeezed #@&#'s hand.
#@&# squeezed back.
The footsteps grew closer.
Closer.
Closer—
A sudden crash upstairs.
A scream.
A shattering window.
"Go!" the leader barked. "Something else is here!"
Something else?
#@&# didn't want to know what that "something" was.
The men stormed out.
Silence returned.
Hana exhaled shakily.
"So," #@&# whispered, "this is fine. Everything is fine. Totally normal basement adventure."
Hana didn't smile.
"They'll come back. We need to find the map."
#@&# blinked.
"What map?"
"The map my grandfather died protecting."
Of course.
Because why wouldn't a child drop a life-threatening plot twist in a creepy basement at midnight?
#@&# stepped out of the cabinet.
"Okay, Hana," he said. "Show me what we're looking for."
She nodded.
But before she could take a step, the basement lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then went out.
In the darkness, something moved.
Not human footsteps.
Something slower.
Heavier.
A breath colder than winter brushed #@&#'s neck.
Hana whispered, "It found us."
#@&# whispered back, "WHAT found us?!"
The answer came not from her, but from the darkness itself:
"The story… is not yours."
---
TO BE CONTINUED…
続く…