The engine turned over with a low hum.
As Mira tightened her grip on the steering wheel, something shifted.
The air.
It felt… heavier.
Not physically—but enough to make her chest tighten, her breath shallow. A strange, creeping anxiety settled in her veins, as if her instincts were quietly resisting what her mind had already decided.
Still, she drove.
Aisha…
The name echoed again and again in her thoughts.
Not unfamiliar.
Not distant.
Something closer than that.
⸻
As the car moved through the quiet streets, the uneasiness grew stronger.
It felt like riding a horse that refused to leap—
Yet being forced to push it forward anyway.
Toward something unknown.
Toward something wrong.
⸻
Finally—
She arrived.
A vast estate stood before her.
A mansion.
Tall, elegant, and silent.
Mira's foot eased off the pedal as her eyes widened slightly. For a moment, she simply stared.
Then she parked near the main gate.
Before she could step out, an old man from the garden noticed her presence. He moved with measured grace, walking toward the car with calm precision.
As he approached, Mira stepped out.
The man gave a slight bow.
"Good afternoon, miss. My name is Jonathan Locke," he said, his voice smooth and refined. "I am the butler of this mansion. How may I assist you?"
His posture, his tone—everything about him radiated discipline and etiquette.
Mira found herself momentarily impressed.
"I'm an investigator," she replied, steadying herself. "From the police investigation department. I'd like to meet Ms. Aisha regarding a case."
Locke placed a hand over his chest and bowed slightly deeper.
"Of course, miss."
Without hesitation, he opened the gate.
⸻
Mira drove inside.
As she parked, her eyes caught another car nearby.
A Mercedes-Benz, polished to perfection.
A 1958 model.
Even at a glance, it radiated wealth and status—far superior to her own modest Ford from 1940.
A flicker of jealousy passed through her.
Small. Fleeting.
But real.
They were the same age…
And yet—
Mira shook the thought away and stepped out.
⸻
Locke led her inside.
The mansion's interior was just as grand as its exterior—if not more.
Every step echoed softly against polished floors. The walls were adorned with subtle elegance, not excessive—but deliberate. Everything had a place. Everything had purpose.
He guided her into a guest room.
"Please have a seat. I will inform Ms. Aisha of your arrival."
"Thank you," Mira said.
Locke gave a final polite nod and left.
⸻
Mira sat down on one of the green sofas.
There were three in total, arranged neatly around a luxurious wooden table placed at the center. Sunlight filtered gently through a large window, illuminating the room in a calm, almost serene glow.
For a moment…
She forgot why she was here.
Her eyes moved slowly across the room, absorbing its beauty.
And without realizing it—
Her thoughts drifted backward.
⸻
Aisha…
They had studied together.
Elementary school.
Middle school.
High school.
They were never close.
Not really.
But Mira had always… wanted to be.
There was something about Aisha.
Something distant, yet warm.
They had only spoken a few times over the years. Small interactions. Nothing significant.
Nothing—except one.
⸻
A memory surfaced.
Middle school.
A loud bark.
A blur of movement.
A large dog—wild, aggressive—lunging straight toward her.
Mira remembered freezing.
Her body refusing to move.
Fear taking over completely.
And then—
Aisha stepped in.
Without hesitation.
She pushed Mira aside.
The dog attacked.
Its teeth sank into Aisha's arm.
The scene had unfolded too fast.
Too suddenly.
⸻
Later—
Mira had apologized again and again.
Thanked her repeatedly.
Her voice trembling.
Aisha had simply smiled and said:
"It's everyone's duty to help someone in trouble."
⸻
That line had stayed with her.
For years.
Because Mira knew—
She wasn't like that.
She was ordinary.
Average.
Someone who hesitated.
Someone who feared.
⸻
Even later, in high school…
Her life didn't change much.
She struggled with relationships.
Searched for Connections.
And failed.
Three times.
Each one leaving her used… and then abandoned.
That was when she made a decision.
Not to become like Aisha—
But to become stronger.
And still remain kind.
⸻
Mira blinked.
The memory faded.
She returned to the present.
⸻
The door opened.
Softly.
Mira looked up.
And there she was.
Aisha stood at the entrance.
Aisha entered the room quietly.
For a brief moment, Mira's heart stopped.
Her fist tightened at her side. Words gathered somewhere in her throat, but none of them found a way out. She simply stood there, frozen between past and present.
Meanwhile, Aisha showed no sign of recognition.
"Hello, Officer," she said, her tone formal, distant—like they had never met before.
Mira swallowed.
"Ahh… Aisha… you didn't recognize me? I'm Mira."
Her voice cracked slightly, betraying more than she intended.
Aisha didn't respond immediately. With Locke assisting her, she slowly moved toward the sofa and sat down, her movements careful, weakened by illness. Then she tilted her head slightly to the right, her expression faintly puzzled—like she was trying to understand a language she had once known but forgotten.
Mira noticed.
"You don't remember?" she pressed gently. "We were in school together… elementary, middle, high… all of it."
There was a pause.
Then suddenly—
Aisha's eyes lit up.
Recognition sparked, followed by a soft smile spreading across her face.
"Mira! Yeah, I remember now!" she said, almost cheerfully. "You were that girl… the one the dog attacked, right? Oh my gosh, long time no see! And you became an investigator? Who would've thought that—hahaha."
She turned her head slightly.
"Locke, go ahead and get some sweets for our guest."
"Right away, ma'am," Locke replied.
But before he could leave—
"Uhmm—wait, wait," Mira interrupted quickly. "There's no need for that right now. As I said before, I'm working on a case, and time is… well, it's the most valuable resource I have at the moment. I can't stay for long. But I promise, I'll come again once all this is over. Okay?"
She tried to smile.
Aisha's expression flickered—just for a second. A faint disappointment passed through her face, but it vanished almost immediately, replaced by her usual calm composure.
"So," Aisha said smoothly, "what is it you want to investigate?"
"You heard about Dr. Robert's murder case?" Mira asked.
"Yeah…" Aisha nodded. "I heard his friend killed him. Saw it on the news. He was my doctor."
"That's why I'm here," Mira replied. "I'm currently investigating all of Dr. Robert's patients. And you're one of them. Would you mind telling me how long you were his patient—and the last time you saw him?"
"Of course." Aisha leaned back slightly. "I was his patient for over eight years. He played a very big role in my recovery."
She paused, thinking.
"The last time I saw him was… July 8th. Yes. It was just a regular check-up. I visit him once a week for some routine tests. He seemed normal that day. Just like always."
Mira narrowed her eyes slightly.
"That's it?"
"Yeah, that's it—"
Aisha stopped mid-sentence.
"Wait… I remember something. James was with me that day. He had a wound on his forehead, so I took him along."
"Who's James?" Mira asked, though something in her chest tightened strangely.
"My son," Aisha answered, a small smile forming. "My adopted son, to be specific. He's a very good boy. A kind child."
"Can I meet him?" Mira asked.
"Of course." Aisha turned her head slightly. "Locke, go and call James."
Locke nodded and left the room without a word.
Silence followed.
And then—
Something shifted.
Mira felt it.
An unfamiliar uneasiness crept into her body. It wasn't like before—not fear exactly. It was deeper. Subtler. Like every nerve in her body was quietly screaming at her to leave.
Now.
Immediately.
But she stayed.
Ignoring it.
Her mind began to drift.
Memories surfaced—uninvited.
The Devil incident from four years ago.
Teufel.
His name alone felt distant now, like something buried under layers of time and denial. It had only been two years since his death… yet she couldn't even recall his face clearly.
How was that possible?
She frowned slightly.
After forcing herself to think harder, she reached a conclusion—a convenient one.
He must have had an evil face.
Yes… that was it.
A face filled with malice.
Cruel. Twisted. Something that should never have existed.
The thought brought her a strange sense of relief.
At least he died in prison.
At least it was over.
And just then—
The door opened.
James entered the room.
Mira looked at him.
And something inside her softened.
A faint, unfamiliar smile appeared on her lips.
Because James… was nothing like the Devil.
His face was gentle.
Beautiful.
Kind.
Innocent.
The scene shifted.
Tom sat in the interrogation room, his hands resting on the cold metal table, wrists locked in handcuffs. The faint hum of fluorescent lights filled the silence above him. Across the table sat two investigators.
One was young—too young, perhaps. He held a notebook in his hand, fingers tapping it unconsciously, eyes sharp but restless.
The other was older. Dark-skinned. Calm. Watching.
Tom's gaze remained fixed on them, steady and neutral. No anger. No fear. No regret. Nothing that could be read.
"Are you sure that's it?" the younger investigator finally asked. His voice carried a forced calm, like something rehearsed.
Tom didn't blink.
"Yup. That's it."
"You're saying… you heard voices while you were drunk?"
"Yeah. That's it."
The young man scribbled something into his notebook, the sound of pen against paper scratching through the silence.
"Try to think more."
Tom's eyes narrowed slightly.
"What are you getting at?" he said, his tone shifting—just enough for emotion to slip through. "Huh? What do you want to hear?"
The younger investigator leaned forward, placing his arm on the table, closing the distance between them.
"That you're the killer," he said quietly. "And you knew exactly what you were doing. This whole dementia story—it's nothing but a lie."
For the first time, Tom smiled.
"Bullshit."
The word hung in the air.
The younger investigator inhaled slowly, then changed his approach.
"Listen, Tom… you were a former investigator. If you confess—fully—we can reduce your sentence. Seven years… maybe even four." He paused, watching for a reaction. "Think about it. We worked together. Same department."
No response.
"You've got a pregnant wife," he continued, his tone softening, almost persuasive. "Think about her. Think about your child. Think, Tom."
Still nothing.
"Four years is nothing," he pressed. "We'll make sure your family is taken care of. They won't suffer. And when you're out… you can start over. You're what—thirty-five? You'll be out before forty. What more do you want?"
He leaned even closer.
"Now confess the truth. You don't even have to say it out loud. Write it down. Anything."
Silence.
Tom didn't move.
Didn't react.
Didn't even breathe differently.
The air in the room grew heavier, pressing down on everyone inside it. The younger investigator watched him closely, expectation creeping into his eyes.
Then—
Tom whispered something.
Too soft to hear.
"What?" the investigator asked, frowning.
Tom lifted his head slightly.
"You said former," he murmured.
A pause.
"Looks like I'm unemployed now."
And he smiled.
Something snapped.
The younger investigator's face twisted with rage, his composure shattering. He was about to explode—
—but a hand stopped him.
The older investigator.
He finally spoke, his voice calm, final.
"Looks like this is going nowhere."
A brief pause.
"Fine. Take him. We'll see him at trial. Put him in a cell."
The door opened.
Officers stepped in.
Tom stood up before anyone told him to. The chains clinked softly as he moved, calm as ever. He began walking, following the officers out of the room without resistance.
As he walked down the dim corridor, his thoughts finally stirred.
He trusted Oliver.
No matter what.
Oliver had said he would get him out.
And that was enough.
Even if doubt lingered somewhere deep inside him, buried and unspoken… he chose not to look at it. Faith was easier.
Faith in his childhood friend.
Faith in Oliver.
They stopped.
A cell door opened with a metallic clang.
Tom stepped inside, glancing around briefly.
"I even have a cellmate now," he said lightly.
Someone was sitting on the floor, back turned.
Then—
The man moved.
Slowly turning his head toward Tom.
And the moment their eyes met—
Tom froze.
His breath caught.
His throat went dry.
Because sitting there…
…was Franzzle.
A faint smile crept onto Franzzle's face.
"Looks like they have a shortage of jail rooms," he said casually.
The door slammed shut.
Chapter ends
To be continued