They stopped just outside the town's edge — a cracked, half-abandoned public parking lot shaded by peeling billboards and rust-covered lamp posts.
No crowds. Just the occasional echo of a stray dog barking in the distance.
Eucliea turned off the ignition. The engine ticked once, then fell silent.
They got out.
Zorion stretched, groaning softly. Inaya still slept in his arms, her rabbit now dangling by one floppy ear. Alethea cracked her back with a wince. Sathvic rubbed his neck.
Eucliea stepped aside and pulled out a volva. Covered her mouth slightly with her palm. Voice low. Unrecognizable.
> "I've left the car near Yuwan's Theatre. Yes… the parking lot beside it. Plate ends in 3Q9."
A pause.
> "No, it's clean. Do whatever you do best."
She ended the call.
Zorion raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Okay. That was… very spy-movie."
Eucliea didn't reply—just started walking.
"Now," she said, "for your shelter."
They followed.
Sathvic kept glancing over his shoulder out of habit. Zorion shifted Inaya's weight, careful not to wake her.
Five minutes passed. Maybe more.
They crossed a narrow road, ducked beneath a low-hanging branch, and finally—
"There." Eucliea pointed.
At first glance, it looked like a forgotten guesthouse. Two stories, old Zaherran brickwork, ivy creeping up the side walls, a rusted gate hanging crooked at the edge of the path.
Sathvic whistled. "That house is—"
"Fancy," Alethea finished, arms crossed.
Eucliea rolled her eyes. "It's one of Eirene's. She owns several properties all over Zaherra. This one hasn't been used in years."
Zorion glanced around, skeptical. "So… this is like, what, black money investment number seventeen?"
"Excuse me," Eucliea snapped, "it's from hard-earned money. You think it's easy negotiating with big companies?"
Zorion blinked. "I don't even know what that means."
The gate creaked open with a push.
Inside: overgrown grass, chipped fountain, a windchime that still clinked like it remembered better times.
They stepped in.
Safe.
Or so it seemed.
---
Meanwhile… Zaherran Police Headquarters
The sketch was nearly finished.
The artist hunched over the desk, sharpening lines.
Almost perfect.
The receptionist had reviewed it twice.
> "Yeah… that's her. I think. I'm not a hundred percent, but… it feels right."
The officer beside her nodded slightly and took the sketch.
Just then, another officer pushed through the glass doors with a clipboard in hand. His uniform was rumpled, tie asked.
> "Sir. Do we start pulling surveillance footage?"
The head officer didn't look up at first. Just tapped the sketch twice on the desk.
> "It's useless."
Silence. Even the fan above seemed to pause for a beat.
> "Why is it useless we can atleast check?" the younger officer asked again.
The man in charge finally raised his eyes. "You're new?"
> "Four months, sir."
A sigh. Tired. Not annoyed—just heavy with the weight of knowing how things really worked.
> "Surveillance cameras are luxury," the officer said, standing now.
He walked toward the center table, where a large map of Hestan was pinned with faded thumbtacks.
> "Cameras are only set on twenty roads in Hestan. All lead to Equinox venues, VIP lanes, or merchant convoys. Public malls? Clinics? Residential zones? It will take some years to cover these areas in surveillance."
The narrator cuts in now. Calm, direct.
> In Zaherra, or perhaps the entire world, surveillance was still new — too new.
A government project halfway funded, barely enforced.
Only the streets that mattered got cameras.
The rest of the areas? Blind spots.
The officer exhaled sharply and tossed the sketch down.
> "They're smart. Anyone pulling off something like this would know better than to parade through camera lanes."
The others nodded.
Another officer asked quietly, "You think it's Indrans?"
He didn't answer. Just stared at the sketch.
Then:
> "I don't care who it is."
He rolled his sleeves up.
> "Whoever did this… we'll find them."
He picked up the sketch again, the face staring back as if daring him to try.
> "And when we do," he added, "they won't have another quiet night."
At this time in the farmhouse.
They didn't switch on the lights. No one said it out loud, but turning them on felt too… permanent. Like acknowledging they were really here. Like jinxing the quiet.
Instead, Eucliea lit a dim lantern she found in a side drawer—battery-powered, yellow-tinted. It cast long, flickering shadows that made the chipped walls seem to breathe.
They gathered in the living room.
Someone had cleared the dust off the old table. (It was Eucliea. She'd never admit it.)
Now, four mismatched plates of cold food sat in front of them—leftovers that Eucliea brought. Flattened parathas, cheese packets, a questionable fruit salad, and two kinds of Zaherran pickle that probably doubled as chemical weapons.
Zorion chewed with hesitation.
> "This tastes like pain and expired lime."
Sathvic, unfazed, bit into a chunk of something yellow. "At least it's not goat cheese seatbelt."
Alethea sat cross-legged on the couch, picking raisins out of the salad. "Hey, those were your words."
Eucliea popped a dry fig in her mouth and said nothing. Her leg bounced slightly under the table.
The silence was tolerable—until Zorion, mouth full, looked up and said:
> "This place is abandoned, right?"
Everyone paused.
> "I hear abandoned places have ghosts."
The room fell still.
Eucliea's hand froze mid-fig.
Alethea slowly set her spoon down.
Sathvic turned with absolute calm. "Why would you say that."
Zorion shrugged. "Just a thought."
Alethea blinked. "You just thought about ghosts. At three AM. In a creaky farmhouse. While Inaya's asleep in the next room."
> "I mean—" Zorion began.
> CREEEEAAAK.
Everyone jumped.
Sathvic was already on his feet.
Eucliea grabbed the lantern like a weapon.
Alethea's eyes went wide. "Tell me that was you."
Zorion held up his hands. "I swear I didn't do it!"
Another sound. This time like a whisper. A flutter of movement. Something brushing against wood.
> Thump.
> Thump.
Sathvic grabbed the salad bowl.
> "Really?" Alethea hissed. "That's your weapon?"
"I panicked," he muttered.
Eucliea raised the lantern higher, casting shadows across the walls. They crept into the hallway, silent as a prayer.
Zorion whispered, "I think it came from the kitchen."
> Thump.
A cupboard door creaked open by itself.
Alethea grabbed Eucliea's wrist. "I knew it. This is how it starts. First it's noises, then one of us disappears, and then we find blood on the walls—"
> CRASH!
Everyone screamed.
Eucliea stumbled backward.
Sathvic dropped the salad bowl.
Zorion flailed so hard he smacked the lantern against the doorframe and yelled "I'm too young to be haunted!"
Alethea bolted behind the couch.
And then—
Out from the shadows…
A blur of movement.
Two glowing eyes.
A hiss.
> MEOOOWWWWRRRRR.
A fat, dusty cat sauntered out of the kitchen, flicking its tail like it owned the place.
Everyone froze.
The cat looked up at them.
Yawned.
And flopped dramatically onto the hallway rug.
A beat.
Then—
Eucliea, deadpan: "Congratulations. You got haunted by a cat."
Zorion sank to the floor. "I swear it was scary."
Alethea, holding her chest: "I saw my ancestors."
Sathvic pointed at the shattered salad bowl. "That was our dinner, Zorion."
Zorion: "You were going to fight a demon with a fruit salad, Sathvic."
A long pause.
And then—
All four of them burst into laughter. The kind that hurts your ribs and feels like release.
The cat purred smugly and began licking its paw.
Inaya, asleep in the far room, stirred slightly—then turned in her blanket and kept dreaming.
The farmhouse returned to stillness.