Here's your text with duplicates removed—clean and polished while preserving all the vivid imagery and tension:
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**The night unraveled like a frayed scroll**—its edges curled and smoldering, falling apart faster than Ian's thoughts could follow. One moment steeped in blood and silence, the next bristling with the arrival of authority. Sirens split the air like torn silk. Blue and red lights stuttered across the quiet street like errant magic spells cast in panic. Neighbors gathered in doorways, hushed and blinking, their murmurs fluttering like moths drawn to the chaos.
Ian sat on the front steps of Chan's house, a wool blanket hunched over his shoulders, though it did little to warm the chill sinking into his bones. His knuckles were white around the sword—still sheathed, still his. He hadn't let go. Wouldn't. Couldn't.
Behind him, his childhood home had become a crime scene.
Detectives moved through it like cautious ghosts, ducking under yellow tape that cordoned off the entrance like a ward. Officers snapped photos. Evidence markers dotted the hallway floor like an arcane diagram. A crime scene tech—small, brisk—scooped glass fragments into bags, humming tunelessly as if the world weren't ending.
A uniformed officer passed by, clipboard in hand, and gave Ian a nod like he'd just won *Most Traumatized Teen of the Year*. If there were a trophy, Ian figured it would be shaped like a bloody doormat.
Another officer stepped out with a bag containing a shattered floor lamp. A third followed, muttering into his radio as he carried what looked like the top half of a burnt scroll case—only Ian knew it had been Chan's incense holder, the one with dragons coiled around it like twin protectors.
A tall detective with a tight jaw and tired eyes knelt beside him. His badge read **"N. Carter."**
"We're very sorry for your loss," Carter said, voice worn but not unkind. "We're treating this as a home invasion. Double homicide."
Ian didn't look up. His gaze was fixed on crabapple petals drifting at his feet. They looked like bloodstains in the flashing lights.
The sword, wrapped in cloth, sat across his lap like an accusation. No one had asked to examine it. Perhaps they didn't want to touch the one thing in the house that seemed alive.
"We found a woman upstairs," Carter continued, consulting a small notepad. "Li-Anne, your aunt. Knife wound. Fatal."
Ian gave a small nod.
"Your uncle, Mr. Lee—injuries consistent with a fall from the upper floor. No signs of a struggle at the bannister."
Another nod. Mechanical. Easier than explaining how Chan had landed at Ian's feet, blood blooming from his side like a flower that didn't belong in nature.
"You mentioned two intruders?" Carter asked gently.
Ian's voice, when it came, was brittle. "Both wore black—head to toe. Tactical. The guy had a scar from cheek to jaw. Asian. The woman... I only saw her eyes. Green. Moved like smoke."
"Professionals?"
"Or something worse."
Carter hesitated. "Any idea why they'd target your home?"
*Because someone remembered what Chan tried to forget. Because the past wears different shoes, but always finds its way to your doorstep.*
"No," Ian said simply.
Carter didn't press. A good detective, then. Or a tired one.
Another officer approached. "Sir, a witness saw movement on the roof. Said the figure *'jumped like a cat and vanished west.'* Not much else."
"Any prints?" Carter asked.
"No," the officer replied. "But upstairs… there's a scorch mark in the hallway. Circular. Doesn't look like fire damage. More like it was seared—branded into the floor."
Carter glanced at Ian. "You know anything about that?"
Ian met his eyes. "No."
Which was a lie. He'd seen that mark once before in Chan's study—charcoal-sketched beneath a passage that read only: *They walk where flame cannot follow.*
The EMT returned. "You sure you're not injured?"
Ian shook his head. "It wasn't my blood."
The EMT gave a grim smile. "That's not the comfort you think it is."
"They teach you how to handle this in school?" Carter asked. "Losing everything at once?"
Ian didn't respond. If that was part of the Ontario curriculum, he must have missed it between calculus and gym.
Carter's eyes flicked to the sword. "That yours?"
Ian's grip tightened. "It was my father's. Chan kept it for him."
Carter held his gaze for a beat longer, then nodded and stood. "You're not a suspect. But we'll need to speak again. Stay reachable."
He disappeared into the fog of flashing lights and quiet murmurs.
Ian sat alone.
Crabapple petals continued to fall. The wind shifted. He stood.
The wool blanket slipped off his shoulders like a shed skin.
He stepped through the front door.
The smell hit him first. Not blood. Not smoke. Something older. The faint, clinging scent of sandalwood and fermented tea.
The hallway groaned under his weight. A crime scene tech bagged fingerprints off the hallway railing with gloved hands.
Ian ducked beneath the yellow tape that cordoned off Chan's study.
This wasn't a study the way most people used the word. There was no computer, no ergonomic chair, no IKEA lamp. Just shelves lined with thread-bound tomes, a meditation cushion in the far corner, and a tea set with one missing cup—his.
In the center of the room, the desk stood untouched. A thick, ugly splatter of blood marred the wall behind it.
Ian's fingers found the hidden groove in the side panel and pressed.
*Click.*
The drawer opened.
Inside: a cloth bundle, an envelope, and an old cassette tape wrapped in red string.
Ian took the envelope first. His name. Inked in brushstrokes that trembled slightly. Like the hand had been old—or rushed.
Inside was a photograph. Faded. Sepia-toned.
Three men stood in front of a fog-wreathed building. One he knew was Chan. Younger, but still with that gaze—calm and terrifying. The other two were strangers. One wore robes with a triangular flame embroidered at the chest. The second man's eyes had been scratched out with ink.
On the back, a single phrase: *Trust no one until you see the flame.*
Next, Ian unfolded the cloth bundle. A pin tumbled into his hand. Gold. Stylized flame.
He slipped it into his coat pocket.
Then the cassette.
He stared at it.
A stereo sat in the corner, next to the bookshelf. Dusty. Dead. Or… maybe not.
He fed the tape into the deck, pressed *PLAY*.
For a long moment—nothing but static.
Then a voice.
Not Chan's.
A woman. Soft. Measured.
*"If you're hearing this, something has gone wrong. He told me to record this in case he never had time. You don't know me. But I've known you since before you were born, Ian. We all made choices. But he—your uncle—he chose to keep you free. Protected. It was always going to find you anyway."*
*Click.*
Tape jammed.
"Of course it did," Ian muttered.
Behind him, something creaked.
He turned.
Nothing but shadows and dust.
He pulled the tape free, winding the ribbon with a pencil, and stuffed it into his jacket.
Back in the living room, the furniture had been righted, but the scent of burnt ginger lingered like a ghost.
He bent to inspect the scorch mark. Ten inches wide. Perfectly circular.
The wood fibers had blackened but not splintered. It wasn't fire. It was heat. Directed. Intentional.
There was no ash.
Just seared memory.
He rose slowly.
Carter reappeared with a paper cup of coffee. Handed it to Ian. "You'll need it."
Ian nodded and took a sip. Burnt. Bitter. Exactly what he deserved.
"Where will you go tonight?" Carter asked.
Ian exhaled through his nose. "I'll figure it out."
He turned toward the hallway—his feet carrying him forward through muscle memory.
Past the grandfather clock Chan never let him touch.
Past the crooked painting of a crane.
It had always hung straight.
Until now.
He stopped in front of it.
Touched the frame.
Behind it—a shadow.
No, a void.
A photo had been removed. Recently. The nail was still warm.
Someone had been here after.
Someone who knew what to take.
Outside, the wind had risen.
Ian stepped onto the porch, the sword slung over one shoulder now.
The house sighed behind him.
He looked up.
Clouds curled across the sky, lit from beneath by the ruined glow of distant sodium streetlamps. The moon peeked through once, then vanished again.
He reached the end of the front steps. Paused.
Crabapple petals scattered across the sidewalk like discarded prayers.
And then—
A sound.
Not sirens.
Not footsteps.
A voice.
Soft. Close.
It said his name.
**"Ian."**
He spun, hand to sword, scanning the street.
Empty.
Just wind.
Just trees.
But something had changed.
The night was watching.
And now, it knew his name.