Noir stood in the middle of the street, the lingering scent of coal smoke and horse-drawn carriages mocking the hollowness in his chest. The carriage had vanished, taking with it the last shred of an external, official presence. No answer. Just the deafening silence of the city's ordinary hum. His desperate plea, "You will protect me, right?!" echoed in the sudden emptiness, a testament to his sheer, unadulterated fear.
He felt utterly exposed, vulnerable. The Black Suits had left him with a chilling confirmation of Elias's gruesome end, a vague threat of future questioning, and the chilling realization that they offered no solace, no protection from the unseen terror that had claimed two lives already.
Slowly, deliberately, Noir turned and walked back towards the house. Every step felt heavy, each click of his shoes on the cobblestones unnaturally loud in the profound quiet. He pushed open the front door, the solid wood closing behind him with a soft thud that resonated like a coffin lid. The familiar quiet of Alder's home now felt less like a sanctuary and more like a trap.
He leaned against the closed door for a moment, his forehead pressed against the cool wood, trying to steady his breathing. The headache was back, a dull, relentless throb. He slid his hand into his coat pocket, his fingers brushing against the crisp edge of the card the lead officer had given him. It felt like a small, cold piece of paper, a flimsy link to a world that was both real and terrifyingly disconnected from his own.
He pulled it out, his eyes scanning the details. The card was simple, stark white, with embossed black lettering.
It read:
Inspector RostoffVolkova
Department of Public Order
City of Croele
Enquiries: 887-543-210
Inspector Rostoff. The name was formal, unyielding. It belonged to the man with the piercing gaze, the one who had stopped his zealous subordinate but offered no comfort. Department of Public Order. A chillingly generic name for what felt like an arm of a hidden, far more dangerous authority. They dealt with order, certainly, but perhaps the kind of order that involved silencing strange occurrences.
He flipped the card over, but the back was blank. No hidden messages, no esoteric symbols. Just the cold, hard facts of their official presence. It was a mundane object, yet in his hands, it felt like a summons to a trial he didn't understand, orchestrated by entities he couldn't comprehend.
He gripped the card tightly, the sharp edges digging into his palm. Rostoff. He now had a name for the man who would determine his immediate future. But what about the entities that determined his ultimate fate?
The card felt cold in his hand, a tangible piece of the new, terrifying reality he inhabited. Three days. That was the window. Three days until the "expert" arrived. Three days to prepare, to understand, to somehow arm himself against a threat he couldn't even name, much less fight. And then, he would face them again, the stern-faced officers who offered no protection.
His gaze drifted from the card to the diary still lying on the desk, then to Elias's journal. The words pulsed in his mind: "This world, isn't just an existence but a setup. It will happen again, this world is gonna' be gone." It was a prophecy whispered from the edge of the abyss, and he, Noir, was now standing at that same edge.
A fresh wave of dizziness washed over him, accompanied by a faint ringing in his ears. His stomach churned. He felt simultaneously wired and utterly drained, as if his very essence was being stretched thin by the sheer weight of these revelations. He pushed himself away from the door, unable to stand still.
He walked aimlessly towards the window again, pulling back the curtain slightly. The street below was bustling, people going about their lives, utterly oblivious to the existential horror Elias had described. How can they not see it? How can they just… live? The normalcy of it all felt like a cruel joke, a thin veil over a cosmic deception.
What do I do? The question, simple yet profound, echoed in his mind. He was a prisoner in a dead man's life, hunted by invisible forces, and now summoned by the police. He knew nothing of Alder's daily routine, his habits, his contacts beyond Grace and the recently deceased Elias. He had to become Alder, and quickly. The thought of those three days, a lifeline and a ticking clock, filled him with a cold dread.
He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of exasperation and confusion. He needed a place to start. The diary offered glimpses into Alder's mind, but not the mundane, essential details of his daily existence. Where did he keep his money? His keys? What were his next classes? What were his habits? He had to navigate this world as Alder, and he was currently blind.
The immediate crisis, the police, was temporarily averted. But the true danger remained, lurking in the shadows, woven into the very fabric of this "setup" world. He had three days. Three days to learn, to prepare, to simply survive.
...
Noir's gaze fell from the window, drawn almost magnetically to the desk. The two diaries lay there – Alder's, now closed, a sealed vault of terrifying revelations; Elias's, a stark testament to existential dread. A fresh wave of icy realization washed over him. He couldn't simply leave them there. Not now.
The police are coming back. The thought resonated with chilling clarity. An expert. They would search this room. They would look for clues. And these diaries, filled with arcane rituals, impossible visions, and a friend's chilling demise, were not just clues; they were confessions. They were proof of a world Alder had delved into, a world Noir was now desperately trying to navigate.
No. I can't let them be found. The urgency was a sudden, sharp prick of adrenaline. If these journals fell into the wrong hands – be it the police, or worse, whatever entity Elias and Alder had disturbed – Noir's fragile pretense would shatter. He would be exposed, not just as an imposter, but as someone connected to unspeakable horrors.
He moved quickly, his earlier nausea replaced by a focused, desperate energy. First, Alder's diary. He picked it up, feeling its weight, and scanned the desk area. A shallow drawer? Too obvious. Under a stack of books? Too easy to find. His eyes darted around the room, searching for a place that was both accessible to him and unlikely to be discovered by a casual search, or even a professional one.
His gaze fell upon the large, heavy wooden wardrobe in the corner of the room, Alder's clothes neatly folded within. Not inside, that was too common. But beneath it? Or perhaps, behind a loose panel? He moved towards it, his fingers running along the back, feeling for any give. Nothing.
Then, his eyes caught on a small, ornately carved wooden chest at the foot of Alder's bed, usually filled with blankets. He knelt, his knees protesting slightly on the cold floor. He opened the chest. Blankets. He pushed them aside, his fingers brushing against the solid bottom. No false bottom.
He looked around again, desperation mounting. Time was precious, and Grace would be returning soon. His gaze returned to the desk, the core of Alder's activities. Beneath the desk, a faint shadow suggested a deeper recess. He knelt again, pulling the chair back. And there it was. Not a drawer, but a cleverly disguised panel, almost flush with the underside of the desk, secured by a small, hidden latch.
Perfect.
He carefully unlatched it. It opened to reveal a shallow, narrow compartment, just large enough for a few thin books or documents. He placed Alder's diary inside, pushing it to the very back. Then, he retrieved Elias's slim journal from the side table. He hesitated for a moment, looking at Elias's terrifying final words. This world, isn't just an existence but a setup. A grim reminder of the stakes. He slid it in alongside Alder's, the two dark, leather-bound books nestled together, concealed.
He clicked the panel shut, pressing firmly to ensure it was flush. It was almost invisible unless one knew exactly where to look. He pushed the chair back under the desk, obscuring the hiding place completely.
He stood up, brushing dust from his knees. The diaries were safe, for now. A small victory, yes, but a victory that only underscored the terrifying nature of his predicament. He had bought himself time, but the secrets contained within those hidden pages continued to burn in his mind, the silent screams of two men who had dared to peer behind the veil. And he was next.