But fear came without warning.
Fifty-seven souls vanished before dawn—one after another, swallowed by the night without a trace. Whispers slither through the abandoned alleyways. Parents weep behind locked doors. The laughter of children has dissolved into the howling Arctic winds. The city, once vibrant, is suffocating under the weight of its own silence.
Two months have passed. Northern White crumbles. The mayor, desperate and broken, sends a final plea.
O.R.D.A.R. arrives.
To break the chain. To hunt the unseen. To cleanse the dark.
But can they stand against the abyss—or will it devour them, as it has so many before?
A restless mob stood outside a large, three-story building. Officers held their ground, forming a barricade, shielding the structure from the growing crowd. The protestors weren’t violent—just standing there, holding up photographs of young children. Among them were the elderly, the young, and mostly middle-aged men and women in their forties. Their voices were not of rage, but of desperation.
At the top of the building, bold letters loomed over them all:
CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT OF NORTHERN WHITE.
Inside, silence choked the air. A few officers lingered near the windows, watching the crowd with unreadable expressions.
At the reception desk, a bulky, overweight officer named Bo Iman sipped his tea, utterly indifferent to the scene outside.
But on the second floor, the air was anything but still.
A man in his late fifties stood in the hall, his dark mustache stiff with tension. His graying hair and weathered, black skin bore the weight of experience. His chest, adorned with medals of service, should have been a mark of honor, but today, they felt like dead weight. The plaque on his desk bore his name:
ALBER B. KERIK, CHIEF OF NORTHERN WHITE POLICE.
Now, standing before his officers, his gaze cut through them like a blade.
He had always prided himself on being the city's protector. But now, frustration laced his voice, his fingers trembling at his sides.
“All of you… what are you even doing?” he demanded.
No one dared to answer.
“The case has been taken from us. Handed over to a private agency—O.R.D.A.R,” he continued, his voice heavy with barely contained rage. “And now? Now the whole damn country is watching us fail.”
His glare swept across the room, his finger stabbing through the air.
“Who’s going to answer the victims’ families? You? You? Or you?!” He pointed from one officer to another, his blood boiling, his anger undeniable.
“Have any of you even bothered to watch the news? Have you seen how they’re tearing us apart?” His voice rose to a near roar, but the only response was silence, echoing back at him like a cruel joke.
“They’re crucifying us out there! And I’m the one taking the brunt of it!" His jaw tightened. "Now listen to me—your fates are in the hands of the maroon coming from O.R.D.A.R. If any of you so much as blink the wrong way—don’t blame me for what happens next.”
His final words came out as a warning. With that, he turned sharply on his heel and stormed toward his office, his boots striking the floor with force.
As soon as he left, murmurs rippled through the room.
One officer—buzz cut, monolid eyes, thick brow nearly meeting in the middle—Mr. Shin Arikasa—muttered under his breath, “Thank God… he’s finally going home.”
Though quiet, his voice reached the wrong ears.
Alber stopped.
He turned slowly, eyes locking onto Shin with razor-sharp intensity.
“Mr. Arikasa… I'm not going anywhere.” His voice cut through the murmurs like a whip.
The room fell into dead silence.
“...Come to my office.”
The way his jaw clenched, the way his left cheek wrinkled under the weight of his fury—everyone knew. Mr. Shin was in trouble.
The other officers instinctively stepped away, distancing themselves from their soon-to-be-doomed colleague. Beads of sweat glistened on Shin’s face as he hesitated, but there was no escaping it. His fate had been sealed the moment those words left his lips.
The only sound in the room was his footsteps, following the chief into the lion’s den.
Outside, Northern White stood frozen—not by the cold, but by fear. The once-peaceful city, cradled beneath snow-capped peaks, now felt hollow, its streets lined with grief.
The crowd outside the Northern White City Police Department swayed like a restless tide. Faces pale from winter’s breath, eyes hollowed by sleepless nights. Photographs trembled in their hands—sons, daughters, names whispered like prayers.
Some clutched signs, the ink bleeding into the frost:
"Where are our children?"
"They were here, and now they are gone."
A distant temple bell tolled—a haunting, lonely sound. Slow, deliberate, like a requiem for the missing.
The air carried more than the weight of snowfall. It carried the hush of a city that had lost its heartbeat.
Then, a cry shattered the silence.
“They don’t care! They never cared!”
The camera turned, the red light blinking as Anaya Mehar stepped into frame.
Anaya Mehar adjusted her earpiece, standing just outside the police department, the crowd swelling behind her. The red recording light blinked. She took a breath and spoke with measured urgency.
“This is Anaya Mehar, reporting live from Northern White City Police Department, where protests continue over the ongoing disappearances. Families of the missing are demanding answers, but so far, authorities remain silent.”
Behind her, a woman’s voice cracked through the noise.
“They don’t care! They never cared!”
The cameraman shifted focus, zooming in on the speaker—a disheveled woman clutching a worn photograph.
Anaya turned, stepping toward her. “Ma’am, may I ask—who is in that picture?”
The woman blinked at her, as if registering the question took effort. She hesitated, then raised the photo slightly.
“My son,” she said, voice thin but steady. “Galois… Galois Miller.”
Anaya’s expression softened. She gave the woman space but leaned in just enough. “Can you tell us what happened?”
Elena Solis pressed the photo to her chest. “He… he’s seventeen. Smart. So smart. Always tells me not to worry about him. He—” Her throat bobbed, a hand gripping her sleeve. “He went to school. And never came back.”
Silence stretched between them, only the distant hum of the crowd filling the space.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
“It’s been a month,” she whispered. “A whole month. And they—” she gestured toward the building, eyes burning. “They don’t even look for him anymore. They just move on.”
Anaya gave her a moment, then gently asked, “Where is his father?”
Elena shut her eyes. A deep inhale. Then, barely above a whisper: “Dead. War took him.”
Her fingers tightened around the picture. “Now my son is gone too.”
Around them, others lifted their love ones photographs, someone's- Sons or Daughters or Nieces or Nephews.
“Fifty-seven are missing. These are not just statistics, but individuals.” Anaya said, firmly.
-
Galios Solis (Age:17 years)
-
Nathan "Nate" Carter (Age:18 years)
-
Kenneth "Ken" Reynolds (Age:19 years)
-
Maya Delgado (Age:18 years)
-
Oliver Bennett (Age:18 years)
-
Alicia Monroe (Age:18 years)
-
Rohan Patel (Age:17 years)
-
Malik Thompson (Age:18 years)
-
Sophia Hayes (Age:16 years)
-
Leah Anderson (Age:17 years),......
The names kept coming, one after another. Anaya’s gaze remained fixed on the camera.
All missing.
And all the same age group, Anaya said.
People of Northern White—from the tragedy, only a few were suffering, some were affected, and most remained unaware of the growing danger in the city.
Students poured out of the school, their laughter and chatter filling the air. Some lingered behind to joke around, while others headed home without a care, enjoying the little moments.
In the middle of it all, a boy walked alone. His school uniform was the same as everyone else’s, yet something about him stood out. He was thin—his uniform hung loosely on him. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. His thick hair swayed in the breeze as he kept his hands in his jacket, his steps unhurried, his gaze distant.
“Acheron!” a voice called.
A boy, around his age, jogged over—his tone carrying both excitement and concern. Moderate in build, his energy was hard to miss. His hurried steps had long since earned him the name Silas ‘Sail’ Rivers.
“Did you hear what happened?” Sail asked between breaths. “Tomorrow—a girl from Section B—disappeared.”
Acheron quickened his pace. “I don’t want to know about any of this.”
“Why do you always stand alone?” Sail pressed, worry clear in his voice. “You should join us. Talk more instead of being like this—so… weird.”
Acheron’s voice remained indifferent. “What can I say when I have nothing to say? Besides, there’s no one to hear me.”
“No one?” Sail echoed, frowning.
Acheron stopped briefly, pulling his hands out of his pockets. His voice was calm but edged. “You talk too much… and I have better things to do.”
Without another word, he walked off, leaving Sail standing there, puzzled.
“Wait for me!” Sail called, chasing after him. “Are you going to your work?” Without taking a breath, he continued, “Why are you working when your grandfather left you a good amount of money, and his apartment is yours?”
He walked beside Acheron, hands clasped behind his head, gazing at the sky. The usual brightness in his expression was gone, replaced by quiet heaviness.
Acheron stopped and glanced at him. “I work because I want to.” His face was pale, neither happy nor sad. “What happened, Sail?” He stared into his friend’s eyes.
Sail averted his gaze. “Oh… nothing. But you should enjoy your life instead of working at some store.”
Acheron sighed. “Why do you sound like my grandfather, telling me what to do?” He pulled his hands from his pockets and let them hang at his sides. “You should mind your own business.” His tone was calm but sharp.
“You should be angrier,” Sail teased. “Cool down, cool down.” His voice was playful, but concern lingered in his eyes.
Acheron took a deep breath and resumed walking, slower this time. “Why don’t you just go with Kayo and his big, perfect, popular group?”
Sail hesitated before answering. “Don’t tell anyone, but…” He fell into step beside Acheron, eyes fixed on the road. “I think they’re weirder than you. So, I’m following the lesser weird guy.”
Acheron stopped, turning toward Sail. “Weird?”
Sail nodded.
“You’re awful,” Acheron muttered.
“Okay, okay, don’t be mean.”
“Now I’m mean?” Acheron scoffed and started walking again.
Sail grinned and threw an arm around Acheron’s shoulder. “Hmm… but just a little bit.”
They walked through a narrow passageway until they reached an old stone two-story building. Climbing the worn stairs, they entered a dimly lit hallway. Stopping at an apartment door, Acheron pulled out his keys. Sail stood beside him, gazing at the floor—this wasn’t his first time here.
“You’re coming to my apartment again?” Acheron asked, unlocking the door. “Won’t your parents worry?”
“Nah. They come home late most of the time. I’ll be back before they even notice.”
The door creaked open, revealing a modest living room connected to a small kitchen on the left. A corridor stretched from the end of the room, leading to two bedrooms—one on the right, one on the left—and a bathroom visible from the entrance.
Sail looked around at the familiar space. It was small, quiet—too quiet. He dropped onto an old, rough couch, where an elderly man was already sitting, almost transparent, bald, and silent, watching Acheron.
“You shouldn’t sit there,” Acheron said, a little worry creeping into his voice.
“Why!?” Sail asked, pushing his back against the aged sofa.
“The last time I saw my grandpa alive… he was sitting there.” Acheron’s words were quiet.
Sail widened his legs and glanced at the nearest photo frame—the same ghostly old man sitting there, beside a younger Acheron.
“Anyway… It’s been two months. He’ll be in heaven… resting,” Sail said, trying to sound reassuring.
Acheron muttered under his breath, “I don’t think so.”
The ghostly figure of the old man remained silent, just sitting there.
Acheron walked through the corridor and entered the right-side room. Moments later, he returned in a dark hoodie and long pants.
The old man exhaled deeply, shaking his head. “Are you going somewhere?” His gaze was on Acheron, but his words hung in the air, ignored by Acheron and unheard by Sail.
Acheron ignored the old man’s existence and turned to Sail. “I have work at five.”
Sail glanced at him. “Didn’t it start at six, like two days ago?”
“The timing changed.”
Sail frowned. “Aren’t you going to eat anything?”
“We’re going to the lottery store,” Acheron said. “You forgot? We each bought a ticket.”
The old man stood and stepped in front of Acheron, his voice firm. “Before you leave, eat something.”
His words were left unanswered.
Acheron stepped past him, and Sail stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “That’s why you’re so thin,” he muttered. “You should take better care of yourself.”
Acheron reached for the door, but it wouldn’t open.
The old man’s ghostly face phased through the door, his expression stern. “I will not let you leave hungry.”
Sail, oblivious to the presence, tilted his head. “Looks like the door is jammed.”
Acheron, seeing the ghost clearly, muttered, “Yeah…” He pushed against the door, struggling. "I'm not hungry…" he said quietly.
The old man’s ghost loomed over him. “Did you think you could just go?”
“Step aside,” Sail said, moving past Acheron. With a forceful push, the door swung open.
Acheron locked it quickly behind them.
Sail stretched. “You should get your apartment checked by a priest.”
Acheron tensed. “Why?”
“I don’t know… but every time I come here, I feel like someone’s watching... but you live alone.” A shiver ran through him.
“You think too much,” Acheron muttered, starting down the staircase.
The old man’s spectral form hovered at the threshold, his gaze heavy with silent disapproval.
“Maybe you’re right,” Sail said, following Acheron.
Acheron looked at him, and without any more words, they left the place.
Acheron and Sail strolled through the streets, their shadows stretching long under the evening sun. The road was nearly empty, lined with small stores—some attached to homes, others long since closed for the day.
They wandered past shuttered vegetable stalls and empty meat shops until they stopped in front of a dimly lit lottery store. The neon sign buzzed weakly above them. Inside, a middle-aged shopkeeper lounged in a wooden chair, eyes glued to the television.
“Hey, man,” Sail greeted, his eyes scanning the shelves.
“Yes, yes,” the shopkeeper said, stand straight from his sit, stepping closer.
“We bought some tickets yesterday.” Sail pulled a crumpled slip from his pocket and handed it over. His stance straightened, shoulders squaring. “Check it.”
Acheron stood beside him, watching with an amused smile.
The shopkeeper retrieved the latest prize list, his fingers tracing down the page.
“Three… one… four…” he read aloud. Sail’s breath hitched, anticipation flashing in his eyes.
“One… five… nine…” A pause. Then—
“You won.”
Sail pumped a fist. “Yes!” He grinned. “Now, hand over my million.”
The shopkeeper chuckled, shaking his head. “I don’t have a million for you, but you can take this.”
He vanished into the back, then returned with a baseball, tossing it lazily to Sail.
Sail caught it, staring at it like it had personally insulted him. “…You’ve gotta be kidding me.” His grin faded. “Give me my million. You can’t just keep my ticket.”
Acheron’s smirk widened.
The shopkeeper shrugged. “Check the list yourself,” he said, sliding it across the counter.
“This lottery is run by the state,” he explained while Sail skimmed the numbers. “The odds of winning first prize—the million—are…” He folded his arms, letting the silence drag.
“One in ten million.”
He let out a laugh. “Even I wouldn’t know if my store ever had a winner.”
Acheron’s voice cut through the laughter.
“I won.”
Sail’s head snapped up. He glanced at the numbers again, then back at Acheron, eyes widening. “Holy crap, he’s right! The numbers match!”
The shopkeeper’s smirk vanished. He yanked the list back, scanning it with wide eyes. A bead of sweat formed on his brow.
Sail let out a triumphant yell, throwing his arms around Acheron, bouncing with excitement. Acheron remained composed, his smile small but knowing.
The shopkeeper exhaled heavily. “It’s… not the same prize ticket,” he muttered.
Sail’s excitement stalled. “What are you saying?” His grip tightened on the ball.
The shopkeeper grabbed another chart, slapping it onto the counter. “Look at the ticket name.”
Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the back room.
As they walked down the dimming streets, Acheron lazily spun the baseball bat in his hand.
“A bat and a ball… not bad,” he mused.
The sky deepened into darkness, streetlights flickering to life. Few cars passed, their headlights slicing through the shadows.
“Not bad at all,” Sail muttered. “But that makes twenty-seven times we’ve failed to win a million.” He rolled the baseball between his fingers.
“We’ll win next time,” Acheron said, unwavering.
Sail sighed. “Every time, it falls just a little short.”
Acheron shot him a wink. “Don’t worry.”
Sail stopped suddenly. “Hey, aren’t you late for work?”
Acheron blinked.
Sail checked his phone. “It’s five o’clock.”
“Crap! Bye!” Acheron shouted, breaking into a sprint.
Sail cupped his hands around his mouth. “Take care of yourself!”
Still running, Acheron called back, “You too!” and adds in breath, "Take care!"
Sail stood there a moment, watching until Acheron disappeared into the distance.
A cool breeze stirred the air. He let out a breath, rolling the ball absentmindedly in his palm.
“…Maybe Mom’s waiting for me. I should head home.”
He turned toward an electronics store beside him, its display screen flashing news updates. A steady voice echoed from the speakers:
“A flying ship has been spotted near the northeast region, entering Northern territory. Witnesses describe it as massive, its sails glowing like a rising sun in the night sky. Reports link it to the mysterious disappearances in Northern White. Some claim the ship haunts the souls of children… others say aliens are behind it.”
Sail’s fingers curled around the ball. His eyes narrowed.
The night stretched before him, thick with uncertainty.
Whispers of Prayers
You Can Wear My Skin, But You Won’t Me.
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