Carl rode the elevator up through the inpatient wing of Lansnat Medical College Hospital, the machinery humming quietly around him. His hand drifted to the badge in his pocket, thumb tracing its familiar edges.

  He pushed open the door to Room 503. The air was thick with the sharp tang of disinfectant and a hint of mildew. Half-closed blinds let in thin shafts of sunlight, dust swirling in the beams. The light and shadow played across Clark’s bed, breaking it into a patchwork of gray and gold.

  Clark was almost unrecognizable. The man Carl remembered—a gentle, soft-spoken professor—was gone. In his place was a hollowed figure: cheeks sunken, skin ashen, eyes bloodshot and deep-set beneath heavy brows. He looked like something preserved, not quite alive.

  “Detective Carl.” Clark’s voice was rough, echoing from somewhere deep, as if it had to fight its way up from the basement. “Didn’t expect you’d actually come.”

  The heart monitor ticked away, its green line crawling across the screen. Sunlight cut across Clark’s face, breaking it into shifting fragments.

  “Professor Clark,” Carl said, forcing himself to meet the man’s gaze. “What happened?”

  Clark’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “Asthma. Nothing serious.” He lifted a hand, pale and thin, laced with IV lines and tape.

  Carl noticed the bluish tinge to Clark’s nails. He’d seen it before—people on the edge.

  “I wanted to ask about Thomas,” Carl said, watching Clark’s fingers twitch. “Did you know him well?”

  Clark’s eyes drifted to the window. “We crossed paths at the bar a few times. He wasn’t easy company, but I wouldn’t call him a bad man.” He gave a small, bitter smile. “People are hard to figure out.”

  “He has a cousin,” Carl said, watching the monitor skip. “Did you ever meet her?”

  Clark’s hand twisted the bedsheet. “A girl? I saw him with a young woman once or twice, but I didn’t know her.”

  Carl slid a photo onto the bedside table. The girl in the picture wore a blue uniform, her face shadowed and solemn.

  “Her name’s Anko.”

  Clark’s eyes went wide. The monitor shrieked. He started to shake, the bed frame rattling against the floor.

  “She’s not like the rest… She’s not…” Clark’s voice broke, his words tumbling out in a feverish rush. “She’s… touched. Chosen. Not meant for this world.”

  His eyes burned with a wild, unsettling light. Carl felt a chill run through him. He’d seen plenty of madness, but this was different—something deeper, more dangerous.

  Clark caught himself, breathing hard, but the wildness lingered in his eyes.

  “Chosen?” Carl echoed, careful.

  Clark closed his eyes, took a long breath. The room seemed to grow colder, the sunlight fading. When he looked up again, his gaze was sharp, almost lucid.

  “Detective,” he said, voice low and rough, “do you believe in anything beyond this? Do you know what it’s like to stare death in the face, day after day?” He ran a finger along the IV in his arm. “Sometimes faith is all that’s left. Sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps you breathing.”

  Carl barely recognized the man in front of him. The professor he’d known was gone, replaced by a stranger.

  The door swung open. The smell of disinfectant rushed in. A nurse in a mask pushed a cart, a big orderly behind her.

  “Professor Clark, time for dialysis.”

  The orderly lifted Clark into a wheelchair. The hospital gown slipped, revealing an arm marked with needle tracks, veins like dried vines.

  As they wheeled him out, Clark turned. “Detective, tell Elizabeth not to worry,” he said, his voice suddenly clear, almost bright. “Everything’s going to change soon. You’ll see.”

  Carl stood there, sunlight flooding back into the room. By the time he came to, Clark was gone, headed for the OR. He started after him, but caught the nurses whispering in the hall.

  “Professor Clark’s a miracle,” the younger one said, pity in her voice. “His heart’s failing, but he still believes he’ll make it.”

  Carl stopped. The OR doors at the end of the hall swung shut with a soft thud.

  His phone rang. Kim.

  “Chief,” Kim sounded tired, “I talked to those two Duville students and Chris the mechanic. They all say they don’t know Anko, and…”

  Kim trailed off. Carl could hear him breathing, papers rustling.

  “Go on,” Carl said quietly.

  A long pause. “Shimura Yu will be waiting in the interview room. I’ve set it up.” Kim’s voice was barely a whisper. “Chief… I’m sorry.”

  Carl looked out at the oak tree, silent for a moment. “Thank you.”

  Just two words, but they said everything. He knew what it meant—no more backup. Kim had done all he could.

  The interview room’s fluorescent lights buzzed. Shimura Yu slumped in a metal chair, staring at the ceiling.

  His hair was greasy, plastered to his scalp, gray streaks running from his temples to his chin, blending with his stubble. His suit was wrinkled, tie loose, collar stained yellow. He smelled sour, like something left to rot.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Carl took out a handkerchief, covering his nose and mouth.

  He nodded for the officer to leave. When the footsteps faded, he sat across from Shimura. The chair scraped the floor.

  “Do you remember me?”

  Shimura’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He didn’t look down. “Detective… Carl.” His voice was rough, barely used.

  “Do you remember the murder I mentioned before?”

  Carl saw Shimura’s fingers tapping the armrest, faster and faster. His breathing sped up.

  Suddenly, Shimura’s eyes went wide with terror. He shot up, knocking the chair over, and grabbed Carl’s hand, nails digging in.

  “Chief! It wasn’t me! I swear it wasn’t me!” His voice was wild, desperate, veins bulging on his forehead.

  Carl kept his voice calm. “I’m not talking about the couple. I mean the murder downstairs.”

  Shimura seemed to collapse, stumbling back.

  He let go, clawing at the air, sweat soaking his collar.

  “Do you know Thomas?” Carl slid a photo across the table. “Do you know this man?”

  Shimura flinched like he’d been shocked.

  His lips trembled, a whimper escaping.

  Then he slid off the chair, hitting the floor hard. He scrambled back to the corner, clutching his head, nails leaving bloody lines on his face.

  “The girl’s name is Anko,” Carl said, voice steady. “You saw Thomas kill her, didn’t you?”

  Shimura shook harder, teeth chattering. “They… they’re not human… It’s not my fault…” His voice was hollow, full of terror.

  Carl reached out, but Shimura bolted, crashing into the corner. He curled up, shaking, repeating, “They’re not human… It’s not my fault… They’re not human…”

  His voice rose to a scream. Officers burst in, the door slamming open.

  Carl watched as they dragged Shimura away, his face twisted with tears and spit. Carl sighed, rubbing his scratched wrist.

  He knew he’d get nothing more today. But Shimura’s reaction confirmed his worst fear—this case was bigger than murder.

  Maybe I’ve already stepped into the abyss, Carl thought, and there’s no way back.

  The fluorescent light flickered, throwing strange shadows on the wall.

  At the hospital’s outpatient wing, moonlight spilled through the windows, painting the empty hallway in silver. In Clark’s room, only the machines broke the silence, the green line on the monitor jumping in the dark, like life’s last struggle.

  A figure crouched on the window ledge, moonlight outlining his lean frame. Suddenly, the bedside lamp snapped on, and Clark’s face, pocked with needle marks, twisted into a strange smile.

  Moonlight slanted across Thomas Yamia’s sharp features. He stared at Clark, whose skin was yellowing and peeling, but whose lips still held a secret confidence.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” Clark rasped, his voice like broken glass.

  Thomas pressed his lips together. “Didn’t expect it to be you.”

  “Nor did I,” Clark said softly, something complicated in his eyes.

  “Give it to me, Clark.” Thomas’s voice was calm, the edge gone. He knew Clark was almost finished.

  Clark lifted his arm, trembling. “Pain’s a nuisance, but it’s better than death, isn’t it?”

  He glanced at the monitor. “See that? When the green line goes flat, it’s over.”

  “Your time’s almost up,” Thomas said, voice cold as ice.

  Clark laughed, a wild, broken sound. “Everyone dies, but that’s just this world. Once you’ve seen what I have, you know death isn’t the end.”

  “What did you see?” Thomas frowned.

  “Something you wouldn’t understand.” Clark’s eyes sharpened, then softened. “I know where you’re from. We’re both marked.”

  Thomas snorted. “You think you’re special? You’re just another pawn.”

  “No, I wasn’t abandoned! He saved me,” Clark’s voice rose, desperate.

  “People in the light never understand the dark. You think you’re close? Not even.” Thomas shook his head. “Death is all you get.”

  “No!” Clark’s voice was feverish. “He gave me knowledge, power over death!”

  Thomas’s eyes flickered with pity. “You think that was medicine? It’s poison, just slowing you down.” He looked Clark over. “Look at yourself.”

  Clark touched his cheek, feeling the dry, sick skin. He let out a sharp, crow-like laugh.

  “Let it go.” Thomas stepped forward, hand out. “Give it to me.”

  Clark clutched an old pocket watch to his chest, the sheet twisting in his bony fingers.

  A green light flickered in Thomas’s eyes. “That power isn’t yours. You should’ve died long ago.”

  “No! He’ll save me!” Clark’s voice was wild. “I did everything he asked!”

  “Still dreaming?” Thomas’s voice was ice. “He’s just a selfish demon. He left his family, his blood. He won’t save you.”

  The green in Thomas’s eyes grew brighter, his voice hard. “Give it to me.”

  Clark jerked up the watch. Its metal face flashed in the light, swinging on its chain. The wall clock’s pendulum stilled with a soft click.

  A wave of pressure rolled out from the watch, the air thick as syrup. Both men felt like they were sinking underwater, unable to move. Time froze—maybe for a second, maybe forever.

  Clark’s right hand moved first. “Time’s stopped,” he said, grinning at Thomas, who looked like a wax figure. “Feels good, doesn’t it, killer?”

  But then, in Thomas’s eyes, two green sparks flared. A hand clamped around Clark’s throat, cutting off his cry.

  “Fool,” Thomas’s voice was ice. “You can’t steal my time. I’m not your gullible wife.” His grip tightened. “Some power isn’t meant for you.”

  Clark’s eyes filled with terror and rage, his throat rasping. But Thomas’s hand was iron.

  “This is it,” Thomas said quietly.

  The heart monitor let out a long, flat beep. The green line went still. Moonlight spilled through the curtains, casting two shadows—one standing, one falling.

  Thomas let go. Clark slumped onto the bed, eyes empty, a single tear sliding down his cheek.

  The pocket watch slipped from his hand, hitting the floor with a soft clink.

  Thomas picked it up, staring at it as the green faded from his eyes.

  He vanished into the night, moonlight pouring down.

  On the edge of the city, an old manor stood on the mountain, its spires sharp in the moonlight. A single light glowed deep inside, casting an orange halo over a tall figure in the courtyard.

  The wind tugged at his black coat, the hem swaying, revealing a darker suit beneath.

  The old man raised his martini, the olive catching the moonlight.

  “To the souls about to leave,” he said, looking up at the moon, his blue eyes deep behind gold-rimmed glasses. “The story’s almost over, isn’t it?”

  His cane tapped the ground, sharp and clear. His silver beard gleamed coldly in the moonlight. “Death doesn’t choose, but some people offer themselves up.”

  The mountains looked darker under the night sky. He adjusted his bowler hat; his shoes, polished and black, caught the same light. “Funny, isn’t it? They’re sacrifices, but think they’re in control.”

  A cold wind rustled the pines. A small black shape slipped over the fence—a silver-gray stray cat.

  More cats appeared, circling the old man. He swirled his drink, lips curling in a faint smile. “Looks like we have company tonight.”

  The silver-gray cat jumped onto a cushioned chair. The others stopped a few feet away, as if waiting for something.

  The old man turned, his ebony cane tracing an arc in the moonlight. The cats parted for him, his shoes steady on the stone.

  He set down his martini, a smile in his blue eyes. He picked up a wine bottle, uncorked it, and poured dark red wine into a glass.

  “Patience is a virtue,” he said, swirling the glass, watching the wine catch the moonlight. “Isn’t it?”

  He took a straw from his coat, slipped it into the glass, and pushed it toward the silver-gray cat. The cat drank, amber eyes never leaving the old man.

  He dabbed his lips with a handkerchief, his silver beard trembling. “No need to rush. I’ll keep my promise. I’ll take care of them.”

  Soon, the cat finished the wine and slipped away with the others. The old man watched them vanish into the night, then picked up his martini again, the olive glinting in the moonlight.

  He looked up at the moon, its silver light reflected in his eyes, a deep, knowing smile on his lips—as if something truly interesting was about to begin.