The motorcar sputtered and groaned as it rolled to a stop, belching smoke from its exhaust pipe before halting beside a tall, black metallic gate. Its intricate design curled and swirled like creeping vines, their dark patterns twisting together, while bright red roses were carefully engraved along the metal, standing out like frozen embers. At the center, the Rothfane family crest gleamed in polished silver—a proud eagle with striking red wings, perched atop an ancient holy sigil. A symbol of power and legacy, it bore the weight of a name that commanded both reverence and fear.

  Nyro stepped out of the car, the crunch of gravel beneath his boots breaking the quiet air. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thick bundle of cash. Handing it to the driver, he noticed the old man hesitate, his bushy white mustache twitching slightly.

  “This is too much, Young Master,” the man said, his voice trembling with disbelief. “I can’t possibly accept this.”

  “Keep it, Mr. Herman,” Nyro replied, the name falling easily from his lips—a name he’d pieced together during their journey through casual conversation.

  The old man’s hands shook as he took the money.

  As Nyro handed over the money, his mind reeled back to the drive. He had noticed how, despite his urging to hurry, Mr. Herman had already been pushing the old motorcar to its limits, the engine straining with every turn of the wheel. He would’ve driven just as fast without me asking, Nyro thought. So why bother stopping to pick up a passenger in the first place?

  The answer was simple: it wasn’t the destination that mattered but the money he’d earn from getting there. The faster he dropped Nyro off, the quicker he could pick up another fare. More passengers meant more earnings.

  But as Nyro’s sharp eyes observed the man during the journey, he couldn’t ignore the clues that painted a more somber picture. Mr. Herman’s fingers were calloused and gnarled, the knuckles swollen and worn in a way that steering a wheel alone couldn’t explain. His nails were lined with black debris, suggesting hard labor—perhaps in a mine or a similar grueling job.

  This man isn’t just a driver, Nyro concluded. He’s a laborer too, scraping by with whatever work he can find.

  The picture sharpened further. Mr. Herman wasn’t simply working himself to the bone for survival—he was doing it for someone else. His weary frame and hollow cheeks told Nyro enough about his own struggles, but the urgency in his driving hinted at something more. Perhaps a sick wife or an ailing child waiting for him at home.

  Throughout the drive, Nyro had tried to draw him into conversation, weaving his questions as delicately as a spider’s web. But Mr. Herman had answered with short, polite responses, carefully steering the conversation away from anything personal. There had been moments when the old man’s lips twitched as if to speak, but he always stopped himself, gripping the wheel tighter.

  His pride and self-respect were evident—qualities that wouldn’t allow him to admit to his hardships or ask for help, no matter how desperate his circumstances might be. And yet, the hesitation—the unspoken weight in his eyes, had told Nyro everything he needed to know.

  Now, as the old man clutched the cash, his lips quivered, and his watery eyes brimmed with gratitude. He pressed the bundle to his heart as if it were a lifeline. “Thank you, Young Master. This old man is forever indebted to you,” he said, his voice cracking.

  Nyro said nothing, only giving a faint nod as the motorcar groaned back to life. Smoke puffed from its pipes as Mr. Herman drove off, the silhouette of his car disappearing into the misty horizon. He lingered for a moment, hands in his pockets, his thoughts still circling the old driver’s plight.

  Then—

  “Young Master!”

  The voice slithered through the iron bars of the gate, cold and clipped, sending a sharp jolt down Nyro’s spine.

  His muscles tensed instinctively. That voice. That tone. He exhaled through his nose, his pulse settling into reluctant recognition. Slowly, he turned.

  Beyond the gate, standing just past the mansion’s towering doors, was a figure of dignified yet imposing presence.

  Esmund.

  The ever-formidable butler of the Rothfane house stood with his usual air of composed authority, but Nyro didn’t miss the tightness in his posture, the barely restrained ire flickering behind his sharp gaze. His stark white hair, streaked with black, was slicked back with oil, not a strand out of place. A thick, immaculately groomed mustache framed his withered yet resolute face. He was dressed in a pristine white shirt beneath a tailored black tailcoat—the kind that fanned out elegantly into pointed ends, a testament to his meticulous nature.

  One gloved hand rested behind his back while the other remained stiffly at his side, fingers flexing ever so slightly as if restraining the urge to drag Nyro inside himself. His monocle caught the midday light, glinting like a blade, as if scrutinizing Nyro’s very existence. And judging by the sheer displeasure carved into his features, his expression could have soured milk.

  “You are precisely ten minutes late,” Esmund stated, his voice cutting through the distance like a whip. “You were expected to deliver the opening speech.”

  Nyro let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah, Esmund. Always a pleasure.”

  “Do not attempt flattery, Young Master. It is wasted on me.”

  Nyro glanced at the locked gate and then back at Esmund. “So, are you just going to stand there and lecture me from a distance, or are you actually going to let me in?”

  A muscle twitched in Esmund’s jaw. He inhaled slowly, clearly tempering his frustration, before exhaling in a controlled sigh. Without another word, he turned and pressed a discreet mechanism beside the gate. With a low groan, the iron doors creaked open, allowing Nyro passage.

  Stepping inside, Nyro took his time, rolling his shoulders as he cast a glance toward the looming mansion. The weight of the occasion pressed against the air, heavy and unspoken.

  Esmund, now a few steps away, resumed his lecture with a patience that could only come from years of dealing with him. “Your brother is furious,” he continued. “And frankly, I do not blame him. As head of the Rothfane family, you are expected to uphold—”

  Nyro sighed dramatically. “Responsibility and decorum, yes, yes, I know. It’s like you’ve got that engraved into your bones, Esmund.”

  Esmund’s expression remained unmoved. “Perhaps if you had it engraved into yours, we would not be having this conversation.”

  Nyro smirked. “And here I thought being late meant skipping the speech, not getting two in return. But really, is Rainer that mad? I mean, I’m here now. Let’s not dwell on the past. Besides,” he added, gesturing toward the mansion, “we wouldn’t want to keep my adoring fans waiting, would we?”

  Esmund exhaled, adjusting his monocle with a flick of his gloved fingers. “For once, spare me your quips and try not to embarrass the family any further.”

  Then, in a fluid motion, he bowed ever so slightly and extended an arm, gesturing toward the mansion’s entrance. “After you, sir.”

  Nyro cocked an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “And here I thought you were so busy lecturing me that you nearly forgot where we were supposed to be.”

  Esmund’s jaw twitched—just slightly, before he turned on his heel, as they both strode toward the house.

  Inside, the hall was transformed to accommodate the memorial. Rows of chairs, draped in black, faced a temporary podium set at the center of the room. Behind the podium, a sweeping staircase rose, splitting midway into two elegant staircases that curved upward to the first floor. The polished banisters gleamed under the soft light of a massive chandelier.

  The attendees, dressed in dark, formal attire, sat solemnly. Men wore tailored suits in shades of black and gray, their ties neatly knotted, while women donned dresses of muted elegance, their faces hidden behind delicate veils.

  At the podium stood Police Commissioner Bram Whicher, a man in his late forties with a stern yet dignified presence. His dark blue uniform was adorned with gold trim and insignia of rank, the buttons polished to perfection. His square jaw and piercing eyes gave him an air of authority, and his salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed back.

  “Sir Fran?ois Rothfane and Lady Gloria Glessner Rothfane were not just pillars of this community,” Bram said, his deep voice carrying across the hall, “but pillars of justice and integrity. Sir Fran?ois, with his unparalleled mind, solved some of the most complex cases in our city’s history. And Lady Gloria, with her brilliance in forensic science, was his steadfast partner in uncovering the truth.”

  Bram’s voice softened, a hint of admiration creeping in. “It was because of them that I chose this path. Sir Fran?ois was not just an investigator but a mentor—one who showed me the power of perseverance and intellect. Their legacy is one we can only strive to uphold.”

  Nyro, however, barely registered the words. His eyes roamed the room, scanning the faces of the attendees. He wasn’t looking for Commissioner Whicher’s admiration or the somber respect of the crowd; he was searching for someone. His gaze eventually landed on a small group of police officers gathered near the back of the hall, standing apart from the rest.

  As Nyro approached, one of the officers—a wiry man with sharp features and an ever-present sneer—spotted him. “Well, well,” the officer said loudly, drawing the attention of his colleagues. “Look who decided to grace us with his presence. If it isn’t the disgrace of the Rothfanes, the liar himself.”

  The others chuckled, their disdain evident. Nyro slowed his pace, exhaling as he stopped in front of them.

  “Calder,” Nyro said, meeting the sneering officer’s gaze. “I thought you’d grown out of this kind of thing. A memorial isn’t the place for your theatrics.”

  The words hit Calder like a slap, and for a brief moment, the officer’s smirk faltered. He looked like he might say something, but instead, he crossed his arms and squared his jaw, his sneer returning full force.

  “Still the same smug bastard, I see.” He flicked his eyes over Nyro, eyes full of contempt. “Forging those documents, pretending to be something you’re not—what kind of person does that? You really think anyone here’s forgotten what you did?”

  The other officers murmured their agreement, their mocking tone dimming under the weight of Nyro’s steady gaze.

  Nyro’s expression remained unchanged, though a flicker of annoyance danced behind his eyes. He let out a long breath, exhaling slowly to keep his cool.

  “I’m not here to argue with you,” Nyro replied, voice calm but firm. “I came to ask: where’s Detective Nel? She’s not here?”

  Calder’s lips twisted into a mock-thoughtful frown. “She was here. But maybe she left after seeing you,” he said, a touch of sarcasm in his voice. “I don’t blame her. If I were her, I’d leave too.”

  Nyro’s jaw tightened for a moment, his eyes flicking down to the floor as he muttered under his breath, “At least she should’ve given me a chance to explain myself…”

  Calder, overhearing, let out a bark of laughter, “What? What’s that supposed to mean?” He stepped closer, crowding Nyro’s space with an air of superiority. “You think she’ll listen to you after everything that happened? You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

  Nyro turned his head slightly, keeping his gaze unblinking and steady. “Look, Calder, I know you don’t like me. I get it.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “But setting that aside, it’d be grateful and kind of you to deliver my message to her. Tell her to meet me at Baker’s Brew tomorrow at 9:30 in the morning.”

  The other officers snorted, clearly amused by Nyro’s persistence. Calder’s face darkened with barely-contained anger. “You’re one persistent prick, Rothfane. She’s been avoiding you for a month, and you still don’t take the hint. I think that should’ve made it pretty clear that she doesn’t want to see you, much less meet with you.”

  Nyro remained silent, his expression cool, unwavering.

  “Do you feel any shame?” Calder continued, voice rising. “You betrayed her trust, used her for your own gain—she trusted you, and look where that got her.” He paused, his anger reaching its peak. “You ruined her, and now you come back like nothing happened?”

  Nyro’s eyes narrowed slightly but still didn’t show any emotion. His voice was low and measured as he spoke, “If you think I’m going to apologize for what I did, you’re wrong. I’m not here to discuss that. Just tell her to meet me. You don’t have to like me, but at least give her the message.”

  Calder stared at him, breathing heavily in frustration. For a moment, it looked like he might lash out physically, but instead, he exhaled sharply, shaking his head in resignation. “Fine. I’ll relay your message.” He leaned in close, his voice low. “But I hope she doesn’t meet with you. I hope she doesn’t forgive you for what you pulled earlier.”

  With that, Calder shoved past Nyro, the contact harsh enough to make Nyro take a small step back. The others followed suit, giving Nyro one last, disdainful look before they moved off toward the refreshments.

  The crowd around him had returned to its murmurs and whispers, but Nyro’s mind was elsewhere, his thoughts on the conversation he’d just had.

  He shifted his attention back to the podium, where his older brother, Rainer Rothfane, was now stepping up to speak. The atmosphere in the room shifted again, the reverence for Rainer’s presence palpable as he adjusted the microphone. Nyro exhaled softly, pushing the thoughts of the officers and Detective Nel aside—for now.

  “My mother and father loved this city deeply,” Rainer said, his tone steady but carrying the weight of grief and responsibility. “They dedicated their lives to making it a better place, not just for us, their family, but for everyone who called Duskmoor home. That’s why, in their honor, the Rothfane family, along with the Flanagans, Volkovs, Savianos, Minervas, and Balazars, has decided to fund an orphanage.”

  A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “This orphanage will provide a safe haven for children who have lost their parents—a place where they can grow, learn, and dream. A place where they can find the care and guidance every child deserves. We also plan to donate to several government initiatives aimed at uplifting the lives of common folks because that’s what our parents believed in: giving a hand to those who need it most.”

  Rainer’s voice softened as he concluded, “Let us carry their legacy forward—not just as a family, but as a community united by their vision of compassion and service. Thank you for being here today to honor their memory.”

  He stepped back from the podium, his expression firm, though a faint shadow of grief lingered in his eyes. The room remained respectfully silent before polite conversations began to hum once more.

  Nyro lingered near the edge of the crowd, his hands shoved into his pockets as he avoided eye contact. He knew his brother would find him soon, and sure enough, the taller, broad-shouldered figure of Rainer Rothfane cut through the mingling guests with purposeful strides.

  Rainer’s presence commanded attention, his dark suit was perfectly tailored, but the sharpness of his features—his jaw tight, his brow furrowed—betrayed the calm he tried so hard to project. The crowd around them fell quiet as Rainer stopped directly in front of Nyro, the tension between them palpable.

  “Nyro,” Rainer's voice was low, but it shook with frustration, the words almost strangled. “Where the hell were you? You were supposed to give the opening speech.”

  Nyro glanced at him, but didn’t meet his gaze, his jaw tightening.

  “Don’t give me that look,” Rainer pressed, taking a step closer. “How could you do this? Of all days, today. You’re becoming—” his hands moved to his sides, fists clenching and unclenching in the air, “—insensitive. Irresponsible. Do you have anything to say for yourself!?”

  Nyro’s gaze flickered up to meet his brother’s, and his voice rose, an edge of defiance creeping into his words. “What do you want me to say, Rainer? That I’m sorry? That it won’t happen again? Because none of this”—he gestured around the room with a sharp wave—“makes a damn bit of difference to me.”

  Rainer’s face twisted in disbelief. “Why are you doing this? Your behavior—it’s like you don’t even care anymore.”

  Nyro’s expression remained cold and unreadable, his eyes hardening. “I haven’t changed, Rainer. It’s them who left us. Every year we do this charade—talking about them like it’s going to bring them back. If standing up there and sugarcoating their memory makes you feel better, fine. But it doesn’t work for me. It never has.”

  Rainer’s hand shot up, a swift movement as if to strike, but the words died in his throat. The room felt suddenly smaller, the silence heavy. His frustration was so raw it seemed almost tangible, like a living thing between them.

  “Nyro!” Rainer’s shout rang out, cutting through the crowd. The guests around them fell into a hushed silence, eyes drawn to the unfolding drama. The weight of their expectations felt suffocating, and Nyro could feel every gaze on him like a weight pressing down on his chest.

  But before Rainer’s hand could fall, a slender figure stepped forward, moving quickly between them. The soft click of heels on the polished floor was the only sound before Norah Rothfane, Rainer’s wife, placed a firm but gentle hand on his arm.

  “Dear, stop.”

  Her presence was calming, a stark contrast to the tension. She was a vision of elegance, her dark auburn hair pinned neatly, soft waves framing her delicate face. Her emerald-green dress was simple yet refined, the fabric flowing gracefully as she moved. Her hazel eyes, warm but firm, met Rainer’s with quiet authority.

  “This is your parents’ memorial,” she said softly but firmly, her tone unwavering. “Please, keep your respect for them. Don’t do this here.”

  Norah turned her gaze toward Nyro, her eyes softening as they met his. There was a flicker of something—disappointment, concern, but also understanding. She didn't say it aloud, but Nyro could feel it. Please leave. Now.

  Her subtle gesture with her eyes, the brief shift of her gaze toward the staircase, was all it took. It was a silent command, and Nyro understood it immediately. He hesitated only for a moment, his body stiff, his hands still shoved into his pockets, before he turned and walked away without a word. He could feel the heat of Rainer’s anger still burning against his back, but he didn’t look back.

  As he walked toward the grand staircase, the whispers of the crowd started up again, rising like a tide. The hum of conversations filled the space left behind by the confrontation, but it didn’t reach Nyro. He was lost in his thoughts, the sting of the exchange still sharp on his skin.

  Norah stood motionless, her gaze never leaving Nyro’s retreating form. Her eyes softened, a flicker of pain flashing across her face before she turned back to Rainer, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s hurting, Rainer. He just won’t show it the way you do.”

  Rainer’s frustration didn’t ease, but he exhaled heavily, his gaze following Nyro until he disappeared. “That’s no excuse for his behavior,” he muttered, his voice thick with frustration. “Not here. Not today. He has no right to act like this.”

  “No, it’s not an excuse,” Norah agreed, her tone steady but gentle. She gave Rainer a small, sympathetic smile. “But you know he doesn’t handle grief the same way. He doesn’t express it like you or I do. That doesn’t make it any easier to understand, but he’s still your brother. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

  Rainer’s shoulders slumped, the fight seeming to drain out of him. He exhaled deeply, his gaze flicking toward the staircase where Nyro had disappeared. For a brief moment, Rainer seemed smaller, less certain. “I just don’t know how to reach him anymore.”

  “You don’t have to reach him right now,” Norah replied softly, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “Just... be patient. He’ll come around. In his own time. Just don’t push him too hard.”

  Rainer nodded reluctantly, his expression still tight, but there was a flicker of understanding behind his eyes. “I just want him to care again,” he muttered, more to himself than to Norah.

  His eyes drifted back to the podium, where the speech was about to continue, but Nyro’s words, and the look on his face as he walked away, stayed with him.

  Nyro’s room was a testament to his occupation as a detective, though it was far from orderly. The walls, lined with dark mahogany shelves, were filled with stacks of crime reports, case files, and worn-out books on criminal psychology, investigative techniques, and the occasional memoir of notorious criminals. At the far end of the room stood his study desk, its surface cluttered with an assortment of paperwork—old case files, half-filled notebooks, and yellowing newspaper clippings. The smell of ink and paper mixed with the faint scent of cold coffee, a sign that his work often carried over late into the night.

  A few books on the desk were open, pages turning yellow at the edges, their contents underlined and annotated. In the corner, a corkboard displayed a web of connections, crime scene photos, and scattered notes pinned together with red threads crisscrossing between them. It was the kind of room where chaos made sense, where every object, no matter how misplaced, seemed to have a purpose in the larger picture he was trying to piece together.

  Nyro sat at his desk, his expression one of quiet frustration. His fingers slid across the mess, pushing papers aside, knocking over empty mugs, and sending pens rolling off the table. His thoughts were tangled—anger bubbling beneath the surface, though he couldn’t place it. Was it anger at his brother, at himself, or at the situation he found himself in? He didn’t know. He just rubbed his hand over the pile of papers in front of him, letting them fall where they may, the tension building in his chest.

  As his hand brushed against a particularly old newspaper cutting, it slid free from the pile. The headline read: "Louise Minerva: An Aspiring Reporter Commits Suicide."

  The words seemed to freeze time for a moment. His breath caught, his pulse quickening, and the anger—though still present—shifted into a heavy, aching sorrow. His fingers trembled as he picked up the clipping, staring at the photograph of Louise, her bright eyes and hopeful smile, now forever trapped in a past that was no more.

  “Lou… I miss you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, as a single tear traced a line down his cheek.

  Without thinking, he opened a leather-bound diary from a stack beside him. The pages were filled with cryptic notes, observations, and scattered thoughts—case files and personal musings alike. He turned to a page at the back, where the heading read “Dead Men Tell the Best Tales.” Beneath it, several discoveries were marked—Discovery 1, Discovery 2, and so on, each with a few lines of text written underneath, full of implications and mysteries yet to be solved. He folded the newspaper clipping neatly, slipping it between the pages, using it as a makeshift bookmark to keep his place.

  With a sigh, he slammed the book closed, a weight settling on his chest. He threw the diary to the side carelessly, like it was just another burden.

  The bed, unmade and messy, beckoned him like a void, so he flopped onto it with a dramatic thud. The old frame creaked under his weight as he lay there, staring up at the ceiling. The silence of the room enveloped him, and though he shifted and turned on the bed—uncomfortable and restless—he couldn’t pinpoint when exactly sleep overcame him, dragging him into an uneasy slumber.

  The morning light filtered through the curtains, warm but tinged with the coolness of dawn. Nyro’s eyes fluttered open, the soft rays brushing his face, and for a moment, he lay still, soaking in the rare calm. His mind, however, was far from calm—thoughts of Louise, the case, and his family all tangled together in a knot he couldn’t untie.

  After freshening up, Nyro descended the grand staircase into the dining hall. The maids had already set the table—porcelain plates, gleaming silver cutlery, and delicate tea cups arranged neatly on the long wooden table. The air was quiet, save for the clinking of cups and the soft shuffle of maids moving about. It seemed his brother and sister-in-law, Rainer and Norah, were still asleep, but his niece, a bright-eyed girl with her hair tied into pigtails, was already sitting at the table, eating her breakfast.

  Standing beside her was Esmund, the ever-stern but reliable butler, along with two twin maids, Ilina and Irina, who silently moved to the kitchen.

  Esmund glanced over at Nyro and said, “Ilina, Irina—set the table for the young master.”

  “Yes, sir,” the maids replied in perfect unison, swiftly moving to prepare his meal.

  Nyro’s niece, who couldn’t have been older than eight, looked up suddenly. Her eyes sparkled with joy as she saw him, her face lighting up like a flower catching the first rays of sunlight.

  “Uncle Nyro!” she exclaimed, her voice as sweet and innocent as a summer breeze.

  Nyro smiled warmly, leaning down to her level as he sat beside her at the table. “Getting ready for school, huh? Daddy’s princess,” he teased gently.

  She pouted and turned her face away, crossing her arms. “Uhm… Mama and Papa are still sleeping, but I have to go to school,” she said, looking over at him with a hint of annoyance.

  “Well, you have to go to school,” Nyro said, grinning. “You want to be a good girl when you grow up, right?”

  As he spoke, the maids placed his breakfast on the table—a simple meal of bread, omelette, and a steaming cup of tea.

  Nyro glanced at his niece as he took a bite of bread. “Your father was working last night, that’s why he’s resting,” he continued, his tone light. “You really broke my slumber last night when you knocked on my door. I think it was around 8:30 or 9, maybe? You said you couldn’t find Papa.”

  His niece looked up at him, her big eyes wide with disbelief. “What are you talking about, Uncle?”

  Before Nyro could respond, Esmund interrupted, his voice as stoic as ever. “Miss, your bus has arrived. Time to go.”

  The maids wiped his niece’s face and hands, then quickly grabbed her bag, preparing her for the bus.

  “Love you, Uncle. Goodbye!” she called as she dashed toward the door.

  Nyro’s heart warmed, a blush creeping to his face, but then she added, “Please, buy me Mr. Fluffy!”

  The mention of the toy sent a playful jolt through him, and he sighed in mock sorrow. “You little deviless, buttering me up for a toy? You’re too cruel!” he said, pretending to sulk.

  She stopped in her tracks, wide-eyed and concerned. “I… I was telling the truth, Uncle! Don’t cry!”

  Nyro couldn’t keep the act up, and with a grin, he chuckled loudly, sending her into an embarrassed pout.

  “Huh! Uncle, you’re stupid!” she grumbled, heading out the door.

  As the door closed behind her, Esmund chuckled quietly under his breath. “You’re clearly having an influence on her, young master. Especially in the sweet-talking and buttering part.”

  “Yah, yah,” Nyro mumbled, still laughing. He finished his bread and gestured toward the old television in the corner of the room. It was a vintage piece, placed on a low stand, its picture flickering with a static hum. “Turn on the news, Esmund. I can’t believe how quiet our city has been lately.”

  Esmund pressed the button on the remote, and the screen flickered to life. The news anchor’s voice came through, delivering a report in the usual professional tone.

  “—and in local news, a tragic event has shocked the community this morning. Darla Baker, daughter of the owner of Bakers Brew, a modest local coffee shop, has been found dead inside the shop. Authorities confirm she was brutally stabbed multiple times, with the crime scene described as horrific. The police were alerted by a passerby who noticed the shop's door ajar and discovered her body. Investigations are ongoing…”

  Nyro froze. The bread slipped from his hand and hit the plate with a faint thud. His chest tightened as his eyes locked onto the screen. Darla Baker. The name echoed in his mind, striking a nerve he couldn’t immediately place. The reporter’s voice droned on, but his thoughts drowned it out, spiraling into the unsettling realization.

  “Miss Darla Baker,” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible.

  “She’s dead…” he whispered, the weight of the revelation sinking in.

  The room seemed colder, quieter. Even Esmund paused, watching Nyro’s reaction, his usual composed demeanor softening slightly.

  “Young Master…?” Esmund’s voice broke the silence, but Nyro didn’t respond.

  Nyro's fingers tightened around his cup, the heat barely registering against his skin. His thoughts raced, piecing together memories of Darla Baker—the quiet, cheerful barista who always had a warm greeting for her customers. He remembered the scent of freshly brewed coffee that lingered in the air whenever he visited Baker’s Brew, the small coffee shop her father had poured his life into.

  He had spoken to her just yesterday. Nyro had brushed it off at the time, assuming it was nothing more than the usual unease that came with working late shifts in a city like theirs.

  And now… she was gone.

  His grip on the cup tightened until a sharp crack split through the quiet air. He blinked down at it, realizing he had nearly shattered the delicate porcelain. With a deep breath, he set it down carefully, rubbing his temples as the weight of the news settled in.

  Esmund observed him quietly before speaking, his voice calm but firm. “Will you investigate, young master?”

  Nyro didn’t answer immediately. His mind was already working, sorting through the details, the possibilities, the motives. Darla hadn’t been a person who made enemies. She was kind, hardworking, and well-liked by the locals. A senseless killing? A robbery gone wrong? Or was it something more?

  “I need more details,” he finally muttered, pushing his plate aside. The appetite he had just moments ago had vanished entirely.

  Esmund gave a slight nod. “Shall I fetch your coat?”

  Nyro exhaled, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He hadn’t planned on working today. He had hoped—naively—that he could let his mind rest after last night’s disaster at the memorial. But the city never slept, and neither did crime.

  “Yes,” he said at last. “Bring my coat. I need to see the crime scene.”

  As Esmund moved to fetch his belongings, Nyro glanced toward the television again. The news had moved on to another story, but the damage had already been done. His mind was hooked on the case now, unable to let it go.

  He had learned long ago that the dead always had something to say.

  And it was his job to listen.

  The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp stone and distant rain. The streets were quieter than usual, as if the city itself sensed the unease of what had happened.

  By the time Nyro arrived at Baker’s Brew, the area had already been cordoned off with thick yellow tape. Officers milled about, their faces set in grim determination as they took notes and examined the scene. The coffee shop, usually bustling with morning customers, now stood eerily still.

  A uniformed officer approached him, recognizing him immediately. “Detective Rothfane,” he greeted with a curt nod. “Didn’t think we’d see you here so soon.”

  Nyro barely spared him a glance. “What do we have?”

  The officer sighed, flipping open his notepad. “Darla Baker, twenty-two years old. Found dead inside the shop early this morning. Multiple stab wounds, signs of a struggle. The door was left open, which is how she was discovered.”

  Nyro frowned. “Forced entry?”

  “No signs of it. Either she knew the killer, or they got to her before she had a chance to react.”

  His gaze swept over the shop’s entrance. The wooden sign above the door swayed slightly in the breeze, the cheerful lettering of Baker’s Brew feeling oddly out of place in such a grim setting.

  “She had strange marks,” Nyro muttered, half to himself. “Yesterday. I saw strange marks on her body like she was beaten and clearly she was trying to hide that.”

  The officer’s head snapped up. “You think it’s connected?”

  Nyro’s jaw tightened. “We won’t know until we look deeper.”

  His gut told him this wasn’t just a random act of violence. Darla had been scared, and now she was dead. It was too much of a coincidence.

  And Nyro didn’t believe in coincidences.