₦airaland Forum

Part Six – The Doctor and the Warning

The sunlight over Victoria Island shimmered through the tinted glass as Caddy’s Mercedes rolled to a stop in front of New Genesis Hospital. Her sunglasses masked the sleepless shadows under her eyes. For the past few days, she had been busy — chasing Ray’s case through her father’s police connections, signing deals, running meetings — but every few hours, her mind drifted back to Patty.

She took a deep breath, checked herself in the rearview mirror, and stepped out. Inside the hospital, she moved with her usual confident stride — nurses greeting her like a visiting dignitary.

When she reached Room 307, she paused.
There was laughter inside.

Soft, light, unguarded laughter.

Caddy frowned. Her hand froze midair before knocking. She tilted her head slightly, listening. Patty’s voice — light, teasing — and a man’s voice answering, lower, warm, with that easy confidence that made people relax.

Her jaw tightened.

She pushed the door open without knocking.

Inside, Patty was sitting up on her bed, still weak but glowing. Her hair was tied back, her hospital gown replaced with a soft blue robe. Beside her stood Dr. David Lawson, leaning on the counter, smiling as he spoke.

They both turned as the door opened.

Patty’s face lit up.

“Caddy! You’re here!”



David straightened immediately, polite as ever.

“Miss Olugbenga.”
He nodded with professional calm.
“We were just talking. I’ll give you two a moment.”



Before Caddy could even speak, he slipped past her — smooth, respectful, annoyingly composed. She turned to watch him go, her gaze lingering just a little too long.

Then she turned back to Patty.

“What was that?”



Patty blinked innocently. “What was what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Patty. Who was that man to you?”



Patty’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “That man is my doctor, Caddy. Calm down.”

Caddy folded her arms. “Your doctor doesn’t sit by your bed like that, making you laugh like a schoolgirl. Don’t start this again.”

Patty sighed, smiling faintly. “Caddy, it’s nothing like that. David’s just… nice. Easy to talk to. He checks up on me, we talk about music, books—”

“Books?” Caddy snapped, incredulous. “Patty, you just got out of a relationship with a lunatic who nearly killed you, and now you’re— what— reading poetry with your doctor?”



Patty’s expression softened.

“He’s different, Caddy. You’d know if you talked to him. He listens. He actually sees me, not just what he wants.”

Please support this beautiful work by liking and commenting.

Part Five – The Storm and the Calm

The corridors of New Genesis Hospital, Victoria Island, gleamed white and sterile — the kind of clean that came only with money and influence. Every nurse, every orderly, moved briskly, speaking in soft tones. Yet in the middle of that hush, a storm was pacing.

Caddy.

Her heels struck the marble floors like thunderclaps. Her designer blazer was half-off her shoulder, her hair a controlled mess. Her phone was clutched in her hand, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

“Daddy, You need to have seen what that animal did to patty, Oh! I don’t care what it takes— get the police, the army, everyone. I want that bastard found tonight!”



Heads turned. Nurses paused mid-step. The receptionist looked down, pretending to type.

“Yes, I said tonight! I don’t care if he’s hiding under a gutter. I want Ray Francis picked up, stripped, and taught what it means to lay a hand on my friend!”



Her voice trembled, not from fear — from fury. Pure, undiluted rage.

The man on the other end, her father, tried to calm her. But Caddy cut the call before he could finish. Her nostrils flared, her chest heaved. She turned to the two nurses nearby — young, frightened girls — and barked,

“If that bastard excuse of a man shows up here, call security, the police, and me. In that order.”



“Yes, ma’am,” they chorused softly, eyes wide.

Caddy pushed open the door to Room 307, the private ward her money had bought in minutes. Inside, the air smelled of antiseptic and lavender diffuser oil. Machines beeped softly beside Patty’s bed.

Patty lay there, pale, wrapped in white sheets. The bruises on her cheek had darkened, but her breathing was steady. A nurse straightened a drip line and murmured, “She’s responding well. The doctor says she’ll be fine.”

Caddy only nodded, her jaw locked tight.

The doctor, a middle-aged man with rimless glasses, entered behind her, flipping through his chart. “Miss Olugbenga, there’s something we need to mention.”

He hesitated. “We found healed wrist cuts… old scars. Deep ones. She’s— she’s had them for a while.”

Caddy turned sharply, her eyes narrowing.

“That’s not your business,” she snapped. “It’s a long story. Just fix her. That’s what I’m paying you for.”



The doctor nodded quickly and exited without another word.

When they were gone, silence filled the room — except for the slow beeping of the monitor.

Caddy moved closer, her heels clicking softly now. She stared at Patty’s face — soft, fragile, stupidly innocent even in sleep.

“You… pathetic little fool,” she whispered. “You always let them do this to you. I warned you, didn’t I? I told you men were poison.”



Her eyes shimmered, not with tears, but something deeper — fury mixed with heartbreak.

She brushed a strand of hair from Patty’s forehead gently, almost tenderly.

“You’re mine, Patty. You hear me? Mine. Nobody hurts what’s mine. Nobody even touches what’s mine.”



She stood up straight, pulled her phone from her purse, and muttered,

“Ray Itome… you’re not going to see the sunlight again. I swear it.”



As she turned to leave, she almost collided with someone.

A young doctor — tall, dark-skinned, with a calm confidence that contrasted her storm. His badge read Dr. David Lawson.

“Oh— sorry, Miss,” he said quickly, steadying her before she stumbled. His hand brushed her arm gently.

She shot him a glare sharp enough to freeze air. “Watch where you’re going.”

He nodded, unbothered, that quiet kind of smile still lingering. “You should take a breath. She’s in good hands.”

Caddy didn’t respond. She just brushed past him, her heels clicking away toward the elevator.

David stood there a moment, watching her leave — amused, curious.

Then he looked toward the door she’d just exited from. “Room 307,” he murmured.

He pushed the door open slowly, stepping inside.

Part Four – The Knife in Her Heart

Patty had been pacing the parlor for almost an hour. Back and forth, like someone standing between two worlds — the woman she was, and the one she needed to become.

It had been five days since Caddy told her to do it — “Cut it clean, babe. Don’t drag it. He’ll never change.”
Five days since she’d been given the word.

Patty wasn’t built for confrontation. She was the peacekeeper, the soft voice in a storm. But this — this would be the first time she held the knife, the first time she’d have to make the cut herself.

Her heart thumped unevenly. The compound was quiet. Even the air felt thick. The gateman had told her Ray was around. She knew what that meant — it was time.

She stood by the window when the door opened.

Ray walked in, humming, half-smiling, all energy. “Babe! You won’t believe who I met!” he started, tossing his cap on the couch. “That big artist from the show — he gave me his number! Said he liked my stuff!”

He kissed her cheek playfully, but she didn’t move. Didn’t respond.

He pulled back, noticing it immediately. “What’s wrong?”

Her silence grew heavier than the air between them. She tried to speak, but the words got lost in her throat.

He frowned, the excitement on his face fading. “Patty…” he said slowly, “you’re not about to do this, are you?”

She took a breath. “Ray… I just—”

He raised a hand sharply. “Don’t. Not yet.” His voice was firm, cold. “You’re not doing this now.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It’s not working. It’s me, not you—”

Ray’s temper snapped like dry wood. “Don’t give me that movie line crap!” he shouted. “You promised me, Patty! You said you’d be there — for my show, my work, us! And now you’re what — backing out?”

He stepped closer, his face twisted in disbelief and fury. “You think you can just wake up and throw me away like I’m nothing?”

She stepped back, heart pounding. “Ray, please—”

He grabbed her wrist. “No, you listen to me. You don’t walk out on me, not after everything I’ve done—”

She yanked free. “I said no, Ray!”

Something changed in his eyes. A flash of something dark.

When she refused to hand him the money for his studio rounds — when she said that single word no — it was as if she had slapped him first.

His hand moved faster than her thoughts. The slap landed like a gunshot. Her head snapped sideways, hitting the edge of the center table. She fell, dazed.

“Look what you made me do!” he shouted, voice cracking, anger spilling out like poison.

She tried to crawl away, but his boot caught her side. Once. Then again. Her cry echoed in the room.

And then — silence.

Ray froze. His breath came in short bursts. The realization hit him like a wave. She lay curled up, sobbing quietly, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth.

He dropped to his knees beside her. “Baby… oh my God. Patty, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

She flinched away, trembling. “Get out.”

“Please, let me help you—”

“I said get out! Or I’ll call the police.”

He stared at her, broken, panicking, then stood and stumbled back toward the door. “Patty, please, don’t do this. I love you, I just—”

“Leave.”

And this time, he did.

The door slammed. The echo lingered longer than his footsteps.

Patty sat there for a long time, shaking. The world was a blur of sound and pain. Her breathing came uneven, shallow. She could taste blood. Her tears fell freely — not just from pain, but from exhaustion, from years of trying to fix what never worked.

Her phone lay beside her. She reached for it with trembling fingers. The screen lit up blurry through her tears.

She scrolled, pressed the name she knew she’d find there.

Caddy.

The line rang once, twice.

Patty pressed the phone to her ear, her voice barely a whisper.

“Caddy… it’s me…”



Her body hurt all over.

“He hit me.”

Part Three – Inside the Car (The Private Ecstasy)

As soon as the tinted Mercedes doors shut, silence swallowed her — rich, padded silence — before she burst out laughing.

It started as a low chuckle, then grew into a full, uncontrollable laugh — sharp, wild, deliciously wicked. The laughter echoed off the leather seats, filling the car like champagne bubbles.

Her hands trembled slightly on the steering wheel. She could feel every nerve in her body alive, tingling — her heart racing, her breath coming in short bursts. The adrenaline ran like fire through her veins.

“Oh God,” she whispered, still laughing, “that was perfect.”



The perfume bottle glimmered in her lap, small and ridiculous — a trinket worth nothing compared to her wealth, but priceless in the high it brought.

She wound down the window, the city air rushing in. Lagos shimmered outside — impatient horns, dusty heat, and chaos — but inside, she was queen of her own world. She held the perfume bottle between her manicured fingers, admired it once more, then flung it out into the street.

“Served its purpose,” she murmured.



The bottle shattered somewhere behind her as she sped off.

Her mind replayed the scene — the guard’s confusion, the terror in his eyes, the gasps from bystanders, the stammering apologies of the manager. She smiled, biting her lower lip.


A heat curled through her, dark and familiar. It wasn’t guilt. It was satisfaction. That sharp, forbidden pleasure that bloomed deep inside her, the one that had always been there — as long as she could remember.

She could almost feel the pulse between her thighs, the tension, the release that followed danger. It wasn’t about the object; it was about the moment — that exquisite instant of being untouchable.

Caddy’s laughter softened into a hum. She turned up the music — a high-tempo pop song, something mindless and bright — and sang along, carefree, almost childlike.



Flashback – The First Time

She didn’t even remember when it began. Maybe back in school. Maybe earlier.

It had started with a textbook — an old, blue-covered economics book she didn’t even need. She couldn’t explain why she took it, but that night, lying in her dorm bed, staring at the ceiling — she had felt something new. A rush. A secret joy that no amount of allowance or gift had ever given her.

The next time it was a lipstick. Then a pair of earrings. Then a silk scarf. Every time, it felt like catching lightning — that wild surge of control, of getting away with something forbidden.

The thrill became the only real thing in her life.

She’d married wealth, lived in marble rooms, been worshipped, feared, envied — but none of it touched her the way stealing did.

Buying didn’t satisfy her. Gifts meant nothing. But taking — oh, that was pure. That was life itself.


Caddy leaned back into the seat now, the traffic lights painting her face red, then green, then gold.

“Where next?” she whispered to herself, grinning.



A wine shop? A boutique in Ikoyi? Maybe something smaller — a street vendor, just for the thrill of contrast.

She imagined it already — the startled faces, the confusion, the fear. The pleasure built again.

She turned up the volume, singing louder, windows down, wind whipping her hair. To anyone watching, she looked radiant — a beautiful woman enjoying her evening.

But inside, beneath the diamonds and perfume, she was something else entirely — a creature of habit, addiction, and hunger.

And tonight, she’d fed again.

Part Two – The Manager’s Office (Private)

Minutes later.

The mall’s back offices were quieter — just hums of air-conditioning and flickers of CCTV screens. The manager sat behind his desk, the guard standing stiffly before him, cheek still red.

“Sir,” the guard started, voice shaking, “I swear I saw her take the perfume. On the camera. From shelf 2D. She slipped it into her bag.”

The manager didn’t respond immediately. He leaned back in his chair, rubbed his temple, and then nodded toward a seat. “Sit down.”

The guard obeyed.

The manager leaned forward. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

“Yes sir, two weeks.”

“Good. So you’ll learn quickly.”

The manager stood, walked to the door, and locked it. “No one comes in,” he said. “No one talks about what just happened out there.”

He turned slowly. “That lady you stopped — she’s not just any customer. She’s the kind that pays salaries. Do you know how much she spent today?”

The guard shook his head.

“Seven point one million naira. And the perfume you say she took—how much is it?”

“Maybe eight thousand, sir.”

The manager chuckled without humor. “Eight thousand. You risked your job, my reputation, and this store’s image over eight thousand naira?”

The guard looked confused. “But sir, it’s still stealing.”

The manager’s tone darkened. “You think rich people steal? They collect. They take. And the rest of us pretend not to see.”

He sat back down, staring at the CCTV feed — Caddy’s elegant form frozen on one of the screens. “She’s not the first. And she won’t be the last. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s thrill. Or maybe it’s just power.”

He turned to the guard, eyes cold. “But next time, you don’t see it. You don’t say it. Understand?”

The guard hesitated. “Sir… that’s wrong.”

The manager smiled faintly, almost sadly. “This whole city is wrong, my friend. We just learn to survive it.”

The air hung heavy between them. The guard nodded slowly.

The manager unlocked the door and waved him off. “Go back to your post. And remember — in Lagos, the rich don’t get caught. They get escorted out politely.”

As the guard left, he cast one last look at the monitor — at Caddy’s image frozen mid-stride, perfume glinting in her bag.

He couldn’t tell what scared him more — the fact that she stole, or the fact that no one cared.

Late Night – Patty and Ray

It was past one when Patty stumbled through the front door, heels in one hand, laughter still ghosting on her lips. The faint scent of wine and Caddy’s perfume clung to her. She wasn’t drunk—just tipsy enough to feel warm and unbothered—until she looked up and froze.

Ray was there, sitting in the dim parlor, the TV off, dinner laid out and long gone cold.

His face said everything.

“Oh my God… baby, I’m so sorry,” Patty began, her voice wobbling as she tried to steady her purse and her guilt at the same time.

Ray stood, slow and stiff, eyes blazing in that familiar mix of anger and hurt. “You’re drunk,” he said quietly at first. Then louder: “I called you, Patty. Over and over. Where the hell have you been?”

“I told you—Caddy wanted me to—”

“Caddy,” he spat the name like poison. “Of course. It’s always Caddy. Caddy this or Caddy that,”

He moved toward her, and the air grew heavier. Ray’s temper wasn’t something new—it was a storm that started quiet and ended with thunder. He’d made dinner, she realized, looking at the untouched plates. The candles had burned down to soft wax puddles.

“We had plans tonight,” he said, his voice breaking through the tension. “I made dinner. I wanted just one night—just one—without her in the middle of everything.”

Patty tried to explain, tears pricking her eyes. “I’m sorry, Ray. She needed me. It wasn’t supposed to take this long, I swear—”

He laughed bitterly. “She always needs you. And you always run.”

That stung.

Ray turned away, running his hands through his hair. “You said you wanted to dream with me, Patty. What happened?”

Patty’s voice rose. “Caddy helped us, Ray! She’s been there when we couldn’t pay rent. The car, the bills, the clothing—”

“Exactly!” he snapped, spinning around. “Don’t you ever stop to think why? What’s she getting out of all this? People don’t just throw money around because they care. She’s controlling you, Patty. And you can’t even see it.”

Patty’s lip trembled. She hated how small she felt under his words. “She’s not like that. She is my best friend, Ray!”

“Best friends? That's not what I see when I look at her,"

There was silence then—thick, aching silence. The kind that fills the room when two people love each other but can’t seem to stop hurting each other either.

"I - I, Ray about next week, I know I said I was going to be there with you - I have to go to paris with - with caddy," she broke the news.

Ray finally exhaled, the fight leaving his shoulders but not his eyes. “You know what hurts the most?” he said quietly. “Next week’s show—I worked months to get that gig. I wanted you there beside me. But you won’t, right? You’ll be in Paris. With her.”

Patty opened her mouth to explain, but he didn’t wait. He grabbed his jacket from the couch and stormed out the door.

The door slammed hard enough to make the photo frames rattle.

For a second, Patty just stood there. Then she ran after him barefoot into the night, calling his name, tears streaking down her cheeks.

But Ray kept walking.

Behind her, the house stood still, the cold dinner waiting like a quiet witness.




Caddy didn’t even blink. “So he’s cheating. Good. Maybe now you’ll finally stop playing stupid.”

Patty sniffed hard. “Caddy, please, don’t—”

“Don’t what?” Caddy cut her off, her voice calm but sharp. “Don’t tell you the truth? You’ve been dragging this clown around like he’s gold. I told you from day one, Patty—Ray is a user. Lazy, broke, and too proud to admit it.”

Patty looked away, tears falling again. “You don’t have to be so harsh.”

Caddy smirked. “Harsh? I’m the only one who tells you things straight. Everyone else pets your feelings. I don’t have time for that.”

She sipped her drink, eyes flicking toward the window. “Honestly, I don’t even know what you saw in him. He can’t hold a job, can’t dress, can’t think. You keep collecting these men like projects.”

Patty’s voice trembled. “Because I want someone to stay, Caddy! I don’t want to keep losing everyone.”

Caddy gave a short laugh — not cruel, but dismissive. “You think crying will make him faithful? You’re not losing anyone. You’re just clearing out the trash.”

Patty slammed her fist lightly on the table. “You don’t get it! I want love. I want peace. I want something real. I don’t want to be alone forever.”

Caddy’s brows arched, unimpressed. “You want peace, Patty? Then stop picking chaos.”

Patty glared through her tears. “You make it sound so easy! You act like you don’t need anyone.”

“That’s because I don’t.” Caddy leaned forward, voice cool and cutting. “Men are distractions. They sell you dreams and hand you debts. You’re not going to find your worth in somebody’s son, trust me.”

Patty’s lip quivered. “I’m not you, Caddy.”

“No,” Caddy said dryly, “you’re not. You actually believe in fairytales. That’s your problem.”

Patty broke again, crying into her hands. The music in the background seemed to mock her misery.

Caddy sighed and leaned back. “Alright. Enough of that. You’re done with him, end of story. If you won’t dump him, I will. And don’t give me that look — you should be thanking me.”

Patty looked up, startled. “You can’t just—”

“I can, and I will,” Caddy interrupted. “You’re wasting good talent and good time. You could be building your own line by now, traveling with me, doing something with your life. Instead, you’re here crying over a man who probably borrowed your money to impress another girl.”

Patty blinked, wounded.

Caddy’s tone softened — barely. “You’re better than this. You just don’t act like it.”

Patty exhaled shakily. “Maybe I’ll try… maybe I’ll leave him.”

Caddy shrugged, lifting her glass again. “Good. Do it before he drains you completely. And if you can’t, I’ll handle it myself, Who does Ray think he is, with all his manliness or whatever he calls it, he is still a nobody who you picked up from the gutters,”

She looked at Patty one last time, eyes steady. “You can keep crying if you want, but it won’t change a thing. You need to start living smart, not emotional.”

Patty nodded faintly, crushed but silent.

Caddy clinked her glass lightly against Patty’s untouched drink. “Here’s to endings. They’re the best part of bad stories.”


Part One – The Scene at the Mall (Public)

Azure Galleria shimmered like a crown jewel in the heart of Lagos Island — marble floors reflecting the gold light of evening, glass storefronts glittering with imported brands, and perfume that smelled like wealth.

Caddy moved through it all with unshaken poise — a woman built of class, cold fire, and generational privilege. Her designer sunglasses perched above her flawless hair, her steps confident and graceful.

The attendants trailed her like satellites. “Good evening, ma,” they greeted softly as she strolled through, selecting perfumes, silks, and handbags. She didn’t check prices — why would she? She only pointed and they packed.

At the counter, she slid her black Dion-textured card. “Put everything together,” she said. “I’m in a hurry.”

The cashier nodded quickly. “Yes ma.”

Seven-point-one million naira later, the receipts were folded neatly into her bag. She turned to leave, her perfume trailing behind like royalty — when a voice cracked through the calm.

“Madam! Please, one moment!”



Caddy turned sharply. The mall’s security officer, tall and nervous, jogged toward her. His tone was polite, but his expression uncertain.

“Excuse me, madam, can you come back a bit? We just need to confirm something.”



Caddy frowned. “Confirm what?”

The man shifted. “Something from shelf 2D, ma. A perfume item that seems—”

She froze. The words perfume and confirm hit her like an insult.

“You think I took something?”



The man raised his hands quickly. “No ma, it’s not like that—”

“What is it like then? You accusing me?”



Her voice shot through the atrium, drawing glances from shoppers and clerks.

The guard stammered, “It’s just a small check, ma—”

“You dare embarrass me in public over a check?”



She stepped closer. Her eyes were dangerous now — the kind that made lesser people shrink.

“Do you know who I am?!”



He tried again, “Madam please, the CCTV—”

But he didn’t finish.
SLAP!

The sound cracked through the mall like thunder. The entire place went still.

“Don’t ever insinuate that again,” she hissed. “Next time, pick your victims better.”



The guard clutched his cheek, stunned. The crowd whispered.

Just then, the store manager burst onto the scene — sweating, smiling nervously, bowing repeatedly. “Madam Caddy! Ma please, sorry ma, I beg, forgive this idiot!”

He turned on the guard. “You—what kind of madness is this?!”

“Sir, I just—”

SLAP!



The guard staggered, eyes wide.

The manager barked again, “You embarrassed a client? One of our VIPs? You want to destroy this business?!”

He turned to Caddy instantly, bowing again. “Please ma, forgive him, he’s new. He didn’t know who you are.”

Caddy’s chest heaved. “This is unbelievable. I’ll be contacting your head office.”

“Please ma,” the manager pleaded, following her out. “We’re deeply sorry, ma. It won’t happen again.”

Caddy stormed toward her car, her heels clicking hard against the marble. Cameras, eyes, and whispers followed. The automatic doors slid open like servants bowing to her anger.

The manager stood at the entrance, still apologizing until her black Mercedes glided away and vanished into traffic.

Then he exhaled. Hard. The smile dropped.

PART ONE: TIM’S HANGOUT, LAGOS

The evening had settled like silk over Victoria Island — smooth, expensive, and perfumed with the scent of power. Neon reflections rippled across the polished glass façade of Tim’s Hangout, one of Lagos’ most exclusive lounges — the kind of place where wealth had a fragrance and laughter was always filtered through champagne bubbles.

Inside, everything glowed. The ceiling shimmered with recessed amber lights, soft jazz flirted with the low hum of conversation, and waiters in black waistcoats moved like choreography between tables dressed in gold-edged glass. Around the bar, Lagos’ young elites lounged in quiet arrogance — tech founders, politicians’ sons, actresses who never auditioned, men who wore their ambitions in the cut of their suits.

At the far end, by the wide bay window overlooking the city, Caddy sat — effortlessly radiant.
Her real name was Catherine Olugbenga, but no one called her that. Caddy — Lagos’ rising fashion icon, daughter and heir to DION TEXTILES & FASHION HOUSE, the empire her parents had built from threads and dreams.

Tonight she was dressed in a sleek cream blazer, gold hoop earrings, and subtle makeup that only accentuated her beauty. Everything about her shimmered — her confidence, her posture, her calm control. The kind of woman people noticed before she even spoke.

A half-finished flute of champagne sparkled on the table before her. She checked her watch.
8:03 p.m.
She sighed, irritation soft but sharp. Three minutes late.

She picked up her phone and tried calling again. The screen reflected her face — cool, composed, but with a flicker of annoyance.
“Pick up, Patty,” she muttered under her breath.
She glanced around — eyes scanning the room, searching for that familiar burst of energy her friend carried wherever she went.



Then the doors opened, and Patty rushed in.

Short, curvy, and radiant in a red off-shoulder dress that looked like it was borrowed from Caddy’s closet, Ijeoma “Patty” Francis scanned the room with apologetic eyes. Her dark skin glowed from the humidity, her curls a little messy from the wind. She waved as soon as she saw Caddy.

“Babyyyy!” she called out, grinning as she hurried over. “Sorry, abeg. Traffic nearly killed me.”

Caddy raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Traffic in your car?”

Patty hesitated, sliding into her seat with a guilty smile. “Uh... not exactly. I took a bus.”

“A bus?” Caddy’s voice dropped an octave. “Patty. You have a car. I bought you a car.”

Patty laughed nervously, glancing at the waiter for rescue. “It’s not that deep, Caddy. Ray needed it. Just for a bit.”

Caddy exhaled through her nose, that slow, disappointed sigh only she could make elegant. “Of course he did. Ray always needs something — your money, your space, money, car - your sanity.”

Patty giggled, trying to lighten the air. “He’s not that bad.”

“He’s a leech,” Caddy said bluntly. “He doesn’t work except dreams about making it big in a studio, he lies, and he’s turning you into his personal ATM.”

Patty shook her head, smiling still, though the edge in her tone flickered. “You don’t know him like I do.”

Caddy leaned back, crossing her legs. “I know enough. I know you’ve had four boyfriends in three months, and every time it’s the same song — they ‘just need time.’ Meanwhile, you’re the one always fixing them and I am the one you cry to when the bubbles burst.”

Patty’s laughter softened into a sigh. “It’s not easy finding good men, Caddy. At least Ray’s trying. We just… argue sometimes.”

“Argue?” Caddy scoffed, swirling her drink. “You fight every week.”

“That’s passion,” Patty said, half-joking, half-defensive.

“That’s delusion.”

The silence that followed was thick but familiar — the kind that comes from love laced with exhaustion. Caddy stared out the window, the city glittering below like spilled diamonds.

She didn’t hate men — she just didn’t trust them. not after years of seeing powerful women reduced to begging for affection. She had no intention of joining their ranks.

Patty, though, was the opposite — soft-hearted, endlessly forgiving, addicted to love like it was oxygen. And Caddy, for all her composure, envied her for it sometimes.

The waiter arrived with a new glass of champagne and a mojito for Patty. The tension broke.

Patty raised her glass. “To best friends who nag like mothers.”

Caddy smirked. “To best friends who act like children.”


PART TWO: CREATIVE THREADS

The night had settled deeper into its rhythm — jazz softening to something slower, more intimate. The lights above Tim’s Hangout glimmered like fireflies trapped in glass, and the city skyline stretched beyond the glass walls, alive and indifferent.

Caddy leaned back in her seat now, a little more relaxed, the edge from earlier dulled by champagne and the familiarity of friendship.
“Alright,” she said with a small smile. “Let’s see what you’ve got this time, Picasso.”

Patty grinned and reached into her tote bag, pulling out a neatly folded sketchbook — the kind smudged with pencil dust and ambition. She laid it open on the table, flipping through designs drawn with care and quiet brilliance.

Caddy leaned forward, her eyes scanning each page. The sketches were alive — bold cuts, fearless colors, strange but elegant forms.
“God, Patty,” Caddy breathed. “You’ve outdone yourself again.”

Patty smiled shyly. “You think so?”

“I don’t think — I know.” Caddy tapped one of the pages, her bracelets clinking. “Look at this drape. This is runway-ready. You’ve practically designed Dion’s next collection for me.”

Patty chuckled softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I just sketch what I feel. You’re the one who turns it into something real.”

“That’s what makes us perfect,” Caddy said with a satisfied smirk. “I handle the numbers, you handle the vision. Fashion needs both.”

Patty nodded, but her smile faded just a little.
“Yeah… both.”

Caddy didn’t notice the hesitation — or pretended not to. She was already flipping through the next page.
“You know,” she said, almost casually, “the board finally confirmed it. Dion’s been invited to Paris Fashion Week next month.”

Patty’s eyes lifted. “Seriously? That’s huge, Caddy!”

“I know,” Caddy said, grinning proudly. “And guess who’s coming with me?”

Patty blinked, unsure. “Me?”

“Of course, you. You’re my creative backbone. You deserve to see your work walk the Paris runway.”

Patty looked down at her glass, the ice melting into something clear and uncertain.
“We’ve… talked about this, Caddy.”

“Yes, and every time, you give me the same ‘I’ll think about it’ line,” Caddy teased. “You should stop thinking and just come.”

“I want to,” Patty admitted. “It’s Paris, who wouldn’t? But lately, I don’t know. It’s like… everything I do is for Dion. For you.”

Caddy frowned, leaning in. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean…” Patty hesitated. “I love designing for you. I do. But I’ve been thinking about starting something — my own line, maybe. Something small, something that’s me.”

Caddy laughed softly, almost affectionately. “You’ve always been dramatic. You can do with DION, with me. This is a once-in-a-lifetime moment. You need exposure — and Dion gives you that.”

Patty’s lips curved, but her eyes didn’t. “Maybe. But sometimes I feel like people don’t even know I exist. It’s all ‘Caddy this, Caddy that.’ The dresses, the concepts — they’re mine too.”

“Patty,” Caddy said gently, her tone half-warning, half-maternal. “You’re not ready to go solo. You’re brilliant, yes, but there’s more to the industry than drawing on paper. You need a name, a structure, a team.”

“And you have all that,” Patty murmured.

“Exactly.” Caddy smiled like she was solving a problem. “Which is why you should let me handle the business while you focus on what you’re good at. And you know I pay you good, triple whatever any client could offer, I’m trying to help you.”

Patty nodded slowly, swallowing the ache. “I know. You always are.”

For a few seconds, they sat in silence, the weight of unspoken truths hanging between them. The saxophonist’s tune from the corner turned softer — like a soundtrack to Patty’s quiet discontent.

Then suddenly —

A sharp sound broke the rhythm.

A commotion erupted across the lounge. A young woman at a nearby table was on her feet, her voice trembling and frantic. The manager and two waiters rushed to her side as she threw open her purse, scattering lipstick and perfume across the floor.


PART THREE: THE GIRL WITH THE MISSING BAG

The noise started as a ripple — a sharp gasp, a chair scraping the polished floor, then voices rising in anxious confusion.

Caddy turned her head. A young woman stood near the far corner of the lounge, trembling, her bag upturned on the table. Lipsticks, tissues, receipts, and powder spilled like small wounds across the glass surface.

“My phone—both of them! My ATMs— they were right here!” she stammered. “I swear they were in my bag.”

The manager and a waiter hovered around her, trying to get their payment as other guests turned to stare.

Patty paused mid-sentence, watching the scene. Her brow furrowed, but Caddy’s lips curved in something that looked disturbingly close to interest.

Patty glanced sideways at her. “You look like you’re enjoying this.”

Caddy didn’t answer immediately — she was leaning forward slightly, chin resting on her manicured hand, eyes glinting under the dim light. It wasn’t cruelty, exactly — more like a strange satisfaction at seeing someone else’s world wobble off balance.

“Caddy?” Patty called softly.

Caddy blinked, snapping out of it. “Huh? Oh—just another Lagos drama. Every night, it’s something.”

Patty gave her a look. “That’s not funny.”

Caddy scoffed lightly. “Come on, Patty. Look at her. Probably some escort trying to act like she belongs here. They always come in looking for rich men and leave crying when it doesn’t go their way.”

Patty frowned, glancing again at the distraught woman. “Or maybe she’s telling the truth. She looks scared.”

“Scared?” Caddy chuckled, reaching for her champagne. “Please. You’re too soft. You believe every sob story. That’s why people like Ray run circles around you.”

Patty sighed, unamused. “I’m not soft, I just don’t like assuming the worst of people. Life’s complicated enough.”

Caddy arched a brow. “No, darling — life is simple. People just make bad choices. And when they do, they deal with it.”

Patty turned back to the woman. The girl’s voice cracked as she tried to explain herself to the manager, her eyes darting between the disapproving stares around her. Shame and panic wrapped around her like perfume gone sour.

Something in Patty’s chest tightened.

“Caddy,” she said quietly, “maybe we could help her out a bit? Pay her bill or—”

Caddy almost choked on her drink. “Help her? What am I, Santa Claus?” She laughed, shaking her head. “You really need to stop trying to save every stranger in distress. The world doesn’t work that way.”

Patty looked down at her hands, lips pressed together. “Maybe not. But it should.”

Before Caddy could respond, Patty stood, picking up her small purse.

“Patty?”

Patty ignored her tone and walked toward the scene, her heels soft against the tiled floor.

“Patty! Come on, sit down!” Caddy called after her, exasperated. “You can’t just—”

But Patty didn’t stop. She was already moving — drawn toward the girl’s trembling voice, toward the unfolding mess of humanity that Caddy had long since learned to look past.

Caddy sighed, slumping back in her chair, muttering under her breath, “Always the bleeding heart…”


Patty joined the trio just as the impatient manager was already gripping the young woman roughly, demanding payment. Patty’s temper flared instantly.

“Let go of her hand,” she snapped.

The manager hesitated, then released his hold, muttering excuses about “store policy” and “customers wasting time.” Patty wasn’t listening.

She turned to the shaken girl, whose eyes were wet with frustration. “What happened?” Patty asked gently.

“I—I went to the restroom,” the girl stammered, “and when I came back, my appointment was cancelled. I tried to pay, but now my phone and ATM cards are gone. Something must have—”

Before she could finish, the manager interrupted harshly, “She’s playing the victim. It’s all drama.”

Patty’s glare said otherwise.

Just then, Caddy appeared—calm, composed, and effortlessly commanding. Patty smiled. She knew Caddy wouldn’t let her face this alone.

The manager instantly changed tone; everyone in the place knew who Caddy was—and that she was one of their biggest spenders.

Caddy stepped forward. “You’ll speak respectfully,” she said coldly. “Or I’ll make sure your little business learns what losing loyal customers feels like.”

Patty, ever the hype woman, chimed in, “You heard the lady!”

The manager backed off without another word.

Caddy sighed, pulled out her card, and paid the bill—but not before turning to Patty. “One condition,” she said with a small smirk. “You’re coming to Paris with me. No objections”

Patty blinked, caught off guard, but she nodded. “You wouldn't!"


"I am your best friend, I am also a business woman who doesn't take opportunities for granted, "

"I will have to think about this,"

"Fine, then I will just leave your damsel in distress, maybe you can figure out the bills all by yourself while thinking about it,”


Patty announced sourly. “Paris it is.”

As they left, the young woman thanked Caddy softly.

Caddy didn’t respond; she just walked away, her heels clicking against the marble floor.

Patty touched the girl’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, its nothing, I hope you find your phones and cards,” she said with a reassuring smile.

As they stepped outside, a strange warmth settled in Patty’s chest. The girl’s gratitude had reminded her of something she hadn’t felt in a long time—happiness. The one thing she never seemed to fully grasp for herself.

IF YOU SEE MY FATHER
(A letter from a son behind bars from the collection A.P.O.R.E)

If you see my father…
tell him the walls here hum with silence,
and I have learned the language of chains.

Tell him the nights are long,
and sometimes I dream I’m small again —
kneeling beside him in the little church,
listening to his voice chase heaven
through cracked hymn books and candle smoke.

He was a pastor.
And my mother said a teacher too —
a man who measured life by mercy,
who believed no one ever strayed too far.

I wonder what he’d say now,
if he saw his son,
waiting for the hangman’s call.

Tell him I still remember the way he’d smile
when he’d lift me to his shoulders,
how proud he looked in the crowd,
like I was a prophecy he’d already seen fulfilled.

Oh, how that prophecy burned.
How it turned to smoke.

Tell him I’m sorry —
sorry for every sermon I made a lie,
every scripture I broke like glass,
every prayer I traded for pride.

I didn’t mean to fall this far.
But sin has no bottom,
and pride — it always wants more room.

He came that day,
the day the judge gave me the final word.
He stood behind the bars,
and I swear his eyes looked older
than the years that carved his face.

He didn’t cry.
He didn’t speak.
He just looked at me —
and I saw the day he died.

Not with a sound,
not with a prayer,
but with the silence of a man
who once believed in miracles.

If you see him…
please tell him not to wait by the gate.
Tell him not to write again,
not to pray another prayer for me.

Tell him to tend the garden,
to teach one more child,
to sing the songs I used to hum.

Tell him he raised a fool,
but a fool who finally learned
what grace was meant to mean.

Tell him —
that on the nights when the guards go quiet,
and the moon crawls through the bars,
I whisper his name,
and the walls almost listen.

Tell him I forgive myself
only because he first forgave me.

Tell him that if heaven has windows,
I’ll be looking for him.

And if you see him —
tell him this one thing most of all:

He was right about love.

It was never loud.
It never needed proof.
It just stayed —
even when I didn’t deserve it.

So please —
if you see my father,
tell him his son finally believes.

Tell him not to cry,
not to come.
Just pray the prayer I couldn’t finish:

“Lord, have mercy on the lost —
and let them find their way home.”

Part Forty Tensions in the Town

The tavern on Coalman’s Row was a place where smoke hung thicker than the rafters and arguments came quicker than drinks. Tonight, the benches and stools groaned with the uneasy mix of patrons: humans and vampires drinking in the same space, eyes darting, voices sharpening.

Whispers spilled across the tables like spilled ale.
“Another one gone missing, I hear, A mother dragged out of her house, left a lil poor girl behind,”

“Blood drained clean, I heard.”

"That's a lie, nothing was said about that blood drained clean, there is no body yet, I heard,"

“Curses at the edge of the mill district…”

"Who do you think is behind these, night walkers?"

"Hey, take that back, you day walkers always saying nonsense, all of this, points to humans!"

A chair scraped back. Someone shouted, then shoved. The whole room tipped into chaos. Fists and claws flashed alike, glass shattered, and a man was hauled to the floor. Before anyone could stop it, he was choking, body thrashing, hands clawing at his throat as he collapsed.

The tavern froze — no one certain whether the unseen force had been human rage or vampiric strength. The silence that followed was louder than the brawl itself.

Then the door opened.

The young man who entered was known to everyone, though no one greeted him. Old coat, dust on his boots, green-pale eyes that seemed to cut through smoke like knives. Blond hair tied back with carelessness. Merlein. A hunter. One of the crazy ones still residing in Iron Clover even though The city like many others had long forgotten what hunters did for a living.

He did not speak. He dragged something behind him — the limp, twisted carcass of a roth-spawn, half-man, half-beast. Its limbs bent the wrong way, its jaw a gaping ruin of bone and teeth. Dead, yes, but wrong in its very shape, its presence enough to make two patrons gag and another vomit in the corner.

"What the hell is that thing?"

"Is it dead?"

"What in God's holy name is that?"

"I haven seen one of those somewhere before,"

"That can't be a roth, is it?"


Atleast it stopped the chaos.

Merlin dropped it in the center of the floor with a wet thud, then walked to the bar.

"Its dead alright, but please don't go near it, I would hate to hack a patron down if infected, mutant roths can be unpredictable even in death,"

The bartender’s face soured.
“Thought you’d stayed gone, Merlein. Thought we’d be lucky this season, why on earth do you keep dragging these things into my bar?”

"Can't help it, A carcass spreads more gossips and rumors than a newspaper does especially in a tavern, its good for business,"

"Speaking about business, you still owe me a lot, merlein, I don't run this tavern on promises and IOUs," the bar keeper frowned.

He took a drink without asking and turned to the choking man.

With a groan of annoyance, Merlein knelt. He dragged a leuth, a small lizard reptile like creature out of his pulse and opened the man's mouth for the creature. His pet.

"Be my eyes, girl!"


He began murmuring under his breath, words older than the rafters, older than the town. The air quivered as he pressed his hand down and his eyes went white for a moment, he began to move his hands around, tracking, sensing.

Then he stopped, seemed to have swallowed something none could see. Hunters were always on the borderlines of the old and new magic, just managing to keep out of harms way or the wrath of the law.

The room recoiled, a collective gasp choking the air. Then the man coughed out the leuth, same time Merlein, both animal and man seemed to regurgitate something.

But only the leuth, regurgitated a twisted wooden corkscrew, slick with phlegm.

The man coughed violently, breath flooding back, color returning to his cheeks.

“You… you saved me—” the man wheezed, eyes brimming.

Merlin cut him off, voice flat. “And now you’re paying for my meals and drinks."

The tavern erupted into nervous laughter.


And still, the silence beneath the laughter was telling. The fragile peace between human and vampire was cracking.

Part Thirty Nine Albert and Raleigh with Lord Madeiya

The Madeiya estate loomed at the edge of Iron Clover like a monument to older centuries. Its blackstone walls were always lit by lanterns that never dimmed, and its halls were rarely silent; vampires and their kin came and went at all hours, seeking counsel, sanctuary, or opportunity. To the city, Lord Madeiya was the quiet anchor of the vampire community — Iron Clover’s oldest blood and, by many accounts, its unspoken leader. His family had been rooted here since before the third and fourth wars, and his doors had never closed, not even during the darkest hunts.

Albert and Raleigh passed between rows of silent servants as they entered. The air inside was perfumed with incense, yet beneath it lingered something sharper, metallic — the kind of scent that stayed with you if you breathed too deeply.

Raleigh muttered under his breath, “I never like coming here. He knows too much. About everything.”

Albert glanced at him. “That’s precisely why we’re here. Better answers from a man who knows too much than from those who know nothing at all.”

They were led into a long chamber of red velvet drapes and tall candles, where Lord Madeiya reclined on a carved chair that was not quite a throne. His face was ageless — smooth, pale, sharp with a kind of unbothered authority.

Wine was poured. Platters of roasted meat, fragrant and spiced, were set before them. Raleigh politely refused, folding his hands. Albert, to Raleigh’s surprise, accepted both meat and wine, sampling them with ease.

Raleigh frowned. “You wouldn’t touch anything at Elton’s, and now you indulge here?”

Albert smiled faintly. “Elton serves what pleases the eye. Madeiya serves what pleases the tongue. Different things entirely.”

Madeiya’s lips curved in a shadow of amusement before his voice dropped into seriousness.
“I believe someone has seen the original report then? Well There was no second report, Inspector. Once it was clear this was not a threat to my kind or from my kind, my interest ended. Murder, not vampirism.”

“You keep an ear for whispers though,” Albert pressed.

“Naturally, yes but only whispers that endanger us, yes,” Madeiya said. His gaze sharpened, though his tone stayed smooth. “This is not one of them. This… was human madness. Council man murdered, possibly arcane methods implored.”


"You say there wasn't any second report yet the report on which the police case has been built so far has been in error over the omission of the whereabouts of Lady eleanor and youngest of the hanns, Raymond hanns, What I don't understand is how between the official report and the original report, three bodies would be mistaken for one,"

"Man not gods we are, Everyone makes mistakes, how is it of concern to me if there are one or a hundred corpses, like I said once I knew this was human madness not vampirism, I had nothing else to do with it,"

He leaned back, disdain lacing his words.

“Humans love to blame us for their disasters, but I have lived long enough to know: humans are infinitely more creative in cruelty than my kind.”

Madeiya’s eyes darkened as he spoke of the past. “The Third War — slavery, discrimination, the hunts. I saw families butchered, children dragged into streets during the great hunt. I saw vampires prevented from even choosing death by sun; men would drag them back into the shed and later into the square at night, so they could stake them before a jeering crowd. Or dismember them, limb by limb, for amusement. Every town, every city, Varecia, Gold Town, NightStalk, Iron Clover. That was humanity unleashed.”

Raleigh stiffened, but said nothing.

Madeiya’s voice lowered. “If such fear rises again, if your kind stirs old hatreds with this murder — my people will not lie still.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the chamber. Then, softer: “My own parents were dragged out and staked for hiding me. Do not think me untouched by these matters, Raymond Hanns was a spark of hope for everyone, Inspector. But peace is fragile. Humans succumb too easily to fear, and when they do… they do what they do best.”

Albert set down his goblet. “Your honesty is noted, my lord.” He gave a courteous nod. “And the meal — my father once had a vampire cook. He said nothing matches the palate of one whose senses are sharper than ours. The flavors tonight prove him right.”

Madeiya accepted the compliment with a measured tilt of his head.


"If I should say I think you two are quite capable gentlemen to help avoid unnecessary blood bath or a repeat of history, I am sorry I have no new information to help you with the Hanns murder, now if you would excuse me,"

He stood and took his leave.


When the two inspectors finally withdrew from the estate, Albert’s expression was thoughtful, but unsatisfied. The old noble had shared history, warnings, even bitterness — but not clarity. Whatever Madeiya knew, he was not ready to part with. And that silence only deepened the shadows around the Hanns murder.

Part Thirty Eight The Blind Reader

The study had been prepared with care. Curtains drawn, lamps dimmed, the air thick with the resin of old wood and ink. At the far end of the long oak table lay the three objects Jonathan had gathered: the strange knife, the blueprints scrawled with arcane sithe symbols, and the ritual book.

Jonathan sat in silence, a black mask drawn over his face. It was not only caution but instinct that compelled him to conceal himself. Lord Madeiya’s words rang in his memory.

The latch clicked. The door opened. Heller entered, guiding an elderly woman by the hand.

“Master ,” Heller whispered, “this is the one I spoke of. She cannot see. You can take off the mask if you wish,”

Jonathan stiffened. Slowly, he removed his mask. Relief swept him in a quiet sigh.

The woman’s face was lined with the weight of years, her hair white and bound beneath a shawl. Her eyes, clouded and pale, seemed to look through the room rather than at it. She carried no bag, no tools — only the tremor of her hands, which reached instinctively toward the table.

She hovered over the knife first. The moment her fingers brushed the hilt, she recoiled, shivering as though ice had run through her veins.

“This one…” Her voice rasped, thin but certain. “…has already tasted too much blood. Old blood and something else, A rare assassin's blade fused with blood arcane magic.”

Jonathan’s jaw clenched. He said nothing, only watched her as she composed herself and turned to the book.

Her fingers traced its cracked spine, the warped vellum, the ink that still carried the faintest odor of iron. Then she stopped, her brow furrowing.

“It's a fake, a good one but still a fake,” she murmured. Perhaps for good reasons."

Jonathan leaned forward. "A fake?”

Did Lord Madeiya not know he had gotten a fake or had Lord Madeiya given a fake to him intentionally, he wondered.


Her mouth tightened. “Someone spent a good time working on it, left enough to convince anyone but I am not anyone, perhaps it was for the best, All knowledge comes at a price,"

She touched the blueprint last. Her hands skimmed the etched lines, the raised symbols. But she shook her head.
“I cannot read this. But it is arcane and man's magic, the one you call science — machines that bend life and death, someone was building something, with knowledge of the old and the new magic, ”

Her hand fell away quickly, as though afraid to linger.

Jonathan exhaled, steadying himself. “How much do I owe you?”

The old woman turned her clouded eyes toward him. For the first time, it seemed as if she truly saw him.

“You’ve already paid, boy. By touching these things, you’ve carried something no money can pay for. Payment enough. now I go.”

With that, she turned, letting Heller guide her back to the door. Her final words drifted like smoke behind her:

“Be careful, young master, be careful of the knowledge which you seek,"

Jonathan sat alone again in the dim study, the cursed objects staring back at him in silence. For the first time, he wondered if bringing them home had been a mistake.

Part Thirty Seven The Knife and the Empty Table

Coral Street was not the kind of place Jonathan ever wished to be seen in, especially at this hour. By day, its narrow lanes overflowed with carts, hawkers, and barter, but by night it belonged to another world altogether—cutthroats, tavern scum, and the kind of trade no law ever dared name. The buildings leaned into each other like crooked teeth, whispering secrets down alleys that never saw the sun. It was here, at a forgotten corner where the cobbles split, that Jonathan found the address written in Lord Madeiya’s hand.

The key fit the lock too easily, as though no one had cared enough to change it. He pushed the door open and stepped into stale air.

The room had been stripped bare. Shelves stood naked, their contents hastily removed. Glass tubes lay shattered across the floor, the faint sting of chemicals still clinging to the air. Black stains streaked one table where something acrid had spilled, its bite still sharp in his nose. Machines—or parts of them—must have been here once, he thought, the outlines in the dust still visible, but now only emptiness remained. Whoever had cleared this place had done so in a hurry, leaving behind only the sense that something unnatural had lingered.

Jonathan’s eyes adjusted to the gloom. The only light came from a narrow shaft of moonlight spilling through a crack in the boarded window. It caught on something metallic, a glint beneath a toppled shelf. He crouched, pushed aside the broken wood, and froze.

It was a knife.

The blade gleamed with a cold brilliance, far too bright for a place so forgotten. Mysterious in design—its hilt etched with curling patterns that looked more like veins than art.


Then—pain.

He hissed and dropped the blade. His hand flew to his palm, certain it had been cut. The sting burned sharply, real as any wound, yet when he turned his hand over, there was no blood. No tear in the skin. Only the ache, pulsing in the exact place the blade had kissed him.

Jonathan’s breath quickened. The knife lay at his feet, silent now, but he could not shake the sense that it was alive, waiting.

It was too dangerous to leave behind. And yet… he dared not keep it either. Either choice carried peril.

With trembling fingers, he lifted it again, this time wrapping it in a scrap of cloth torn from his coat. He slid it into his satchel and shut the bag quickly, as though afraid the thing might wriggle free.

He could not solve this alone. The blueprints, the cursed book—all of them demanded knowledge beyond his reach. Heller could bring in someone discreet, someone who understood the languages on the book, knife and blue prints.

Jonathan stepped back into the night, pulling the door closed behind him.


The streets twisted like veins, carrying Jonathan deeper into Coral’s forgotten quarter. He turned a corner and nearly stumbled into a yard fenced with rotting planks. In the middle of it, tied to a leaning post, lay a dog.

Its ribs stood out like bones of a shipwreck, its fur matted with dirt. The creature barely lifted its head when Jonathan paused at the gate. Its eyes, hollow yet burning with some fragile will, fixed on him.

A slurred voice rose from the shadows.
“Coin for the mutt, eh?”

Jonathan turned. The speaker was a man slouched against a barrel, a wineskin in his hand, his face slack with drink. He grinned, showing teeth like crumbled stone.
“Leave him there to rot or take him, don’t matter. But it’ll cost ya.”

Jonathan’s jaw tightened. He turned as if to walk on. Yet his steps slowed. He stopped. A sigh left him, heavy with resignation. He dug into his pocket, tossed a coin that clinked at the drunkard’s feet who picked it up like his life depended on it.


The rope was rough, the knot stubborn, but it gave way at last. The dog staggered forward, weak legs trembling, and collapsed at Jonathan’s boots. Jonathan crouched, placed a hand gently on its head, and whispered, “Go on. You’re free.”

The dog did not go.

Jonathan straightened and walked on, but the soft pad of paws followed. He shooed it away with a flick of his hand, even raised his voice once. Still, the creature trailed him faithfully, head lowered, tail wagging faintly, as though it had already chosen him.

He groaned under his breath.
“This… will be a problem.”

He pictured Heller, who sneezed at the mere whiff of horse dander, and pressed his lips into a rueful smile. Poor Heller.


When Jonathan finally returned home, Heller was waiting in the study. The man’s reaction was immediate and explosive.

“Good heavens!” Heller blurted, backing two steps the moment the dog padded in. His nose twitched, then he sneezed violently. “Master Jonathan, no. Absolutely not. Animals—especially hairy, unwashed ones—are not fit for this household!”

Jonathan tried not to laugh.
“It’s only for tonight. Tomorrow, you’ll find him a home.”

Heller’s eyes watered as he fumbled for a handkerchief. “Tomorrow cannot come soon enough.”

Jonathan grew serious. He set the wrapped knife and the other strange items on the table.
“There’s something else I need. Someone who can read sithe language. Symbols.”

For sithe was the oldest of all arcane languages.


Heller froze mid-sneeze. His eyes widened. He opened his mouth as if to protest, but Jonathan cut him short.
“Father never did anything for no good reason if he was interested in arcane magic all of a sudden then I think… something more happened that night. Something else I cant explain yet, And I mean to find out, heller.”

The butler’s face softened into worry, but he nodded. “If it must be done, I’ll make arrangements"

At that moment, the dog barked. A sharp, urgent sound that made Jonathan flinch. It was staring at the staircase.

Jonathan frowned. “Food?”

But the dog barked again, fur bristling, teeth bared at the upper floor.

Then—an answering sound. From above. A guttural growl, deep and unnatural, spilling from room 32 where Jonathan’s mother and brother were locked away.

The dog whimpered, tail between its legs, and bolted for the door.

Heller, pale and trembling, hurried after it. “I’ll catch it!”

Jonathan stood still, the echo of the growl hanging in his ears like a shadow that would not leave.

I always like to think little children have the most beautiful narratives of everything around them.
I can only hope perhaps this is close to one of them.

THIS STRANGER, THIS WOMAN, MY MOTHER

FROM THE COLLECTION OF A PIECE OF REALITY (A.P.O.R.E)

I don’t know where I am.
The light hurts.
The air is loud.
My hands float like lost birds.

And then—there she is again.
That voice.
The one that hummed in the dark place,
the one I heard before I had ears.

She moves close,
and suddenly the air feels softer.

I don’t know her name,
but I know her sound.

Her breath warms my face.

Is this what belonging feels like?



When I cry, she answers.
Always.

Like she’s been waiting for my sadness.

Her face bends into shapes I don’t understand—
smiles, tears, songs.
Sometimes she presses me to her chest,
and the thunder inside her body matches mine.

Are we the same drum?
Or did I borrow her heartbeat?


Every time my world shakes,
she appears again—

this stranger with eyes like small suns,
hands that smell of milk and sleep.

She moves me from cold to warm,
from hunger to full,
from fear to that quiet place
where even silence hums.

I don’t remember asking for her,

but she keeps coming back.

Why won’t she leave?
Why do I feel smaller when she’s away?



I try to speak,
but only air escapes—
soft, broken clouds of sound.
Still, she answers.

She knows what I mean
before I learn how to mean it.

When she laughs,
the world tilts toward the light.
When she cries,
the room tastes of rain.

Who is she,
this woman who feels everything I feel?




Time—whatever that is—
keeps stretching.
I learn to reach, to grip, to hold.
Her hair becomes my first toy,
her shadow, my first friend.
The smell of her skin tells me I’m home.

Maybe this is what forever sounds like—
footsteps that always return.




I still don’t know her story.

I don’t know where she goes when I sleep.
But I know this:
when I wake,
she’ll be there,
whispering words my mind hasn’t learned,
yet my heart already understands.

She calls herself mother.

She calls me baby

A word too big for my mouth,
but small enough to fit inside my chest.

So I stop asking who she is.
I just breathe,
and let her hold the answer.

Part Thirty Six – The Original Report and the Favor

Albert didn’t move when Vaughan’s giggle died into silence. He sat straighter, folding his hands neatly on the table, his eyes locked on the Lord’s.

“I asked,” Albert said calmly, “what was in the original report.”

The correction landed like a stone dropped in still water. Amelia’s smile faltered, her painted lips tightening as she turned her gaze to her husband. Vaughan, for once, did not laugh. His eyes narrowed, his fingers stilled against the gilded armrest.

“Well,” Amelia murmured, voice sharp with disapproval, “the boy is naughty.”

Vaughan’s mouth twitched. “Yes… naughty,” he echoed, though there was no mirth in the word.

Albert simply inclined his head, almost polite. “Two questions, nothing more you said.”

A heavy silence stretched — then Albert slipped a small brass whistle from his coat and blew once, sharp and clear. A door opened immediately, and a servant in pink and gold stepped forward, balancing a golden tray. Upon it lay a single scroll tied with black ribbon. The servant bowed low and offered it.

Vaughan exhaled, defeated, his voice low. “The original report. Costly to secure, I assure you. But here it is. The only copy, written in the butler’s own hand that night as directed before the tale was… amended and reported.”

Albert reached for it, but Vaughan raised a finger. “Ah-ah. Everything has a cost.”

Raleigh tensed beside him, but Albert didn’t flinch. “What cost?”

Vaughan’s lips curled into a smirk. “Information. On someone,"


"Who?"
Albert asked curiously.


"Franklin Phelps.”

Albert blinked, surprised. “Phelps?”

“Yes.” Vaughan’s giggle returned, but it was bitter now, jagged. “That glittering rise — oh, the medical genius with his miraculous fortunes. A story for children. The truth is simpler. The Lulough are financing him. Lady Morgan herself. I just can't prove it yet, you are going to help me find what I need,”

Amelia leaned forward, eyes gleaming with quiet malice. “Lady Lulough,”

Vaughan’s voice hardened. “You see, detectives, Franklin Phelps is no self-made man. He owes nothing to his Doherty loans, as he claims. His wealth, his sudden influence, his voice at council banquets, all those talks about his medicines that can heal anything — it is all Lulough’s hand. A young,male, friendly face accepted by all is nothing but a pawn for someone like Lady Morgan, its what she does, play a game with the families, and she does not care who bleeds for her victory. She would see herself not merely among us, but above us — an oligarch, the single head of the council. She has whispered such ideas before years ago. Raymond Hanns opposed her. And… his son disappeared for two days.”

The air grew heavy. Raleigh’s brows drew tight, and Albert sat very still, his mind turning. That missing-child story — Jonathan Hanns gone for two days, no explanation. Could it be tied to Lulough’s ambitions? Or was Elton planting shadows where none existed?

Elton shrugged, almost careless. “Credible or not, it is what I believe. And Franklin Phelps is the thread. Tug on it, and you’ll see where her ambitions unravel, raymond hanns is murdered mysteriously and Franklin Phelps takes the hand of Valia Lulough, Makes a Claim For the Council Seat as well as becomes the sole distributor of the Vyre shipment from Varecia, This is nothing but a power play, coincidences? ”

Albert reached forward and took the scroll at last, his face calm though his heart pounded. “We’ll keep our eyes open.”

"Eyes opened? If I want eyes opened, I would get a thousand with a single whisper, No, what I need you two to do, is find out why Lady Morgan is financing a puppet like Phelps, what exactly is she up to," his voice turned cold, enough to startle the detectives who gave a nod awkwardly


Vaughan’s giggle softened into something oddly satisfied. “Good boy.”

Amelia clapped her hands, and in an instant the servants poured back into the room, each bearing bags upon bags of sugared breads, biscuits, candied fruits.

They set them before the detectives like tribute.

Albert rose, stiff but polite. “Thank you. For the tea… and the truth.”

"The truth, what truth?"

Both Lord Elton and Amelia stopped for a moment and giggled.


Raleigh clutched his share of snacks with mild disbelief, muttering under his breath as they left, “I’ve never been so glad to step outside in my life although good tea by the way.”

Albert smiled faintly, the weight of the envelope under his arm. At last, something solid. At last, a trail.


Meanwhile – The Hanns Study

The sun hung heavy in the sky, spilling its pale light through the tall windows of the Hanns study. Once chaotic, the room was now scrubbed into order, silent and still, like a shrine to absence. On the wide oak desk sat only three items, each as out of place as the other: the old blueprints with their shifting languages and symbols, the strange book Lord Madeiya had pressed upon him, and the iron key with its Hanns sigil cut at the base.

Jonathan sat before them, elbows on the desk, eyes closed as if in prayer. None of it fit together. Not yet. But in the pit of his chest he knew the pieces belonged to the same whole. He only had to see it.

From the lower floor came the sound of Heller in the kitchen — measured, methodical, the clean thunk-thunk of a knife cutting through fresh meat. The rhythm carried upward, filling the silence like a metronome, steady, relentless. To Jonathan it became almost hypnotic, as though each chop pressed him further inward.

He tried. He forced himself to remember.

The night came back to him in fragments.

The family was returning from a gathering. The storm was gathering, the town had been awfully quiet that night, His father drove, unusually quiet. Michael, restless, kept tugging at Eleanor’s sleeve, trying to claim her attention, his laughter filling the carriage. Then — the jolt. A tire struck by something unseen on the lonely hill road.

Raymond had stepped out, swallowed at once by fog. Jonathan could still hear it: his father’s muffled curse, then the cut-off shout — a scream. Glass shattered. Eleanor was dragged into the fog through the window by unseen hands, her cries sharp and raw.

Jonathan clung to Michael, the world tilting into chaos. Their mother reappeared for a heartbeat, blood on her face, dragging at Michael, trying to pull them both free — only for the fog to reclaim her. Her fingers locked on Michael’s wrist, pulling him into the white void with her. His brother’s terrified scream was the last sound Jonathan heard before silence crushed it all.

Alone in the carriage, Jonathan had hidden, too afraid to move, the air turning colder and heavier. He felt it then — the presence. Not a body, not a face, just something vast and watching. He could not look at it, yet he knew it was there. And then, as suddenly as it came, it was gone.

He had stumbled out, trembling, and found them. His mother and Michael — broken, bleeding, barely alive — lying on the stones. His own voice screaming, sobbing, begging for help echoed in his ears even now.

A sound jolted him back.

Jonathan opened his eyes to find Heller standing in the doorway with a tray. A simple lunch, steam curling faintly from the dishes. Heller’s eyes narrowed with concern. “You were far away, Master Jonathan. A nightmare?”

Jonathan straightened, smoothing his hands over the desk, forcing composure. “Just… a thought.” He managed a nod, though his chest still burned with the memory.

Heller’s gaze fell on the desk — the blueprints, the book, the key. His brow furrowed, but he said nothing. He only set down the tray with his usual precision.

Jonathan pushed back his chair. “I’ll be stepping out tonight.”

Heller inclined his head. “I’ll prepare the car.”

“No.” Jonathan raised a hand. “Not the car. Not today. And… something plain to wear. Common, nothing spoken of.”

For the first time, Heller hesitated. He bowed his head in acceptance, but worry shadowed his eyes.

Part Thirty Five – Two Questions Only

Vaughan Elton leaned back in his velvet chair, fingers drumming on the gilded armrest, his lips curling into that grating, high-pitched giggle. It spilled from him without restraint, more like the sound of a squeaky hinge than genuine amusement. Albert stiffened at once, his jaw tightening. Of all the affectations of the Eltons, that incessant tittering was the worst.

“My apologies,” Vaughan began, though the giggle still fluttered at the edge of his voice. “I would have received you yesterday at the wedding, detectives, but alas — politics before pleasure. Always politics and when all eyes watch, you can't help but play along,”

He spread his gloved hands in mock helplessness, eyes glittering with the smugness of one who knew he held the reins. “So, let us proceed. Two questions only. Choose wisely. You will find the answers… enlightening.”

Raleigh cleared his throat, eager to speak, but Albert raised a hand sharply, silencing him. The young detective leaned forward, voice steady and deliberate.

“That night,” Albert began, “the night of Raymond Hanns’ murder — who actually reported the case? There is a conflict over the original source and time of the report, none of it makes sense,"

For a rare moment, Vaughan’s irritating laughter stilled. His brows arched, and then, with a delighted clap of his hands, he leaned forward. “Oh, very good. Very good indeed!”

Lady Amelia’s eyes gleamed as she fixed her gaze on Albert. “Such a smart and fascinating thing,” she murmured, her voice dripping with something almost sultry. “And such beautiful eyes.”

Albert shifted in his seat, the hair on his neck prickling. He wanted nothing more than to leave this pink-and-gold madhouse.

Vaughan lowered his voice, conspiratorial. “You understand, detectives, that once you leave this house, you were here for tea and nothing more. What I tell you is not… to everyone’s taste. But the truth — the report came not from the Hanns. It came from Lord Madeiyas.”

He let out another shrill giggle, delighted by the weight of his words. “Now, your second question.”

Albert hesitated. Raleigh looked at him, expectant, but Albert could feel Amelia’s eyes boring into him, amused, mocking. The silence stretched. Then Albert leaned in again.

“If you know that then you know what was in the original report, the hann's report?” he asked, his tone firmer now.

The effect was instantaneous. Vaughan clutched his chest theatrically, his eyes sparkling as though Albert had just recited poetry. “Oh, I am impressed!” he giggled. “He is sharper than most.”

“Oh, I like this one,” Amelia purred.

Vaughan nodded solemnly, then leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. “The second report was in fact Lord Madeiya's doing, a messenger on a horse back was sent to get the police along with the events that transpired that night, The rider, I believe happened to be one of madeiyas. It was… intercepted. Paid for. Lord Madeiyas saw to that. He is always snooping into people's affair, calls it a necessary evil for peace between his kind and us,”

Albert’s stomach dropped. Raleigh looked as though the rug had been pulled out from under him. The neat lines of the case twisted into shadow. If that was true, then the entire story the police had built rested on a possible substitution.

Vaughan sat back with a sigh, clearly savoring their discomfort. His giggle returned, echoing in the silenced hall. “Two questions, detectives. No more.”

Albert leaned forward, pressing, “Then what—”

But Vaughan only wagged a finger and shook his head, that hideous titter bubbling up once more. “Two questions. Always two. You got your two questions.”