A hesitant knock rippled against the door, heavy with purpose. Behind the misted glass pane, the bold letters of the "CLOSED" sign glared back, impossible to miss.
The figure on the other side wore a sombre, floor-length cloak and a tilted fedora that shadowed much of their face. In one hand, he gripped a polished canw topped with an orca-shaped pommel, its metal ferrule gleaming dimly in the dying light. Gold buttons, arranged in a concentric pattern across their chest, caught faint glints from the fading sunset.
The door creaked open, its hinges groaning an unwelcomed greeting.
"Ah—Mr. Paris," said Rafak, his voice a blend of surprise. "I'm afraid we're closed."
Paris flinched as his eyes flicked to Rafak sleeve, there, just past the elbow fold, a splotch of crimson marred the pristine cloth before vanishing into shadow.
"Oh, no," Paris replied, offering a thin smile. His tone was soft but carried an undercurrent of urgency. "I only have a quick question. May I come in for a moment?"
Rafak hesitated, his gaze flitting restlessly across the dim interior. After a beat, he unlatched the heavy bolt and thrust the door wider. "I've seen you prowling around this block lately, Mr. Paris," he muttered.
"I have business nearby," Paris said, stepping inside. His eyes swept the empty display cases and wooden shelves that once overflowed with chocolate croissants and crusty baguettes meant for his siblings. There wasn't so much as a stray crumb left. His stomach tightened, and yeah, no one made sausage rolls like this man in all of Tytoal-ba.
Rafak guided him toward the rear with hurried steps.
"Why are you closed?" Paris's brow rose, and his question cut sharper than a whiny blade. "It's odd to see you lock up at this hour. You usually bake until midnight."
"I have matters in the Wetlands today," Rafak murmured.
Paris surveyed the space with a practiced eye, cataloguing every shadowy corner. The shop's interior was fractured into four distinct zones: to the left lay the silent kitchen where dough once tumbled under rhythmic kneading; to the right, a combined workspace and sleeping chamber shrouded behind tightly drawn curtains; and straight ahead, a door secured by an oversized bolt, more suited to a fortress than a simple bakehouse.
His gaze swept over walls freshly coated in ivory paint, too white, too pristine. Every inch was slick with meticulous brushstrokes. In the left corner, a fresh droplet slid down, forming a tiny stalactite that hadn't yet hardened. The acrid tang of wet paint stung the air, mingling nauseatingly with the sour scent of old yeast.
"Just repainted yesterday afternoon," Rafak replied flatly, striding toward the kitchen with a rehearsed flourish.
Paris studied more closely. Faint splatters of drying white paint mottled the wooden floor near the baseboards. A paintbrush lay abandoned in a corner, bristles stiff with drips. Most telling of all, an empty can lay discarded behind the table, its label torn beyond recognition. The vents overhead hung forced wide open, as if desperate to purge any scent not of fresh lacquer.
He halted before a bookcase, its position clearly disturbed. Fresh gouges marred the paint where it had been slid aside, revealing a smear of dark, crimson-red beneath. Around its edges, the white coat glistened thick and layered, as though desperate to conceal something lurking in the wall's belly. The still-wet paint clung to the back of the shelf.
"Isn't it risky for a bakery to repaint on short notice?" Paris tilted his head, black eyes locked on Rafak's face. "Paint fumes seep into everything. Or… are you covering up another odor?"
"That's also why I closed shop and halted production, Mr. Paris." His answer came too swiftly, too neatly packaged.
"And how is Clara?" Paris dropped the question like a noose.
"She's… fine, I think. She hasn't checked in for days." Rafak's voice wavered.
Paris held his stare. "You haven't looked for her? A caring partner would be worried if his beloved vanished without word."
"She did come by a few days ago," he admitted, voice cracking. "She said her department kept her busy."
Paris produced a small stack of photographs from his pocket, each movement slow and deliberate. "You've heard about the recent disappearances?"
He let the first photo fall onto the table with a soft thud: a chocolate-haired woman, her cheek dusted with a sprinkle of freckles.
The woman in this photo is Clara's colleague. I received a request from her family to find her." Paris watched Rafak's face for any flicker of reaction. "Troublesome work, given how scant the clues are."
He slid the second photograph across the table, a man in a crisp blue shirt, hair trimmed neatly. A face that tugged at Rafak's memory.
"Your neighbor is missing too. I learned he's been gone for a month. Witnesses claim they saw him enter this bakery as their last known location."
Next came the third photo: three children with innocent grins.
"They vanished just yesterday," Paris said. "Witnesses say they smashed through your window."
"I know them all," Rafak replied, voice forced flat. "Regulars at my shop. But I had no idea they were missing."
"You never step outside?" Paris closed the gap, shrinking Rafak's world to the space between them. "Or perhaps you don't dare to?"
"Clara usually handles errands, so I don't need to leave. Besides, when it's busy, I can't just abandon the bakery."
"Don't you have staff?"
"Even so. If things get hectic, my assistants get overwhelmed," he stammered.
Paris tapped his cane against the floor. "What about your camera? I didn't see it."
"It's fine. Would you like me to take a picture?" Rafak's offer came too quickly.
"By all means."
Rafak bolted into his room, cradling his camera in trembling hands as he retrieved it with painstaking care.
Click. The flash lit Paris's face in stark relief, stoic yet composed, a slight smile playing on his lips.
"May I have that image for my investigation records?"
"No." The single word snapped from Rafak, his tone brittle.
Paris fell silent, that half-smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. His eyes swept the room one last time, cataloguing every nuance as evidence.
"Very well… I'll be on my way."
He paused at the threshold. "Oh, and give Clara my regards if you see her," Paris added, then closed the door with a soft click.