Eric slowly approached the house, while Garfield, still in his room, searched for evidence that might condemn him. Tristan quickly discerned that he was approaching and gave the signal that someone was coming. Two sharp knocks echoed against the wooden front door. He soon appeared before Tristan only moments after the knock had fallen. Tristan remained composed, even as Eric's gaze pierced into him like daggers.
Eric studied Tristan, then shifted his eyes to the door of the house. Though everything seemed ordinary, an uneasy instinct told him something was amiss.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, suspicion dripping from his tone as his eyes lingered on Tristan standing at the doorway.
"I'm waiting for Garfield to get ready. You know him—always waking at his own pace."
Eric moved toward the doorknob, but Tristan immediately blocked his path.
"What are you doing?"
Tristan acted on impulse, knowing he had worsened the situation, as what little trust Eric had for him was rapidly eroding. He scrambled for a response, one that would not expose Garfield's activities.
"I just finished cleaning, so if you don't mind, could you wait a moment before entering?"
Tristan's words seemed to placate the second-year; Eric's eyes softened, if only slightly, betraying a fragment of trust.
Suddenly, the crash of something shattering resounded from within the house. Eric lunged for the doorknob while Tristan faltered. He flung the door open and rushed inside. There, in the kitchen, stood Garfield—at his feet a broken plate, and beside him a pot of yesterday's dinner spilled open. Tristan hurried in after him, beholding the same incriminating scene.
"What are you doing?" Eric demanded.
'He seems to like asking that question.' Tristan thought bitterly.
Garfield glanced down at the broken shards, then turned toward the boy standing in the doorway.
"I wanted to grab something to eat before heading to school."
"Is that so?" Eric muttered, his tone heavy with suspicion as his sharp eyes lingered on the golden-haired boy.
Tristan gestured frantically, signaling Garfield to leave the kitchen.
"I should get going, or else we'll be late," Garfield added quickly.
Eric's response was flat, his voice void of warmth.
"Yes, you do that."
The boys left the house and made their way toward the school's main building. Eager to learn whether Garfield had uncovered anything in their suspect's room, Tristan pressed, "Did you find anything?"
Garfield's expression revealed the truth; his gaze dropped to the ground, his disappointment unhidden.
"As you gave the signal someone was coming, I only had time to search one last place—his table, and the drawers within it."
The memory returned to Garfield: the frantic rush toward Eric's study table after Tristan's signal. He had lifted the books stacked upon it, flipped through the pages, and yanked open the drawers. Yet there had been nothing—absolutely nothing. No incriminating evidence, nothing worth even a whisper.
Garfield grew weary at the barren sight. Eric seemed devoid of personality, his taste in books as dull as lifeless ash.
"There was nothing—absolutely nothing," Garfield confessed, his voice steeped in sorrow.
Meanwhile, Eric ascended the staircase slowly, each step deliberate, heavy, commanding. He reached his room, locked as expected, but something felt wrong. His eyes flicked downward.
In front of his room lay a particular floorboard—one that dipped slightly when pressed. Before entering, Eric crouched and inspected it. The wood had shifted.
He reached into the pocket of his blazer, retrieved his key, and unlocked the door. Entering, his gaze swept the room—everything appeared untouched. He inspected his wardrobe first, then his bed, and finally his desk. With a calculating hand, he dragged his finger slowly across the study table's surface as he circled it. At last, he sat down and opened the empty drawer.
"Those two fools were here, but unfortunately for them, they found nothing." His voice was calm, laced with cruel amusement. Reaching beneath the drawer, he pulled.
Eric pressed a small iron syringe against the false bottom, lifting it. With his free hand, he pulled it higher, revealing a white mask adorned with diamond patterns across its surface.
"It seems you were nearly exposed," murmured a mysterious voice—smooth, steady—drifting from the open window.
Eric's gaze snapped to the source. A black cat, its emerald eyes glowing, slipped inside. It was the same cat Tristan and Garfield had seen on their first day—the harbinger of turmoil within the house.
The feline leapt gracefully into the room, then onto Eric's bed, where it lounged with uncanny ease.
"There is no need for concern," Eric said coldly, placing the mask back into its hidden chamber. "They are far too dim-witted to uncover anything."
The cat chuckled darkly.
"Do not be so certain. That red-haired boy is far sharper than he appears."
Eric strode toward the bed, sat down, and lifted the cat onto his lap. Stroking its sleek black fur, he asked, "Do you know something I do not?"
The black cat began to purr.
"I know nothing. I am here only to observe you. The Order does not permit failures among its ranks."
Eric's expression hardened.
"I do hope your leader honors his end of the bargain," he said, his hand pressing roughly against the cat's back.
The feline hissed, springing from his lap. Its fur bristled like a thousand needles ready to strike.
"Do not dare disrespect our leader. His word is law—and your friend's life remains intact only because of us. That bloodline fetches a fortune, and without our intervention, your companion would already have been sold."
Eric exhaled sharply.
"I apologize. I will continue my work as I always have. The students I gave the serum to have already begun to show signs of shifting."
"When do you anticipate their transformation?" the cat asked.
Eric calculated in silence, then replied firmly, "Perhaps four to five weeks from now."
"Excellent. We will continue to watch. See that you remain discreet, and above all, avoid suspicion."
The cat stretched languidly, then leapt onto the window sill before vanishing like a ghost in the night.
Eric remained alone, seated upon his bed, his expression devoid of humanity, his eyes eclipsed in shadow.
With a voice stripped of remorse, he whispered into the silence:
"I will do… what I must do."