Silence.
It was all Frank had ever learned to love.
A silence that did not judge. That did not lie. That made no promises.
The silence of orphanage mornings, when no loving voice echoed, no footsteps came down the hall.
The silence of foster homes, where family photos never looked him in the eye.
The silence of nights where memories faded, one by one, like lamps going out in an abandoned house.
> Frank didn't cry.
He grew up.
And through solitude, he made himself strong.
At thirty-seven, he had become one of the most feared prosecutors in the state. He only spoke when it served the truth. He formed no attachments—not to colleagues, not even to the few friends he was said to have.
Solitude was not a prison.
It was his armor.
---
One autumn Monday, as fog wrapped the streets in shades of ash, Frank got a call from Inspector Owens—a longtime contact at the DA's office, not one to call without reason.
> "Frank… I think you'll want to see this for yourself."
On the screen, the face of the upcoming trial's defendant.
A man named Isaiah Creed, suspected in several disappearances, psychological manipulation, and alleged occult practices.
And suddenly, without knowing why, Frank felt a sick twist deep in his spine. A memory. A scent.
Something... familiar.
The investigation would soon reveal something worse.
Isaiah Creed wasn't just linked to the missing.
He had reportedly been seen seventeen years ago, near the scene of the accident that killed Frank's parents.
And through old files, ancient papers, and lost testimony, one name kept surfacing:
> The Cult of the Inverted Void.
Fragmented writings. Pages torn from old grimoires.
A recurring symbol: a white turtle.
And an ancient mark—an eye with no iris.
And at the heart of it all, a word, scrawled in faded ink:
> "The Non-Being."