Confession Room
The confession room was dim and claustrophobic.
A single white light hung low above the table, casting harsh shadows over Minsley, Dr. Morris, Augustin, and Robert, who sat stiffly on one side. The air felt heavy, as if even breathing required permission.
A thick glass wall separated them from the observation room.
On the other side stood Vaelor, Truman, and Jackson, their reflections faintly overlapping with the suspects'. Two officers sat before a computer system, headphones on, quietly recording every word, every pause, every tremor in the confession.
Vaelor leaned closer to Truman and asked in a low voice, "What are they doing?"
"They're taking an official confession," Truman replied calmly. "So the judiciary can take action."
Vaelor frowned. "But we already know everything."
Jackson glanced at the glass wall. "Knowledge isn't enough. Procedure matters. This is both necessity and formality."
Minutes passed in silence, broken only by the faint hum of the recording equipment.
Finally, the door opened.
Augustin and Robert stepped out of the confession room, their expressions unreadable.
Augustin turned to the officer at the computer.
"Prepare the legal documents. We'll make them appear in court tomorrow."
Then he looked at Jackson.
"Can you stay longer tonight? This will take time."
Jackson nodded. "I'll handle it."
Augustin shifted his gaze to Vaelor and Truman.
"You two should go. It's already late."
Truman tried to protest. "Sir, I—"
"Get some rest," Augustin said firmly, cutting him off.
Reluctantly, Vaelor and Truman left.
Night had fully settled by the time Vaelor reached home.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his key, and moved to unlock the door—
It was already open. The lights inside were on.
His instincts sharpened instantly.
A thief? Or something worse?
He stepped inside silently.
From the kitchen came the sound of cooking. A figure stood there—wearing a traveller's hat and spectacles, calmly stirring something on the stove as if this were his own home.
Vaelor's hand tensed. He moved closer, every step controlled, ready to strike.
Suddenly, the man turned. "Vaelor."
Vaelor froze.
That voice… he had heard it before.
Moments later, they sat in the living room. On the short-legged table between them were sushi and noodles, steam rising gently. The warm fragrance filled the room, easing Vaelor's guarded tension despite himself.
They both eated fully first and then—
The man removed his hat and spectacles, placing them on the floor.
"It's been a pretty frustrating week for me," he said casually.
Vaelor stared. "Perun? What's with the disguise? Did you start acting or something?"
Perun chuckled. "Nah. New job. I'm now an assistant to that guy I was hospitalized with—Lukman."
"Oh… right," Vaelor said slowly. "But what about Melody? Weren't you her bodyguard?"
Perun's expression softened. "After you met her at the hospital, she decided to leave this place."
Vaelor nodded. "I see."
Perun looked him over carefully. "So, what are you doing now? Managing Special Investigation cases isn't easy."
"It's rough," Vaelor admitted. "But with the hints you gave me, I managed to close two cases."
Then Vaelor frowned. "You don't look well. You're weaker than before and you were injured. Aren't you training anymore?"
Perun sighed. "No time. But now I realize how important it is."
He paused, then added thoughtfully,
"My job requires me to become… influential. Or at least look like it."
Vaelor fell silent, eyes distant.
Finally, he spoke—his voice carrying a strange weight, as if echoing from somewhere deeper.
"In the Realm of Dominion, if you want to climb higher… someone else must fall lower."
Perun blinked. "Huh?"
Vaelor shook his head. "Forget it."
Perun stood and stretched. "I'm tired. Aren't you? Let's sleep."
Then he asked casually, "By the way—are you still in touch with Serin?"
"Not since the time she gave me your number," Vaelor replied.
Perun smiled faintly. "This weekend, we should go out somewhere."
"Yeah," Vaelor said. "We should."
In a Old Construction Site
Far away, at an abandoned construction site, moonlight spilled over broken concrete and twisted steel.
Junwell, dressed in a red suit, stood calmly near a chair.
A man was tied to it—bald, bloodied, a fresh cut carved across his face. Around him, bodies lay scattered across the ground, blood pooling beneath them. The silence made it clear who had done this.
Alfred and Caeson stood beside Junwell, weapons ready.
Junwell stepped closer to the captive.
"So," he said softly, "do you really think having many men makes you untouchable?"
The tied man laughed weakly. "You're too late."
Junwell gestured to the corpses. "Third Division Executive of the Senate, correct?"
"Yes," the man replied defiantly. "And even if you catch me, what can you do? All executives are far stronger than me. You three can't take them on. You're nobodies."
Alfred scowled. "Talk less. Answer what you're asked."
Junwell leaned in.
"Tell me the location of the First and Second Divisions. And which executives are members of the Authority."
The man sneered. "And if I don't?"
Caeson raised his Beretta, pressing it against the man's head.
"He won't talk," Caeson said coldly. "We should just kill him."
Fear finally cracked the man's composure—but he still hesitated.
Junwell's voice dropped.
"You have one chance."
The man swallowed hard. "I'll tell you about the Second Division… but you have to let me go."
"Speak."
"In the eastern region of Norus—there's a city called Doret. You'll find them there."
Junwell nodded slowly. "I heard there are three executives."
"Yes," the man said quickly. "Goffey, a sniper. Derent, a close-combat fighter. And the main one—Kollren."
His voice trembled. "Kollren is a strategist. His plans are flawless. No one dares defy them. They command fifty members in total."
He exhaled shakily. "Now… you said you'd let me go."
Junwell smiled faintly. "I never said we release you. I said we wouldn't be killed."
He turned to Alfred.
"Take him. We still need him."
The man screamed as he was dragged away, his voice swallowed by the darkness.