The cold, stark white light of the interrogation room highlighted every wrinkle on Miroslav's face. His cuffed hands lay motionless on the table. Shade stepped inside, quietly closed the door, and sat across from him. He pulled out his pipe but didn't light it—just felt its weight in his palm.
"So, you wanted to talk."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile curved Miroslav's lips.
"Have you examined the notebook, Detective? Those beautiful, intricate formulas?"
His voice was low and calm—almost friendly.
Shade didn't move. "You tell me."
"Timing is everything," Miroslav murmured, his eyes fixed on Shade's pipe. "Understand something too early, and they kill you. Understand too late, and others die."
He lifted his gaze to Shade.
"Which side would you rather be on?"
Shade brought the pipe to his lips, then slowly set it on the table. This wasn't sparring.
This was chess.
"Elena Varga had the same symbol among her belongings. Tell me about it."
The playful glint in Miroslav's eyes flickered out for a moment.
"Elena… looked in the wrong place. And so are you."
"Should I be looking at Mark Varga instead?" Shade asked, his voice sharpening.
This time Miroslav's smile was real—cruel.
"He's just a pawn. Same as you."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Let me give you a hint, Detective. Look at the dates in the notebook. The real questions are there."
Just then, the interrogation room door burst open. Sierra stood there, breathless, her face alight with urgency and excitement.
"Shade! Come on. We found it. We found Crimson Charter."
Shade glanced at Miroslav. The old man's look of contempt deepened at Sierra's news—as if pleased everything was unfolding exactly as intended.
Shade rose. He had to note every word the old man said, but right now he finally had something concrete.
"Our conversation isn't over," Miroslav whispered as Shade walked out.
"It hasn't even started," Shade replied without turning back.
The heavy air of the interrogation room dissolved once they stepped into the corridor. Sierra's excitement cut through it—but Shade's mind still echoed with Miroslav's words.
The dates… the pawn…
This was a game, and Shade didn't even know the rules yet.
The door slammed behind him as Sierra thrust her tablet forward. A website was open.
"Look! Crimson Charter. Registered as a charity. But look at the emblem!"
Shade's eyes locked onto the elegant but familiar logo: two stylized, interlocking C's.
Identical to the symbol in Miroslav's notebook.
"Where'd you find this?" Shade asked, his tone more wary than excited.
"A simple reverse image search," Sierra explained breathlessly. "The logo came up in archives of a few old, dead websites. There's also a registered address: 1842 Industrial Street. Old Harbor District."
Miroslav's voice echoed again: You're looking in the wrong place.
This was too easy.
Far too easy.
But also the only lead they had.
"Fine," Shade muttered, deciding. "Tell Logan to grab Chane and go check it out. No local units. No support. Strictly surveillance."
Sierra hesitated. "I… I want to be on the field too, Shade."
It broke protocol. Her work was behind a desk, in data.
But there was steel in her voice.
Shade studied her for a second. Maybe she wanted to escape Harvenn's shadow. Or maybe she just needed to matter.
He nodded.
"Find Logan. Move."
---
An hour later, they were in the Old Harbor District.
1842 was once a warehouse or small factory—now a decaying, hollow husk of brick and rust.
A thick smell of rot and iron hung in the air.
Logan sifted through the dusty mailbox.
"Empty. No one's been here in years."
Sierra checked the address again.
"But this is the official registration. Everything points here."
The door was locked, but a rotted wooden side window gave way with a push.
Inside, they were greeted by a storm of dust and spiderwebs.
The building was completely empty.
The floor coated with decades of untouched dust.
The walls mottled only with mold patterns.
"Oh God…" Sierra whispered, disappointment and fear mingling in her voice. "There's nothing. Not a trace."
Logan panned his phone's flashlight across the room.
"This is a ghost address, Sierra. On paper it exists. In reality, it doesn't."
---
Back at the Bureau of Special Criminal Cases, the news hit like a shockwave.
Shade stood behind his desk, his face carrying an uncommon, controlled fury.
"No inspections? None?"
His voice chilled the room.
"An organization operates for years, moves money, and no one bothers to check a rotting warehouse?"
Chane stood in the corner, arms crossed, expression blank but eyes thoughtful.
"They're hiding inside the system. Legal on paper, nonexistent in practice."
Logan collapsed into a chair, running a hand through his hair.
"So Miroslav's payments came from this ghost. Elena's pendant symbol belonged to this ghost. But how does a ghost acquire poison potent enough to kill a woman? How does it operate?"
Sierra sat silently at her desk, pale, searching through her tablet. She wasn't disappointed—she was frightened.
They were looking in the wrong place.
Miroslav had been right.
Shade removed his pipe, then set it onto the table, surrendering momentarily to the heavy tension.
Sunlight streamed through the window, painting the floating dust in gold.
"This is a wall," Shade declared, his voice calm again. Analytical.
"A distraction, meant to waste our time. Crimson Charter isn't the answer—it's a tool. The real question is: Who's using it?"
He turned to Sierra.
"Sierra. Trace the symbol's origin. Where did this logo first appear? Architectural archives? Chemistry texts? Anywhere."
Then to Logan and Chane:
"You two dissect those dates in Miroslav's notebook. Match each one with any possible event—deaths, disappearances, financial movements—anything."
He walked to the door.
"I'm not done with that old man yet. Let's see what else he knows."
As the door clicked shut, the room was filled not with despair of chasing ghosts—but with determination to find the hands behind them.
Shade's footsteps echoed through the hallway, each step signaling the next move.
The game continued.
And Detective Shade wasn't going to lose.
---
Mark Varga's luxurious home was dimly lit. He stood swaying in the middle of the living room, gripping a glass of whiskey he was too afraid to drink.
The police visit had shattered him.
Elena…
He had never imagined her death would spiral this deep.
"You made a mistake, Mark."
The voice came from the room's dark corner, beside the window.
The faint streetlight outlined a tall figure—inhumanly tall, nearly reaching the ceiling—its face obscured by a smooth, expressionless mask.
Mark dropped the glass. It hit the carpet, leaving a dark stain.
His heart thundered.
"I—I didn't tell them anything," he stammered. "I only talked about the trips."
The masked figure stepped forward. Fluid. Silent.
Like a snake sliding across the floor.
Its shadow swallowed Mark whole.
"Inviting them into your home was a luxury you couldn't afford," the voice whispered behind the mask. Cold. Metallic. Void of emotion.
"You drew their attention. Shade's attention."
"Who is Shade?" Mark gasped.
"There are things you will learn far too late," the figure replied.
It took another step.
Mark couldn't even hear it breathe.
Only his own panicked heartbeat—and a distant siren outside.
"They found the notebook. The connection is forming.
And you…
you're a loose end."
Mark's eyes widened in terror.
He stumbled back, hitting the couch.
"Please," he begged, barely able to speak. "I—I have a family. After Elena… I knew they'd come after me. The money—I only took it to run. I stayed quiet! I was always quiet!"
The masked man tilted his head.
From behind the eye slits, nothing human looked back.
"Silence is no longer enough," the cold voice declared.
"You are a burden.
And burdens are discarded."
Mark's desperate attempt to flee was hopeless.
The masked figure's arm shot out with lightning speed, gloved hands clamping around his throat.
"Pawns," the figure whispered into his ear,
"are sacrificed."
A final gulp for air turned into a strangled, fading choke.
His eyes bulged, lips turning blue.
In the mask's polished surface, he saw his own dying reflection—just like Elena's.
Just like his wife's.
A minute later, it was over.
The masked man gently—almost respectfully—laid Mark's limp body on the couch.
He reached into the man's jacket, found a wallet, removed the cash.
Then vanished like a ghost.
The dim light flickered over Mark Varga's glassy eyes—locked forever on questions he could never answer.
---
Meanwhile, at the Bureau, Shade was moments away from returning to Miroslav's cell when his phone buzzed.
Harvenn.
"Can't trace the funds. But I found something else. Crimson Charter's logo was designed and registered twenty years ago. The registrant: 'Karlac Holding.' I'm digging. Be careful, Shade. This isn't just a ghost. It's the shadow of something much larger."
Shade pocketed the phone, jaw tightening.
He reached Miroslav's door and motioned to the guard. The door opened.
Inside, Miroslav still sat cuffed at the table.
But he began speaking instantly, as if he already knew what Shade had learned.
"They sacrificed the pawn… didn't they, Detective?"
Shade froze.
A cold, knowing gleam burned in Miroslav's eyes.
"Who?" Shade asked, his voice sharp enough to cut the air.
Miroslav's merciless smile returned.
"The game," he whispered,
"is only just beginning."