CHAPTER 9
[AT MS. EVELYN'S PRIVATE OFFICE…]
Reagan understood immediately that the presence behind the door was anything but human.
Only now did it dawn on him how poorly he had planned this visit. No backup. No contingency. Not even a silent observer waiting nearby. He had come alone—an agent of the Investigations Department, walking into unfamiliar territory under the assumption that caution could wait. The foster home sat in a quiet, peaceful neighborhood, the kind where danger felt out of place. And more than that, his personal reasons for coming had overridden every instinct for self-preservation.
Under normal circumstances, that recklessness might have gone unpunished.
But the individual waiting for him was clearly not the sort who entertained guests over tea and polite conversation. Bloodlust seeped through the door like a living thing, thick and suffocating.
For the first time, Reagan hesitated.
As the oppressive aura intensified, he considered stopping Ms. Ren from opening the door—offering a quick excuse about a packed schedule, promising to return another day, better prepared. But his conviction wouldn't allow it. Something told him this was his only chance to find the person he was searching for. Whatever lay beyond that door, he would endure it.
So he braced himself.
Ms. Ren opened the door to the private office.
Instantly, the air collapsed inward.
Reagan staggered back as an invisible pressure slammed into his chest. He clutched it with his left hand, his right flying to his mouth as he doubled over, coughing violently. Dark red stained his palm. He struggled to steady his breathing, dimly aware that he was the only one affected.
When he looked up, he saw her.
Seated calmly behind the desk was a stunning young woman—flawless in appearance, as though sculpted with impossible precision. Pale golden hair rested gently on her shoulders, framing a face that radiated beauty. Her smile was captivating… and deeply unsettling, shifting effortlessly between warm charm and something utterly deranged.
She was the source of the presence.
The cause of his coughing, his pain—yet she sat there smiling, feigning ignorance.
[Ms. Evelyn]— (to Reagan). "Oh my…! Is something the matter?"
Her voice dripped with false concern.
[Reagan]— (forcing composure). "I'm terribly sorry… (*coughs*) you had to see me like this. (*coughs again*) My stomach doesn't seem to agree with the breakfast I had this morning."
[Ms. Evelyn]— "I see… How unfortunate."
He retrieved a small handkerchief from his pocket and calmly wiped the blood from his hands. Behind her pleasant smile, Reagan could sense it—she was deliberately allowing her bloodlust to leak, testing him. If it continued, it would kill him.
He had no more room to pretend.
A sharp, unhinged grin spread across his face, exposing blood-stained teeth. Straightening his posture, he composed himself like a gentleman and stepped fully into the office.
That was when something incredible happened.
The pressure in the room spiked violently.
Every object within the office erupted into motion—furniture rattling, glass vibrating, papers lifting into the air. The walls trembled as if enraged, the entire room shaking under an unseen force.
Through it all, Reagan walked forward—unbothered, unhurried.
He approached the desk, never breaking eye contact with Ms. Evelyn. She continued smiling, unfazed by the chaos raging around them. When he reached her, she gestured politely to a chair.
He accepted.
The moment he sat down, the trembling intensified.
What had begun as violent shaking escalated into something far worse—seismic in scale. The entire building groaned as though caught in the grip of an earthquake, walls quaking under the strain as two overwhelming presences collided in silence.
Everyone in the foster home felt it.
Even the Six.
Ms. Ren's expression turned cold without warning—her eyes sharp, lethal, as if she had just identified an enemy worthy of assassination. Across the room, Ms. Evelyn remained seated behind her desk, composed, smiling softly.
Then Reagan arrived.
The moment he stepped into the office, Ms. Ren felt it.
His presence was unrestrained.
Unnatural.
Dense with bloodlust.
It rolled outward like a pressure wave, colliding violently with Ms. Evelyn's own presence. The air itself seemed to tear. The walls trembled. Furniture rattled violently as the invisible clash intensified—seismic, catastrophic.
If it continued, the building would collapse down to its foundation.
Yet outwardly—
Reagan calmly took the seat offered to him.
Across the desk, Ms. Evelyn returned his polite smile. Two predators, seated comfortably, while chaos ravaged the space between them. Each waited for the other to yield first.
The structure groaned.
Cracks spidered across the walls.
Finally, Ms. Evelyn exhaled softly.
She restrained herself.
Reagan followed suit.
The pressure vanished instantly.
The office settled. The building stabilized.
Ms. Ren immediately began restoring order—righting displaced furniture, straightening fallen items, her movements precise and efficient.
Ms. Evelyn smiled gently.
"Would you care for some coffee?" she asked.
Reagan considered for a moment. "Tea would be preferable."
Ms. Evelyn gestured to Ms. Ren.
Within moments, both drinks were served.
Ms. Ren cleared the desk and placed a small sugar bowl beside Ms. Evelyn's coffee, then another beside Reagan's tea.
Silence lingered.
Ms. Evelyn broke it first.
"That was quite an unusual earthquake, wasn't it?" she said calmly, her gaze charming—and deeply unsettling.
"It shames me that such an incident occurred during a visit from such an esteemed guest. I apologize for any… inconvenience, Mr—"
She gestured lightly.
"Reagan," he replied smoothly. "Reagan Armai."
"And please, don't trouble yourself over something so clearly beyond your control. It was simply nature."
His eyes sharpened slightly.
"This country has a long history with earthquakes… and other natural disasters."
Ms. Ren finished serving his tea.
Reagan began adding sugar cubes—one by one.
"You know," he continued softly, "a disaster doesn't always have to be an earthquake."
Another cube.
"Sometimes… a disaster can be a person."
Another.
"It could be me. It could be Ms. Ren here."
He gestured briefly.
"Or…"
He smiled warmly.
"…a very, very beautiful lady such as yourself."
The final sugar cube caused a small spill.
He met Ms. Evelyn's gaze.
"Having tea with someone as charming as you is more than I could ask for."
He took a sip.
Ms. Evelyn studied him, intrigued. Bold. Unfazed. A man accustomed to danger—and women.
"I'm flattered," she replied lightly. "So I take it my beauty was your sole reason for visiting?"
She chuckled softly.
Reagan smiled in kind.
"On the contrary…"
He paused.
"Please pardon my forgetfulness. I failed to ask your name."
She rose slightly and extended her hand.
"Such an outstanding gentleman," she said.
"Please—call me Octavia. Octavia Hall."
She leaned back into her chair.
"So… what brings you here, Mr. Reagan Armai?"
"I'm here on behalf of the Investigations Department," he said.
Her expression didn't change.
Interesting, she thought.
"We're searching for six boys."
He withdrew an item from his coat and placed it on the desk—a still image.
"Please take a look. Do you recognize any of them? Any information would help."
Ms. Evelyn picked it up, squinting slightly.
"I'm afraid they aren't familiar faces," she said gently.
She gestured to Ms. Ren.
Ms. Ren leaned in, examined the image, then shook her head.
"No. They don't appear familiar. I doubt they reside in this neighborhood."
Ms. Evelyn returned the image.
"Well then, Mr. Reagan… I'm sorry we couldn't be of much assistance."
Reagan retrieved the image and tucked it back into his coat.
"It's a shame," he said quietly.
He glanced around the office.
"On to more pressing matters," he continued.
"I must say—this is a fine establishment you have here."
Her eyes lit up slightly.
"Oh? You truly think so?"
"Quite," Reagan replied calmly.
"In fact, some might say it's so fine… that it probably shouldn't exist at all."
He laughed—low and unsettling, the sound echoing unnaturally before fading into a quiet sigh.
"I wonder…"
He tilted his head, eyes suddenly cold.
"And what exactly are you implying?"
Octavia asked, her smile tight. Her body tensed, restraining instinct.
Reagan straightened.
"Forgive me if that sounded… unsettling."
He took another sip of tea.
"You see, while reviewing records at the Investigations Department, I discovered that this… fine establishment—"
He gestured around them.
"—doesn't appear to be registered with the government."
"In other words…"
"It doesn't exist."
Under normal circumstances, such an anomaly might be dismissed as a bureaucratic oversight. But given the country's current state—and the government's… thoroughness—he found that explanation lacking.
"So," he leaned forward slightly,
"How does an unregistered foster home acquire the funding necessary to operate illegally for years?"
Ms. Evelyn smiled calmly and sipped her coffee.
"So this is an interrogation?"
"Oh, heavens no," Reagan replied smoothly.
"Merely curiosity. And as an investigator, I find it difficult to ignore certain… irregularities."
She nodded.
"If you must know, this foster home is funded by the Foundation," she explained warmly.
"It has been that way since its establishment. All the children here are orphans. Thanks to the Foundation, we've been able to care for them properly."
Reagan stroked his chin.
"The Foundation…?"
He looked up sharply.
"Would that foundation have any connection to the political group known as the Foundation Alliance?"
There was the briefest pause.
"Yes," she said softly. "It does."
So he's the one, Reagan thought.
"Even so," he continued, "that doesn't explain why the foster home remains unregistered."
"It's political," Octavia admitted.
"Oh?" Reagan said, interest sharpening. "Care to enlighten me?"
She took another sip.
"I'm sure you're aware of the country's political climate. Over the years, there have been numerous assassinations."
She met his gaze.
"The most likely culprits… are the Mafia."
She continued calmly.
"The leader of the Foundation—being a respected philanthropist—avoids anything that might compromise his safety or assets."
Reagan listened carefully.
He understood the game she was playing.
"I see…" Reagan said slowly.
"And what gave you the impression that the Mafia were responsible for those assassinations?"
He studied her closely.
"What if it was something else entirely?"
Octavia reached for the small coffee pitcher beside her cup and poured herself another serving, unhurried.
"Hm. You know," she said casually, "for someone who claims to be from the Investigations Department, you seem oddly sympathetic toward the Mafia."
"And what are you implying?" Reagan asked.
She lifted the cup to her lips.
"Oh, nothing," she replied lightly. "Just airing an opinion, that's all."
She took a sip.
Reagan felt the shift.
A test.
"For your information," he said firmly, "the Investigations Department works strictly with proof and evidence. Not sentiments."
"Is that so…" Ms. Evelyn murmured, setting her cup down.
"Then isn't it ironic," she continued calmly, her voice unsettlingly soft,
"…that it was sentiment that brought you here, Mr. Reagan Armai?"
She interlocked her fingers atop the desk, posture suddenly domineering.
"Surely you didn't come all this way because you couldn't afford yourself some tea."
Her gaze never wavered.
"And I'm quite certain you didn't come here with hard proof or evidence," she added.
"Knowing your department, you would've already torn this place apart inch by inch in search of any… malicious activity."
She smiled.
Reagan pushed his chair back and stood.
"I think I'm done here," he said evenly, straightening his coat.
"Thank you for the tea. I truly appreciate the hospitality, Ms. Octavia Hall."
He inclined his head briefly toward Ms. Ren.
"The pleasure is all mine," Ms. Evelyn replied pleasantly.
"Please allow Ms. Ren to escort you out."
Ms. Ren turned and led the way.
Reagan followed—then paused.
"Before I go," he said without turning back,
"I'd like to take a look at the children here."
A beat.
"I'm sure you wouldn't mind," he added. "It is a foster home, after all."
Silence.
"Of course," Ms. Evelyn replied smoothly.
"Please, go ahead."
Reagan exited, closing the door behind him.
Ms Evelyn remained seated, her smile frozen in place until his presence vanished entirely.
Then—
Her bloodlust slipped free.
Just barely.
Both ceramic cups—hers and Reagan's—cracked simultaneously under the pressure, thin fractures spidering across their surfaces.
[THE FOSTER HOME — COMMON AREA]
Ms. Ren escorted Reagan to where twelve children were playing.
He crouched, spoke gently, asked about their well-being—about school, meals, friendships. His tone was playful, nonthreatening. Nothing that felt like an interrogation.
One child stood out.
Haru.
Bright-eyed. Talkative. Completely unaware she was revealing anything of value.
She eagerly explained their lessons, their routines—and casually mentioned that they were taught Latin.
Reagan's interest sharpened.
Latin?
He asked a few follow-up questions,
kneeling to match her height.
But then—
Haru's gaze shifted.
Her expression drained of color.
Her eyes locked onto someone standing behind Reagan.
She stopped speaking.
Her lips trembled—but no sound came out.
Reagan noticed immediately.
He turned.
Behind him stood Ms. Alice, one of the foster guardians.
Radiant smile. Impeccable braids. Warm, gentle presence—at least on the surface.
Nothing about her looked threatening.
Yet Haru was frozen in terror.
Ms. Alice gestured politely, asking if everything was alright, her tone perfectly pleasant—utterly oblivious.
Reagan rose slowly.
"It's all fine," he replied with a courteous smile.
He then requested permission to look around the foster home further.
Ms. Alice declined gently.
"I'm afraid you'll need a warrant for that."
Reagan understood.
He thanked everyone, promised the children he'd return soon, and finally left the premises.
Life at the foster home resumed as normal.
Laughter. Chores. Dinner preparations.
But when evening fell—
The atmosphere shifted.
And the darkness began to surface.