The glow from the monitors flickered across Andrew's face, making the dark circles under his eyes look even deeper. His fingers moved swiftly over the keyboard, pulling up another grainy still frame from the security footage. He'd isolated dozens already—zoomed, enhanced, filtered. Nothing gave him what he needed. Every time he thought he found a clue, it slipped through his fingers like smoke. The intruder was a ghost. A ghost with pale green eyes that wouldn't leave his mind.
He rubbed his temples, feeling the familiar throb at the back of his skull. He hadn't slept properly in days. Coffee cups littered the edge of his desk, their contents long gone cold. The time on the screen blinked 3:07 a.m., but time had stopped meaning anything the moment Alexander gave the order.
"Find them."
Andrew exhaled slowly, his shoulders heavy with the weight of failure. He wasn't afraid of the work—he never had been. But this? This wasn't just a task. It was personal. For Alexander. For himself.
The door creaked open quietly behind him, soft footsteps padding across the wooden floor.
"Andrew?" His mother's voice, gentle and laced with concern, cut through the silence like warm sunlight through frost.
He didn't turn. "I'm almost there. Just need a little more time."
"You've said that for the last three nights," she said, stepping into the room. She wore her worn-out robe, the one she always put on when she couldn't sleep. Her hair was tied back in a loose bun, strands of silver catching the dim light.
She came to stand behind him, her eyes flicking over the chaotic screen of half-loaded programs, still images, and notes scribbled across multiple tabs.
"Your body's here," she said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder, "but your mind is far away. With him again."
Andrew's hands fell still on the keyboard. He looked down.
"He's not just someone I work for, Mom," he said quietly. "You know that."
"I do." Her voice was low, kind, full of unspoken memory. "You were just boys, and you always looked out for him like a brother. Even when he stopped looking back."
There was no bitterness in her words—only quiet understanding.
"He didn't stop looking back," Andrew said, almost in a whisper. "He just learned not to show it."
His mother sighed and sat beside him, her hand still resting on his arm. "And you? You never learned to stop carrying his burdens."
"I owe him more than you know," Andrew replied, eyes still fixed on the screen. "Back then… before you and Dad took me in… he was all I had."
"And now?" she asked.
Andrew hesitated. "Now he's trying not to fall apart. He won't show it, but I can see it. This… this theft, the Sigil—it's more than just an artifact. Something about it's eating at him. I have to figure this out before it does."
His mother didn't respond right away. She simply looked at him, really looked, with the kind of love that didn't need to be spoken. Then she reached up and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.
"You've always had a good heart, Andrew. Even when life didn't give you much reason to. But even a good heart needs rest. Even loyalty needs balance."
Andrew blinked hard. For a second, he forgot the screens. Forgot the weight of his task. He was just a tired young man with a mother who cared enough to sit beside him in the dark.
"I'll get a little sleep," he said finally. "Just… not yet."
She stood slowly, brushing his shoulder once more. "Don't lose yourself chasing someone who doesn't even know he's lost."
And with that, she left the room, the door clicking softly shut behind her.
Andrew leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking once more to the image on the screen—the frozen frame of a masked intruder with eyes he couldn't place, but couldn't stop thinking about either.
He reached for the next file.
Somewhere, in this mess of data and shadows, was the truth.
And Andrew wouldn't stop until he found it.
Andrew's hand hovered over the mouse, but his mind drifted. The numbers on the screen blurred. His thoughts pulled him backward—through time, through silence, through the walls of the orphanage that had once been his entire world.
He closed his eyes.
And the past came rushing in.
Sixteen Years Ago – St. Bartholomew's Orphanage
Rain hammered against the rooftop in steady rhythm, like the ticking of a giant, impatient clock. The dormitory of St. Bartholomew's Orphanage was dimly lit by a single hallway bulb, its flicker painting ghostly shadows on the cracked plaster walls. Most of the boys were asleep, huddled under their threadbare blankets, their breaths forming soft clouds in the cold night air.
But tucked behind a wall of rusted bunk beds, two boys sat side by side on the floor, wide awake.
Alexander Velmonte was twelve and alive with mischief. His jet-black hair curled slightly at the ends, uncombed and defiant. His shirt had holes in the sleeves and the hem of his pants dragged behind his heels, but he moved like someone who owned the entire building.
Beside him, eleven-year-old Andrew Bell sat cross-legged, hugging his knees to his chest. Quiet, observant, the kind of kid who never asked for much but always noticed everything.
The two of them shared a single flashlight between them, its beam cutting through the dark like a secret signal.
"They're coming tomorrow," Alexander whispered, elbowing Andrew lightly. "The couple. Mr. and Mrs.Velmonte . The matron told me when she thought I was asleep."
Andrew looked over, his expression unreadable. "What do they want?"
"Kid," Alexander said, grinning. "Boy, around my age. Guess who that is?"
Andrew gave a small shrug. "Could be anyone."
"Could be me," Alexander said with a wink.
Then he paused.
The grin slowly faded from his lips, replaced by something quieter, almost reluctant.
"I don't know if I want to go."
Andrew turned his head, confused. "Why not?"
Alexander leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. "Because it'll mean leaving you behind."
The words fell into the silence like stones into still water.
Andrew didn't respond right away. He just looked at the flickering flashlight in his hands, watching the way its beam trembled slightly—like it knew it didn't have much time left.
"You should go," he said finally. "They're rich, right? You could have a real room. Real food. Maybe even a dog."
Alexander scoffed. "What the hell would I do with a dog?"
Andrew smiled faintly. "Feed it. Play fetch. Normal things."
Alexander was quiet for a while. Then he reached over and ruffled Andrew's hair, like a brother would.
"Normal's overrated," he said. "But I'll send you something. When I get out of here. Letters, or gifts. Or maybe I'll break you out myself."
Andrew chuckled. "That'd be cool."
"Promise me something," Alexander said, turning serious. "Don't let this place change you. Don't become like the others—the ones who stop dreaming."
Andrew hesitated, then nodded. "Only if you promise not to forget me."
Alexander didn't hesitate. "Never."
The Next Morning
The Velmonte's arrived in a black Mercedes, sharp as a blade against the dreary gray of the orphanage. Mr. Velmonte was tall, stiff, a man whose briefcase never left his side. Mrs. Velmonte looked like she belonged on a magazine cover—perfectly manicured, red lipstick like a warning sign.
Alexander wore the best clothes he had: a white shirt, two buttons missing, and a pair of too-small shoes polished until they shone.
Andrew stood at the doorway of the dormitory, watching him from a distance.
Just before Alexander stepped into the car, he turned.
And instead of just waving, he ran—right into Andrew's arms.
They hugged tightly, fiercely. No words. Just a moment shared between two boys who had survived the same storm, now being torn apart by it.
"I'll come back for you," Alexander whispered. "You'll see."
Then he was gone.
Andrew stood on the steps long after the car disappeared down the winding road.
The world felt quieter after that.
Like something important had been taken with him.
Two Years Later — The Bell Family
The Bell house wasn't fancy. The wallpaper was peeling in some places, the couch had springs that poked through the cushions, and the television only got three channels. But it was home.
Andrew was thirteen when they adopted him. Mr. Bell was a retired high school teacher with a kind voice and terrible jokes. Mrs. Bell had soft eyes and always smelled like peppermint and clean laundry. She made pancakes every Sunday, even when there wasn't enough syrup to go around.
They didn't ask for much.
They just made him feel wanted.
One night, after a particularly bad dream, Andrew had stumbled into the kitchen and found Mrs. Bell awake, knitting in the dim light.
She didn't ask what the dream was.
She just pulled him into a hug and said, "You're safe now. No one's leaving you again."
And for the first time in years, he believed her.
High School – When the Three Became One
Alexander transferred into Eastbrook High two weeks into the semester. Andrew recognized him instantly in the hallway—taller, sharper, colder in his movements, like the world had worn him down into a blade.
But when their eyes met across the crowd of students, something old and warm flickered.
Alexander didn't say anything at first.
He just punched Andrew lightly on the arm and said, "Told you I'd come back."
They picked up like no time had passed.
But high school had its own storm.
That week, a group of older students had been targeting a freshman—scrawny, soft-spoken, bad at hiding his fear. Andrew couldn't ignore it. He stepped in.
And the next thing he knew, fists were flying.
Alexander was there in seconds. No hesitation.
One of the seniors went down with a single blow.
But before more chaos could erupt, a voice rang out across the hallway.
"Enough!"
Juliet Langston.
Tall. Fierce. Fire in her voice. She didn't just command attention—she demanded respect.
She marched straight into the fray, stood between Alexander and the stunned seniors, and gave a smirk that could split glass.
"They were defending me," she lied, without blinking.
Everyone froze.
The principal arrived ten minutes later. Juliet took the fall.
They got warnings. She got detention.
That Friday, she slid into their lunch table like it had always been hers.
"You boys owe me," she said, stealing a fry off Andrew's tray. "So if anyone messes with you again, tell them Juliet Langston said no."
And from that day on—it was the three of them.
Juliet, the fire.
Andrew, the quiet.
Alexander, the blade.
They didn't make sense.
But somehow, they worked.
Back to Present –
Andrew's eyes flickered open.
The monitor had gone dark again.
He rubbed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and sighed. The past felt heavy tonight—like it was clawing through the present just to be remembered.
He glanced at the frozen footage again.
Pale green eyes. Long strands of gold-tinted brown hair. And that split-second hesitation.
He felt it in his chest—not just the need to solve the mystery.
But the ache of knowing Alexander hadn't forgotten. And neither had he.
The bond they shared—the loyalty, the pain, the promises whispered in the dark—none of it was gone.
Andrew leaned forward, eyes heavy with exhaustion, fingers trembling slightly from hours of non-stop analysis. The footage was grainy, the lighting awful, but he knew there had to be something more—something they'd missed.
He slowed the frames again, isolating the moment where the intruder twisted mid-run, just before vanishing through the south exit.
Then he saw it.
Barely visible—just a sliver of skin exposed as the intruder's coat flared with the motion.
A tattoo.
Andrew froze the frame and enhanced it carefully.
It was a rose.
Delicate, detailed—unusual for how refined it looked, especially in this footage. What struck him most were the colors.
The rose was white, its petals tipped in purple—a haunting, elegant contrast that stood out even in grayscale.
Andrew's brow furrowed.
That wasn't common.
And it certainly wasn't random.
He stared at it for a few seconds longer, noting the position—right above the waist—and the sharpness of the lines. Whoever this person was, they weren't just trained—they were marked. Chosen. Intentional.
He leaned back slowly, the faint hum of the servers echoing in the room.
"Got you," he muttered under his breath, quickly saving the frame and adding it to the folder he'd compiled of physical identifiers.
The pale green eyes.
The unusual hair.
And now—this rose.
He didn't know who she was yet.
But the trail was getting warmer.
And he was getting closer.