Carl rode the elevator to the fifth floor of Lansnat Medical College Hospital, the quiet hum of machinery his only companion. His fingers unconsciously found the badge in his pocket, thumb tracing its worn edges for comfort.
Room 503 greeted him with the familiar hospital cocktail—sharp disinfectant mingled with the faint mustiness of a room rarely aired. Through half-drawn blinds, sunlight cut the space into fragments, dust motes dancing in the golden beams that fell across Clark's bed.
The man before him bore little resemblance to the Clark he remembered. Gone was the gentle, soft-spoken professor, replaced by a hollow shell—sunken cheeks, ashen skin, bloodshot eyes set deep beneath heavy brows. He looked preserved rather than alive.
"Detective Carl." Clark's voice rasped from somewhere deep within, as if climbing from a great depth. "Didn't think you'd actually come."
The heart monitor ticked steadily, its green line marking life with mechanical precision. A shaft of sunlight cut across Clark's face, breaking it into a shifting mosaic.
"Professor Clark," Carl said, forcing himself to meet those haunted eyes. "What happened to you?"
Clark's lips curled into what might have been a smile. "Asthma. Nothing to worry about." He lifted a pale hand threaded with IV lines and medical tape.
Carl noticed the bluish tinge under his fingernails—cyanosis. He'd seen it before on people with one foot already in the grave.
"I wanted to ask about Thomas," Carl said, watching for reactions. "How well did you know him?"
Clark's gaze drifted toward the window. "We'd run into each other at the bar sometimes. Difficult company, but not a bad man." A bitter smile flickered across his face. "People are puzzles, aren't they?"
"He has a cousin," Carl said, watching the monitor's rhythm. "Did you ever meet her?"
Clark's fingers twisted in the bedsheet. "A girl? I might have seen him with a young woman once or twice. Didn't know her personally."
Carl placed a photograph on the bedside table. The girl wore a blue uniform, her expression solemn, face partially shadowed.
"Her name's Anko."
Clark's eyes widened. The monitor shrieked its warning as he began to shake, the bed frame rattling against the linoleum.
"She's different... not like the others..." Clark's words tumbled out in a feverish rush. "She's... touched. Chosen. Not meant for this world."
His eyes burned with an unsettling wildness. Carl felt ice crawl up his spine. He'd seen his share of madness, but this was different—deeper, more dangerous.
Clark caught himself, breathing hard, though the strange light lingered in his eyes.
"Chosen?" Carl repeated carefully.
Clark closed his eyes and drew a long breath. The room seemed to cool, sunlight dimming. When he looked up again, his gaze was almost lucid, unnervingly sharp.
"Detective," he said, voice low and rough, "do you believe in anything beyond this life? Do you know what it's like to stare death in the face every waking moment?" He traced the IV line in his arm. "Sometimes faith is all you have left. Sometimes it's the only thing that keeps your lungs filling with air."
Carl barely recognized the man before him. The professor he'd known had vanished, replaced by someone—or something—else entirely.
The door swung open, ushering in a fresh wave of antiseptic. A masked nurse pushed a cart, a burly orderly at her heels.
"Professor Clark, time for dialysis."
The orderly transferred Clark to a wheelchair with practiced ease. The hospital gown slipped, revealing an arm marked with needle tracks, veins like withered vines beneath the skin.
As they wheeled him out, Clark turned back. "Detective, tell Elizabeth not to worry," he said, his voice suddenly clear, almost bright. "Everything changes soon. You'll see."
Carl stood frozen as sunlight flooded back into the room. By the time he gathered himself, Clark was gone, headed toward the OR. He started after him but halted at the sound of nurses whispering in the corridor.
"Poor Professor Clark is a walking miracle," the younger one murmured. "Heart's failing, kidneys shot, but he still believes he'll make it out alive."
Carl stopped short. The OR doors at the hallway's end swung shut with a soft whisper of air.
His phone vibrated. Kim.
"Chief," Kim sounded exhausted, "I spoke with those Duville students and Chris the mechanic. They all claim they don't know Anko, and..."
Kim trailed off. Carl could hear papers rustling in the background.
"Go on," Carl prompted quietly.
A weighted pause. "Shimura will be waiting in the interview room. I've set everything up." Kim's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "Chief... I'm sorry."
Carl gazed at the ancient oak outside the window, silent for a moment. "Thank you."
Just two words, but they carried everything. He understood the message—no more backup. Kim had reached his limit.
The interview room buzzed with fluorescent light. Shimura slouched in a metal chair, staring vacantly at the ceiling.
His hair hung greasy and limp, gray streaks running from temples to chin, blending with unkempt stubble. His suit was rumpled, tie askew, collar stained yellow with old sweat. The sour smell of unwashed body and stale clothing permeated the air.
Carl pulled out a handkerchief, covering his nose and mouth.
He nodded for the officer to leave. When the footsteps faded down the hall, he took the seat across from Shimura. The chair scraped harshly against the floor.
"Do you remember me?"
Shimura's Adam's apple bobbed convulsively. His gaze remained fixed upward. "Detective... Carl." His voice cracked from disuse.
"Do you remember the murder I mentioned before?"
Carl watched Shimura's fingers tapping the armrest, faster and faster. His breathing quickened, shallow and erratic.
Without warning, Shimura bolted upright, knocking his chair backward. He lunged across the table, grabbing Carl's hand, fingernails digging into flesh.
"Chief! It wasn't me! I swear to God it wasn't me!" His voice cracked with panic, veins bulging at his temples.
Carl maintained his composure. "I'm not talking about the couple. I mean the murder in the 503."
Shimura seemed to deflate, stumbling backward.
He released his grip, clawing at empty air, sweat darkening his collar.
"Do you know Thomas?" Carl slid a photo across the table. "Do you recognize this man?"
Shimura recoiled as if physically struck.
His lips trembled, a whimper escaping from somewhere deep in his throat.
Then he slid from the chair, collapsing on the floor. He scrambled backward until he hit the wall, clutching his head, fingernails leaving bloody furrows across his face.
"The girl's name is Anko," Carl said evenly. "You saw Thomas kill her, didn't you?"
Shimura's trembling intensified, teeth chattering audibly. "They... they're not human... It's not my fault..." His voice echoed hollowly, drenched in terror.
Carl reached toward him, but Shimura bolted, slamming into the corner. He curled into himself, rocking, repeating the same words: "They're not human... It's not my fault... They're not human..."
His voice rose to a howl. Officers burst through the door.
Carl watched impassively as they dragged Shimura away, face contorted with tears and saliva. He sighed, examining the scratches on his wrist.
He knew he'd get nothing more today. But Shimura's reaction confirmed his worst fear—this case extended far beyond simple murder.
Perhaps I've already stepped over the edge, Carl thought, and there's no way back.
The fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting strange, shifting shadows against the wall.
In the hospital's outpatient wing, moonlight spilled through windows, washing the empty corridor in silver. Clark's room lay silent but for the mechanical symphony of life support, the monitor's green line jumping erratically in the darkness, like life's final struggle.
A figure crouched on the window ledge, moonlight silhouetting his lean frame. The bedside lamp suddenly blazed to life, illuminating Clark's face—pocked with needle marks—twisting into an eerie smile.
Moonlight slanted across Thomas's sharp features as he stared at Clark, whose skin was yellowing and peeling, but whose lips still held a strange confidence.
"I've been waiting for you," Clark rasped, voice like shattered glass.
Thomas pressed his lips into a thin line. "I didn't expect it to be you."
"Nor I you," Clark said softly, something complex flickering in his gaze.
"Give it to me, Clark." Thomas's voice was unnaturally calm, devoid of edge. He recognized a dying man when he saw one.
Clark lifted his arm with visible effort. "Pain's inconvenient, but preferable to death, wouldn't you say?"
He glanced at the monitor. "See that? When the green line stops, so does everything else."
"Your time's almost up," Thomas said, voice cold as winter.
Clark laughed—a wild, fractured sound. "Everyone dies, but only in this world. Once you've seen what I have, you understand death is merely a doorway."
"What did you see?" Thomas frowned.
"Something beyond your comprehension." Clark's eyes sharpened, then softened. "I know where you come from. We both bear the mark."
Thomas scoffed. "You think you're special? You're just another pawn in the game."
"No, I wasn't abandoned! He saved me," Clark's voice rose with desperate conviction.
"Those who live in light never understand the darkness. You think you're close? Not even close." Thomas shook his head. "Death is all that awaits you."
"No!" Clark's voice turned feverish. "He gave me knowledge, power over death itself!"
Thomas's eyes flickered with something almost like pity. "You think that was medicine? It's poison, merely prolonging your suffering." His gaze swept over Clark's deteriorating form. "Look at what you've become."
Clark touched his cheek, feeling the dry, diseased skin beneath his fingers. He let out a harsh, crow-like laugh.
"Let it go." Thomas stepped forward, hand extended. "Give it to me."
Clark clutched an antique pocket watch to his chest, knuckles white against the sheets.
A green light flickered in Thomas's eyes. "That power isn't yours. Your time should have ended long ago."
"No! He'll save me!" Clark's voice cracked with wild desperation. "I did everything he asked of me!"
"Still clinging to that dream?" Thomas's voice hardened to ice. "He's nothing but a selfish demon. He abandoned his family, his own blood. He won't save you."
The green in Thomas's eyes intensified. "Give it to me."
Clark jerked the watch upward. Its metal face caught the light, swinging hypnotically on its chain. The wall clock's pendulum froze with a soft click.
A wave of pressure radiated from the watch, thickening the air to syrup. Both men felt themselves sinking underwater, movements slowed to near-immobility. Time itself seemed frozen—for a heartbeat or an eternity.
Clark's right hand moved first. "Time has stopped," he said, grinning at Thomas, who stood like a wax figure. "Intoxicating, isn't it, murderer?"
But then, in Thomas's eyes, twin green sparks ignited. A hand closed around Clark's throat, cutting off his cry.
"Fool," Thomas's voice was glacial. "You cannot steal my time. I'm not your gullible wife." His grip tightened. "Some powers aren't meant for mortal hands."
Clark's eyes widened with terror and impotent rage, breath rasping in his constricted throat. But Thomas's grip was unyielding.
"This is the end," Thomas said quietly.
The heart monitor released a single, sustained tone. The green line flattened. Moonlight cascaded through the curtains, casting two shadows—one standing, one fallen.
Thomas released his grip. Clark slumped onto the bed, eyes vacant, a solitary tear tracing its path down his hollow cheek.
The pocket watch slipped from his lifeless fingers, striking the floor with a delicate chime.
Thomas retrieved it, studying its face as the green light faded from his eyes.
He disappeared into the night, leaving only moonlight behind.
On the city's outskirts, an ancient manor crowned the mountainside, its spires knife-sharp against the night sky. A single light glowed from deep within, casting an amber halo around a tall figure standing in the courtyard.
The night wind toyed with his black coat, revealing glimpses of darker attire beneath.
The elderly man raised his martini, the olive catching moonlight like a tiny emerald.
"To the departing souls," he said, gazing upward at the silver moon, blue eyes fathomless behind gold-rimmed spectacles. "The story nears its conclusion, doesn't it?"
His cane tapped against stone, the sound crystalline in the night air. His silver beard gleamed with cold fire in the moonlight. "Death plays no favorites, yet some offer themselves willingly."
The mountains loomed darker against the night. He adjusted his bowler hat; his immaculately polished shoes reflected starlight. "Ironic, isn't it? They believe themselves masters while serving as sacrifices."
A chill wind whispered through the pines. A small dark shape slipped over the garden wall—a silver-gray cat with watchful eyes.
More cats materialized from the shadows, forming a loose circle around the old man. He swirled his drink, lips curving in a subtle smile. "It seems we have company tonight."
The silver-gray cat leapt onto a cushioned chair while the others maintained their distance, as if awaiting instructions.
The old man turned, his ebony cane describing an elegant arc through moonlit air. The cats parted before him, his footsteps measured on the flagstones.
He set aside his martini, blue eyes twinkling with private amusement. He selected a wine bottle, removed the cork with practiced ease, and poured ruby-dark liquid into a crystal glass.
"Patience is a virtue," he murmured, swirling the wine, watching it catch moonlight in its depths. "Wouldn't you agree?"
He extracted a slender straw from his coat, placed it in the glass, and pushed it toward the silver-gray cat. The creature drank deeply, amber eyes never leaving the old man's face.
He dabbed his lips with a silk handkerchief, silver beard quivering slightly. "No need to rush matters. I'll honor our arrangement. I'll attend to them personally."
Eventually, the cat finished its wine and slipped away with its companions. The old man watched them vanish into the darkness before reclaiming his martini, the olive gleaming like a submerged jewel.
He gazed up at the moon, its silver radiance reflected in his eyes, a profound and knowing smile playing across his lips—as if something truly magnificent were about to unfold.