Andrew drove, his hands steady on the steering wheel of the unmarked police cruiser.
Edward sat quietly in the passenger seat, the heavy leather folder resting on his lap.
Through the rearview mirror, Andrew could see several marked police vehicles trailing tightly behind them, their roof lights off but their presence massive and unmistakable.
The sun had begun its final descent over the municipal skyline, painting the concrete structures and asphalt streets in long, bleeding shades of orange and dark gold.
For a while, neither man spoke.
The only sound inside the cabin was the low hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of the police scanner.
Then Andrew broke the silence, his eyes fixed on the traffic ahead.
“How long have you known Marvin?”
Edward glanced out the passenger window, watching the streetlamps slowly flicker to life.
“Almost seven years now.
I handled a few minor corporate restructuring files for his father initially, and then shifted to Marvin’s personal accounts once he stepped into the executive role.”
“That’s a long time,” Andrew noted, shifting gears as they coasted through a yellow light.
“It is,” Edward agreed smoothly.
“In my line of work, seven years with a single family is practically a lifetime.”
Andrew kept his eyes on the road, his tone conversational but probing.
“What kind of person is he?
Off the record.”
Edward smiled faintly, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses.
“The sort of client who pays his legal bills completely on time, Detective.
And rarely questions the hourly premium.”
Andrew let out a gruff laugh, the tension in his shoulders dipping slightly.
“A rare species in this city.”
“Extremely rare,” Edward chuckling softly.
“Most men with his level of capital prefer to negotiate the fine print until the ink fades.”
The conversation continued naturally, building a strange, professional rhythm between the veteran cop and the meticulous lawyer as the convoy finally turned out of the commercial district and into a quiet, heavily forested residential neighborhood.
The houses here were large, set back from the road, separated by thick rows of manicured hedges.
Edward raised a finger, pointing toward a secluded, two-story colonial estate tucked behind a pair of stone pillars.
“There.
That’s the Silverstein residence.”
Andrew parked the cruiser curbside.
The police vehicles stopped in a neat, synchronized line behind him.
Several armed officers stepped out onto the gravel, their boots crunching softly in the twilight.
Andrew stepped out of the driver’s seat and studied the house, his hand resting instinctively near his holster.
The lights were completely off.
No movement behind the heavy drapes.
No vehicles parked in the wide brick driveway.
The entire property felt cold, hollow, and abandoned.
Something felt entirely wrong.
His detective instincts, honed by decades of city filth, began to prickle at the back of his neck.
Edward stepped out beside him, his expression remaining perfectly calm and detached.
“That is her primary residence, Detective.
She rarely stays anywhere else.”
Andrew gave a grim nod.
“We’ll see.”
He signaled to the trailing squad.
Two uniformed officers approached the front door, their hands hovering near their sidearms.
One knocked heavily against the wood.
*Thud.
Thud.
Thud.*
No response.
Another knock, louder this time, rattling the brass fixture.
Still nothing.
Andrew walked up the steps, his brow furrowed deep.
“Matier Silverstein!
Police!
Open the door!”
Absolute silence answered him.
He looked toward the officers, his voice dropping into a low command.
“Check the perimeter.
Look for forced entry.”
The officers spread out immediately, their flashlights cutting bright beams through the deepening evening shadows as they moved around the sides of the house.
Andrew stood on the porch, his eyes tracking the dark upper windows.
A minute later, a sharp, tense voice called out from the darkness of the backyard.
“Sir!
Over here!”
Andrew moved quickly, his heavy boots vaulting off the porch steps.
Edward followed tightly behind, his dress shoes clicking against the stone walkway.
They reached the rear entrance of the house.
The wooden kitchen door was slightly ajar, the latch broken, resting open by a mere three inches.
Andrew’s expression hardened into granite.
He raised a hand, stopping the patrolmen.
“Nobody touch the frame.
Forensic unit is going to want the prints.”
He used the tip of his pen to gently push the door fully open, drawing his standard-issue revolver with his right hand.
“Police.
Coming in.”
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
The moment Andrew stepped into the living room, the beam of his flashlight caught the devastation.
The space was a complete mess.
A heavy velvet armchair had been violently knocked over, its cushions ripped.
Several framed photographs—mostly portraits of Matier and an older man Marvin would have recognized—lay shattered on the hardwood floor, the glass crushed into glittering dust.
A mahogany side table sat entirely on its side, its decorative vase smashed against the baseboard.
This wasn’t random clutter or the result of a hasty burglary.
Something violent, sudden, and localized had happened here.
One of the officers knelt near the edge of the ruined rug, his flashlight focused on a dark, sticky patch on the floorboards.
“Sir.
Look at this.”
Andrew walked over, crouching down beside the officer.
The beam of his light illuminated several thick, dark crimson stains smeared across the wood, trailing toward the hallway.
“Blood,” Andrew muttered, his jaw tightening.
The room became completely silent, the officers holding their breath.
It wasn’t a catastrophic amount of blood—no major artery had been severed here—but it was enough.
Enough to tell a clear, violent story.
A struggle had occurred, and someone had bled before being moved.
Andrew continued searching the rest of the ground floor.
The bedroom was untouched.
The kitchen was clean.
The upstairs hallway was empty.
Nothing.
No body.
No sign of Matier Silverstein.
No indication of where she had gone or who had taken her.
There was only the raw, physical evidence that somebody had gotten to their primary suspect before the law could even clear the gates.
Several minutes later, Andrew stepped back into the ruined living room, wiping a hand across his tired face.
The officers were waiting for orders.
“Sir?” the sergeant asked quietly.
Andrew looked around the room one final time, his eyes lingering on the broken glass and the dark stains.
Signs of a fierce struggle.
Fresh blood.
A missing suspect who held the keys to the entire conspiracy.
And not a single witness left behind to talk.
His jaw tightened until the bone ached.
“This wasn’t a coincidence.
The timing is too perfect.”
Edward adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, looking down at the overturned armchair with a calculated expression.
“You believe somebody silenced her, Detective?
To protect the larger chain of command?”
Andrew didn’t answer him immediately.
Instead, he reached into his uniform pocket and pulled out his cell phone.
There was exactly one person who needed to hear this news before the bureaucratic radio lines fouled it up.
He dialed the number, the call connecting after a few tense rings.
Back at the Marvin estate, the line picked up.
Diana answered, her voice casual but alert.
“Found Matier yet, old man?”
Andrew stared at the overturned furniture, the broken photographs, and the dark blood drying on the floorboards.
“No.”
A heavy pause hung over the line.
Diana, sitting miles away in a brightly lit dining room, immediately heard the grim, hollow change in his voice.
Her posture straightened.
“What happened?”
Andrew looked around the ruined colonial house, his voice dead serious.
“Somebody got to her first, Diana.
The scene is completely compromised.”
The line went completely silent.
And for the very first time since the first group of thugs had cornered Marvin in the city, the case became much bigger—and infinitely more lethal—than a simple inheritance dispute between a wealthy businessman and his father’s mistress.
While Andrew and Edward followed the violent trail of their missing suspect into the dark city lines…
The Marvin mansion gradually settled into the quiet rhythm of the evening.
The sheer panic and adrenaline from the afternoon’s double demon assault had finally faded into a dull, watchful tension.
The property’s security grid remained locked down tight.
Police officers continued their steady patrols along the outer fences, their flashlights cutting through the growing fog.
Inside, the household servants moved quietly through the high-ceilinged halls, carrying silver trays, adjusting the heavy drapes, and preparing the sprawling upper guest rooms.
For the first time since the front gates had been blasted open, the estate almost felt normal.
Almost.
Garin sat at a small, elegant mahogany table in one of the mansion’s quiet side sitting rooms.
The thick case file Diana had handed her rested wide open before her, illuminated by the warm glow of a brass table lamp.
Her small leather notebook was perched right beside it.
With her tongue slightly sticking out in absolute concentration, she carefully wrote down every single detail she had discovered during her kitchen sweep, her pen scratching softly against the paper:
Location: Main Kitchen, rear pantry.
Discovery: Faint odor.
Storage shelf shifted.
Evidence: One dead house mouse located inside baseboard cavity.
Analysis: Not poison.
Microscopic cauterization marks on neck.
High probability of residual miasma burn.
Conclusion: A small-scale surveillance anomaly (spy demon) was actively operating inside the infrastructure.
She paused, her pen hovering over the page.
Her brow furrowed, and she added a final, slightly defensive note at the bottom:
“Miss Diana already knew about it hours ago.”
Garin puffed her cheeks out, a small sigh escaping her lips.
That specific part of the investigation still bothered her.
She had been so incredibly excited to bring her grand discovery upstairs, convinced she had cracked the security breach wide open, only to learn that Diana had casually noticed the demon’s signature the second she arrived on the property.
A tall shadow suddenly fell across the mahogany table, blocking the lamp light.
Garin flinched slightly, looking up.
Cammy was standing there, her arms crossed over her leather vest, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips as she glanced down at the cramped handwriting.
“Studying the books, kid?”
Garin’s face flushed instantly, and she quickly slammed the notebook shut, covering the cover with both hands.
“N-No.
Just…
indexing.”
“Right.
Because people usually carry around a legal case file and a pen when they’re just resting.”
Garin looked away nervously, her fingers twisting the edge of the leather cover.
Cammy let out a short, amused laugh, gently tapping the table before continuing her slow security patrol down the corridor.
Elsewhere in the sprawling estate, the remaining hunters were keeping themselves occupied.
Down by the main gates, Bruce was helping the estate’s private security team recalibrate the outer infrared sensors, his massive frame providing an imposing silhouette against the perimeter fence.
Meanwhile, in the staff break room downstairs, Felix had somehow convinced three off-duty security guards to play a game of high-stakes poker with him during their recess.
He was currently winning.
Suspiciously often.
Very suspiciously often, in fact.
The guards were beginning to glance nervously at his heavy shotgun resting against the wall, suspecting some kind of supernatural intervention or demonic card-counting.
Felix, entirely unfazed, simply raked in another pile of chips and denied everything with a grunt.
Upstairs, Diana had successfully located the grand dining room—a discovery she considered the single greatest investigative breakthrough of the day.
She was currently slouched back in a plush, velvet-cushioned chair, sipping a cup of hot Earl Grey tea.
Marvin sat directly opposite her, his tie loosened, while Jean sat tightly by his side.
The married couple watched in utter, fascinated silence as Diana casually reached across the silver platter, selected another delicate raspberry pastry, and popped it into her mouth.
She chewed slowly, evaluating the texture with the seriousness of a seasoned judge.
Then, she gave a single, approving nod.
Marvin let out a long, exhausted sigh, rubbing his temples.
“You really weren’t joking downstairs, Miss Diana.
You’re actually inspecting the quality of my household food.”
“Never joke about logistics, Marvin,” Diana said flatly, setting her teacup down on the saucer with a soft clink.
“An army marches on its stomach.
If the hunters are starving, the client gets eaten.
It’s basic math.”
Jean offered a warm, genuine smile, her shoulders finally dropping.
“Well, at least our head chef passed the evaluation.”
“He passed,” Diana agreed, reaching for a small napkin to wipe her gloved fingers.
“Barely.
The crust on the tart was a fraction too dense, but the tea selection makes up for it.”
Jean let out a clear, musical laugh.
The estate’s Michelin-starred private chef would have probably suffered a minor heart attack if he had heard his life’s work described as “barely passing” by a woman in a mud-stained white trench coat.
The conversation drifted naturally over the next few minutes, the warm light of the chandeliers keeping the darkness outside at bay.
Eventually, the topic inevitably returned to the blood spilled in the foyer.
Marvin folded his hands over the white tablecloth, his eyes growing dark again.
“Do you truly believe the anomalies aren’t actively trying to kill me, Miss Diana?
The first wave today nearly tore my legs off.”
Diana leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers.
“I think somebody out there in the city wants you dead, Marvin.
That part is entirely human.
Simple greed, simple inheritance mechanics.”
Marvin swallowed hard, his eyes flicking toward the window.
“And the demons?”
“The demons don’t care about your corporate stocks, and they certainly don’t care about your family tree,” Diana stated coldly.
“They want whatever is locked down in that concrete vault.
The artifacts.
The sword.”
“But why?” Jean asked, her brow furrowing into a deep frown as she adjusted her grip on her husband’s sleeve.
“What could a localized anomaly possibly want with an ancient, non-functional katana?”
Diana shrugged her shoulders, her expression turning entirely blank.
“No idea.”
For once, her answer was completely, brutally honest.
The crimson steel sword.
The ancient portrait of her mother hanging in a hidden billionaire’s vault.
The strange, coordinated nature of the assaults.
None of the pieces fit together neatly yet, and if there was one thing Diana absolutely despised, it was a complex puzzle she couldn’t smash her way through immediately.
Outside the massive, reinforced dining room windows, the final remnants of the sun continued to sink beneath the horizon.
The orange sky became a deep, dark gold.
The gold slowly bled into a bruised, heavy crimson before the night finally claimed the estate.
One by one, the mansion’s automated security floodlights snapped alive, bathing the lawns in stark white illumination.
The atmosphere inside grew quieter, calmer.
For a brief, deceptive moment, it almost felt like the danger had completely passed for the night.
Then, Diana’s cell phone rang.
The sharp, digital ringtone cut through the quiet dining room like a gunshot, immediately drawing everyone’s undivided attention.
Diana reached into her pocket, her eyes tracking the glowing screen.
Andrew.
She slid her thumb across the glass, bringing the receiver to her ear.
“Found Matier yet, old man?”
Silence stretched over the speaker for two long seconds.
Then, Andrew’s voice crackled through the line, cold and metallic.
“No.”
Diana’s expression shifted instantly.
It wasn’t fear, and it certainly wasn’t concern—it was a sharp, predatory flash of pure investigative interest.
Her eyes narrowed into slits.
“What happened out there?”
Across the table, Marvin and Jean straightened instantly in their seats, their breath catching in their throats as they watched the huntress’s face.
Andrew’s next words, echoing faintly through the small speaker, completely erased what little comfort remained in the estate.
“Somebody got to her first, Diana.
The house is a crime scene.
There’s blood on the floor.”
The dining room fell into a suffocating, absolute silence.
Diana slowly lowered her teacup, her crimson eyes reflecting the glowing chandelier above.
The human game had just broken its boundaries.
The case was no longer a simple matter of pulling security at a rich man’s estate—it had just become a lot more complicated, and infinitely more bloody.