The air inside the Denbergh residence did not merely feel quiet; it felt compressed, heavy with the suffocating weight of an unspeakable, lingering violence.
The funeral of the young woman who was to become Ronald’s wife had concluded hours ago, yet its shadow remained rooted in every corner of the house.
It hung in the drafty hallways, settled into the worn fabric of the parlor armchairs, and muted the scraping of chair legs against the floorboards.
The three of me—Ronald, his mother, and Zhou Yuxuan—had returned to the house under a bruised, twilight sky.
No one had spoken during the journey back, and no one spoke now.
The silence between them was not a comforting buffer, but a shared, agonizing sentence they were all serving together.
Yuxuan sat near the edge of the darkened dining table, his tall frame still, his dark eyes observing the quiet mechanics of a family shattered by tragedy.
Over the course of the long, agonizing evening, it had become glaringly obvious to him just how deeply Mrs.
Denbergh had loved the girl.
She had not merely accepted her as a future daughter-in-law; she had cherished her as a vital piece of their modest, fragile world.
The circumstances surrounding the bride’s death were not merely tragic—they were unnatural, cruel, and bathed in the cold horror of something deliberately inflicted.
That knowledge had eaten away at Mrs.
Denbergh from the inside out.
Her face, usually lined with the gentle warmth of a mother’s routine, had grown strikingly pale, almost translucent beneath the weak light of the hanging overhead lamp.
Her hands trembled faintly as she moved around the kitchen, her movements purely mechanical, driven by an instinct to host even as her spirit lay crushed.
She had prepared a meal, but only a single setting was laid upon the wooden table.
Neither she nor Ronald possessed the capacity to swallow food; the raw shock had constricted their throats, turning the very thought of sustenance into something unbearable.
The plate of steaming food was placed gently before Yuxuan—the outsider, the guest, the observer who had been dragged into the orbit of their grief.
Before picking up his utensils, Yuxuan paused.
He looked up at the older woman, whose frail silhouette stood near the edge of the kitchen counter, staring hollowly into the dark sink.
The house was so still that the faint hum of the refrigeration unit sounded like a low, droning lament.
Yuxuan spoke.
His voice was low, carrying a quiet, somber directness that cut cleanly through the stagnant air of the room.
“I am sorry,” Yuxuan said, his tone devoid of performative pity, grounded instead in a cold, grounded reality.
“But those who are gone are truly gone.
It is meaningless to dwell on the past repeatedly.”
Mrs.
Denbergh stiffened slightly, her thin fingers clutching the edge of the counter, but Yuxuan did not break his gaze.
He continued, each word carefully weighed, offering truth rather than fragile comfort.
“The most important task now is to search for the criminals who murdered Ms.
Moon.
Please forgive me, Mrs.
Denbergh, if these words cause you pain.”
For a long, agonizing second, the room seemed to hold its breath.
The pendulum of the wall clock swung back and forth in the adjacent hallway, ticking out the empty seconds.
Then, Mrs.
Denbergh let out a long, shuddering sigh.
She turned around slowly.
Her face was drawn, her skin sickly under the light, but the harshness of Yuxuan’s words had not angered her.
Instead, they seemed to anchor her, pulling her back from the threshold of despair.
“No…
do not worry,” she replied.
Her voice was faint, carrying a brittle, threadbare smile that barely managed to reach her mouth before dissolving.
“You are right.”
With a trembling hand, she reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a small, pale handkerchief.
She gently pressed the fabric against the inner corner of her eye, absorbing a stray, silent tear before it could track down her cheek.
She folded the cloth with meticulous care, tucked it away, and gave Yuxuan a subtle nod—an unspoken permission for him to nourish himself while the rest of the home remained frozen in mourning.
Yuxuan lowered his eyes, picked up his wooden eating utensils, and began his meal in silence.
The following morning brought no relief from the heavens.
The sky hovering over the metropolis was a vast, suffocating sheet of slate gray, heavy with unfallen rain and polluted haze.
It mirrored the pervasive, unyielding sadness that had taken root within the Denbergh household.
Downstairs, in the small, dim kitchen, the smell of dark roasted coffee beans drifted through the chilly morning air.
Yuxuan sat across from Ronald at the small breakfast table.
Outside the narrow window, the city stretched into the dreary mist, its spires and industrial chimneys swallowed by low-hanging clouds.
Yuxuan held his ceramic mug between his palms, feeling the heat bleed into his calloused skin.
He looked past the brim of his cup, his eyes fixed on the oppressive horizon outside, before shifting his gaze to the exhausted young man sitting opposite him.
“So,” Yuxuan broke the silence, his voice smooth and steady in the quiet room.
“What is the name of the black hole?”
Ronald had been staring blankly into his black coffee, watching the faint wisps of steam curl upward and vanish.
Upon hearing the question, he paused, taking a slow, measured sip of the bitter liquid before lowering the mug back to the tabletop with a soft *clink*.
“It is called Xiphoenix,” Ronald said softly, his voice raspy from lack of sleep and relentless sorrow.
“The top scientists of this city named it.
I believe I mentioned it to you before…
alongside her real name.”
Ronald hesitated, his throat tightening as he pronounced the name that now carried the unbearable weight of a ghost.
“Flora Arghum.”
The name hung in the air between them like a fragile glass ornament, shimmering with grief before settling into the background of the dark room.
Yuxuan absorbed the information quietly, nodding once. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
He did not press further.
He knew when a wound was too fresh to be probed, and he understood the silent burden Ronald carried as he swallowed the remainder of his cold coffee.
Breakfast concluded with few other words.
Ronald dressed in his worn, utilitarian work clothes, gathered his personal belongings, and departed into the gloomy morning, his boots echoing hollowly down the damp external staircase as he made his way to his shift.
Left alone in the quiet apartment, Yuxuan retreated to his guest quarters to prepare for his own day.
When he emerged a short while later, he was entirely transformed.
Gone were the casual, somewhat worn clothes of a displaced traveler.
In their place, he wore a crisp, dark, impeccably tailored uniform that clung precisely to his broad shoulders and straight posture.
Bound around his waist was a sturdy leather duty belt, housing a heavy, gleaming service sidearm secured tightly in its holster.
The metal of the firearm caught the dim gray light filtering through the living room curtains.
As Yuxuan stepped into the hallway near the front door, Mrs.
Denbergh was sweeping the entryway floor with a small hand broom.
She stopped dead in her tracks, her hand coming up to rest against her chest as her eyes widened in profound surprise.
“Have you joined the police?” she asked, her voice hovering between awe and a mother’s instinctual worry.
“But…
that uniform—”
“No,” Yuxuan interrupted gently, his tone even and reassuring as he adjusted the high collar of his tunic.
“I have joined a private detective organization named Suiban.”
Mrs.
Denbergh paused, setting the broom aside against the wall.
She looked him up and down, taking in the authoritative cut of the fabric, the professional sheen of the brass fittings, and the cold reality of the weapon at his hip.
“Suiban…” she murmured, testing the name on her tongue.
Then, stepping closer, she asked softly, “And…
the compensation?
Is it enough for you to live on in a city like this?”
Yuxuan adjusted the buckle on his leather belt, making sure the sidearm was sitting comfortably against his hip.
“The agency provides 12,000 Dolemns per month.
Along with that, they issue a service weapon for my personal safety while on duty.”
Mrs.
Denbergh’s eyes softened, a look of genuine relief washing over her pale face.
“That is wonderful!” she remarked, her voice carrying the first genuine note of warmth Yuxuan had heard from her since his arrival.
“My son’s base salary is 11,590 Dolemns per month, so your pay is better.” She paused, her mind naturally turning toward her son’s tireless work ethic.
“Though…
Ronald works extra shifts as a watchman.
He ranked seventh overall in performance last week, you know.
He managed to bring home 13,000 Dolemns.”
There was a flick of maternal pride in her eyes as she spoke of Ronald’s hard work, but it was quickly tempered by the heavy exhaustion that sat beneath her skin.
Yuxuan nodded respectfully.
“Ronald is a capable and hardworking man, Mrs.
Denbergh.
You should be proud of him.”
He checked his sidearm one final time, ensured his identification badge was secured in his interior pocket, and turned toward the heavy timber exit door.
He placed his hand upon the brass door handle, ready to pull it open and step out into the dreary morning atmosphere.
“Yuxuan,” Mrs.
Denbergh called out softly.
He paused, turning his head back to look at her over his dark shoulder.
She was standing in the center of the hallway, her hands clasped tightly over her apron.
Her eyes were shiny with unshed tears, but her expression held a deep, profound tender warmth.
“You can call me Mom,” she spoke softly, her voice trembling with a delicate emotion that seemed to fill the dim corridor.
“You are like a mother to me—or rather, you treat me with such care.
I am happy to have someone like you to talk to in times like these, and…
I am so very glad Ronald found a friend in you.”
Yuxuan remained standing at the doorway, his hand resting quietly on the metal handle.
He watched her carefully.
As the words left her lips, he saw the sudden, fleeting memory of the lost bride pass through her eyes like a shadow—the realization of a family that was supposed to grow, of a house that was supposed to be filled with the laughter of a new daughter, now reduced to quiet rooms and mourning clothes.
The sadness threatened to reclaim her fragile smile.
Yuxuan did not offer a hollow speech.
He did not break the dignity of her grief with overly dramatic comfort.
He simply met her gaze with absolute sincerity, his dark eyes carrying a solemn promise of protection and respect.
“Okay, Mom,” Yuxuan said softly.
He gave her a single, firm nod, turned the brass handle, and stepped out into the chilly, gloom-ridden morning, closing the heavy door quietly behind him.
The journey to the central district of the city was defined by the low hum of industrial engines, the hiss of wet tires on damp asphalt, and the towering silhouette of concrete monoliths reaching toward the slate-colored sky.
Yuxuan navigated the street layout with smooth, deliberate strides, his dark Suiban uniform drawing occasional, guarded glances from pedestrians wrapped tightly in raincoats and woolen scarves.
After twenty minutes of brisk walking through the labyrinthine streets, Yuxuan arrived at the imposing facade of the Suiban Organization’s headquarters.
The building was a massive structure of blackened granite and reinforced steel, built like a fortress amidst the urban sprawl.
High above the polished glass entrance, the agency’s emblem—a stylized eye encased within a gear— hung silently, reflecting the dreary gray sky.
Yuxuan pushed open the heavy glass doors, stepping from the damp, chilly street air into the dry, climate-controlled expanse of the main entrance lobby.
The heavy doors clicked shut behind him, sealing out the muted roar of the city traffic.
Directly across from the entrance stood a wide, curved reception desk made of dark mahogany and frosted glass.
Behind the counter sat a sharp-looking woman with perfectly coiffed hair, wearing the administrative variant of the Suiban uniform.
Her nameplate, gleaming in polished silver, read: GLORNYA.
Glornya looked up from her computer terminal as the weighted doors sealed shut behind Yuxuan.
Her eyes swept over his uniform, taking in the fresh, uncreased fabric and the polished holster at his side.
She offered a brief, professional nod of acknowledgment, but before she could speak, the sharp, rhythmic sound of heavy boots echoing against the marble floor cut through the quiet ambient hum of the lobby.
Yuxuan turned his head smoothly toward the sound.
Approaching him from the main elevator bank was a woman moving with intense, predatory purpose.
She was clad in a high-ranking officer’s variant of the Suiban trench coat, its high collar crisp and standing tall.
Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight, severe bun, and her posture was rigid, exuding absolute authority and an unyielding, militaristic discipline.
Her eyes—sharp, cold, and intensely guarded—were locked directly onto Yuxuan’s face.
Her name was Sheren.
She stopped roughly three paces from Yuxuan, her boots coming to a sharp halt on the polished floor.
Her gaze traveled down to the rank insignia embroidered on Yuxuan’s lapel—a simple, single-chevron patch denoting the lowest tier of the organization.
“Why are you here?” Sheren demanded.
Her voice was cold, clipped, and devoid of welcome.
It echoed sharply off the high marble walls of the lobby.
Yuxuan did not flinch, nor did he drop his chin.
He stood in a relaxed, perfectly balanced stance, looking her straight in the eye with calm, unbothered composure.
“I am a new detective,” Yuxuan replied calmly, his voice steady and even in the high-ceilinged room.
Sheren’s eyes narrowed, a look of profound irritation and suspicion tightening the skin around her mouth.
Her tone dropped an octave, growing even colder, laced with an undeniable edge of contempt for administrative errors.
“No tenth-rankers have a place in this headquarters,” Sheren spat out coldly, her words sharp enough to cut through the quiet lobby.
“Unless you have a very specific, special reason—like submitting an urgent field report—your work is currently being handled at our branch office down on Baker Street.
You do not belong in this building.”
Yuxuan did not argue, nor did he offer an excuse.
He simply stood his ground, observing the rising annoyance in the senior officer’s posture.
Seeing that the newcomer was neither cowering nor retreating, Sheren let out a sharp, frustrated breath through her nose.
Without breaking eye contact with Yuxuan, she reached into the inner lining of her formal trench coat, pulled out a sleek, metallic communication device, and flipped it open with a slick flick of her wrist.
She tapped a short extension code into the keypad and brought the device to her ear.
“Connect me to personnel dispatch,” she commanded harshly into the receiver.
“Yes, I need to check something immediately.
We have a supposed new hire standing in the central lobby wearing a tenth-rank insignia.”
Silence settled over the lobby once more, save for the faint hum of the overhead lights and the distant, rhythmic clicking of Glornya’s keyboard behind the reception counter.
Sheren remained motionless, her piercing glare pinned to Yuxuan as if she expected him to break under the pressure of her scrutiny.
Yuxuan simply waited, his breathing slow and measured, his hands resting naturally at his sides.
The silence stretched on.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
The air grew visibly tense.
Glornya stopped typing, her eyes shifting quietly between Sheren and the tall, unbothered new recruit standing near the heavy glass entrance doors.
Four seconds.
Five seconds.
Six seconds.
Sheren’s jaw tightened slightly.
She tapped her boot once against the hard marble, her impatience mounting with every passing moment.
Seven seconds.
Eight seconds.
Nine seconds.
Ten seconds.
Finally, on the eleventh second of the tense, silent pause, a burst of static crackled from the small speaker of the communication device, followed by the muffled, urgent voice of a senior coordinator speaking from the upper floors.
Sheren listened as the voice on the other end delivered the confirmation: “…Unit check confirmed.
The transfer paperwork was flagged this morning.
Mr.
Sunny Stark was supposed to oversee the intake, but he is currently running late.
He is attending to urgent, classified business over at the Hall of Shadow…”
Sheren’s eyes flickered slightly at the mention of the Hall of Shadow, a subtle hint of restraint washing over her harsh features.
She held the communicator to her ear for a fraction of a second longer before speaking into it.
“Understood,” she snapped coldly.
“Update the log.”
She snapped the communication device shut with a sharp, metallic click and tucked it back inside her trench coat with a single, practiced motion.
She looked back at Yuxuan, her expression unreadable, though her eyes remained as cold and guarded as before.
“Fine,” Sheren conceded, her tone dry and unyielding.
She gestured curtly with her hand toward the outer perimeter of the main desk, near the tall pillars lining the entrance archway.
“Tell him to wait out in the hall.”
She turned half an inch toward the reception desk, addressing Glornya as much as she was addressing Yuxuan, her voice dripping with bureaucratic disdain.
“It seems there has been a mistake regarding this newcomer.”