CHAPTER 2:

The office was caught between two worlds.

On one side, leather-bound tomes stood like sentinels along the shelf, their spines cracked with age.

On the other, flimsy case files leaned in unkempt heaps, and folders were so stuffed with loose sheets of paper that they could barely close.

The aroma of old parchment and ink scented the air, barely interrupted by the faintest trace of coffee.

A single candle flickered on the desk. Its weak glow barely resisted the creeping dawn light that filtered through half-drawn curtains, casting long, shifting shadows across the walls.

Near the doorway, Hawkins hesitated.

Something about this place made him feel like he wasn’t just stepping into an office—he was stepping into a story already in motion.

A place where things happened.

A place where people disappeared.

“Are you planning to stand there all day, or will you sit?”

The voice wasn’t harsh, but it was sharp enough to cut through Hawkins’ thoughts.

He returned to the present, eyes locking on the man seated behind the desk.

Silver eyes—cool, piercing, and unreadable. They held him in place, like they were peeling away layers, searching for what lay beneath.

Long and luminous, Thalor's silver hair was sleekly tied back in a neat ponytail, glinting off the candlelight and streaming against his coat.

The pointed tips of his wood elf ears, half-concealed by hair, were unmistakable yet unremarkable.

And on his left hand, as he adjusted his cuff, the light caught the faint gleam of a simple silver band.

A simple silver band on his finger. No embellishments. Never taken off.

Hawkins swallowed, stepping forward. His shoes barely made a sound against the polished wood floor as he took the seat across from Thalor’s desk.

"Detective Thalor," he said, summoning his voice to remain firm, buoyed, if even slightly, by nervousness as it gripped his knees.

Thalor leaned back, adjusting the collar on his long brown coat, which swept his flickering ponytail back.

"Messival Hawkins."

The name escaped Thalor's mouth like an idea he had weighed and balanced.

Then came the knowing smirk.

"You’ve made quite an impression. Not many university students find themselves in a case file before their first official consultation."

Hawkins blinked. An impression?

"Uh... good impression, I hope?"

Thalor’s smirk remained, but his eyes didn’t soften.

"Good enough for me to request you."

That sneaked up on Hawkins. Request?

"Request me?" His fingers curled slightly against his lap. "I didn’t know I was on the market."

Thalor’s gaze flickered—not amused, not annoyed. Just… watching.

"You are, whether you know it or not." He gestured toward the desk piled high with papers. "I’ve heard you have a particular skill set. Noticing things others don’t."

A pause. Intentional.

"That's a rare one."

Hawkins shifted slightly in his chair.

"I wouldn’t call it a skill. I just… pay attention." He forced a light chuckle, though it didn’t quite settle. "Anyone could do that if they tried hard enough."

Thalor barely blinked.

"No."

The single word hit like a hammer.

Hawkins inhaled sharply.

Thalor leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk. The light of the candle flickered in his silver eyes, almost brighter, sharper.

"Not everyone sees the details. Fewer still connect them."

Hawkins let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of those words.

"Is that why I’m here?"

"That, and because this case…" Thalor exhaled, gaze settling on him. "Isn’t straightforward."

Hawkins tilted his head.

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

Thalor gave him a slow, penetrating stare before leaning back in his chair, fingers steepling.

"It means," he said smoothly, "it’s delicate."

Delicate.

A vague word. A loaded one.

"Delicate how?"

Thalor's voice dropped—not a whisper, but something lower. Something heavier.

"Tangled." A pause. "And dangerous."

The word landed heavy.

"You’ll be walking into situations that require precision. Focus. The kind of sharpness I’ve been told you possess." Thalor’s gaze didn’t waver. "Do you?"

Hawkins opened his mouth. Closed it.

The question shouldn’t have been hard.

Do I?

A sharp pang in his chest.

He wasn’t a detective. He wasn’t trained. Just a university student with a habit of noticing things.

I could walk away.

Let the professionals handle it. Go back to lectures, coffee shops, and tutoring sessions.

But if I say no… who will help Daisy?

His jaw tightened.

What if I let her down?

The memory hit before he could stop it—

Daisy, sitting on the edge of her bed, arms wrapped around her knees, staring at the scarf on her pillow.

"It’s like he just disappeared," she had whispered. "Like he never existed."

That night, he said nothing.
Last night, he made no promises.
This morning? He finally did something.

His throat tightened.

But this time, it wasn’t fear.

It was resolve.

He exhaled slowly. Straightened his spine.

Lifted his gaze.

"I do," he said.

Thalor raised an eyebrow. Testing.

"Confidence, Hawkins. Either you do, or you don’t."

A challenge.

Hawkins felt it catch something inside him—a flicker of determination.

He leaned forward slightly, locking eyes with the detective.

"I do," he repeated. Steady. Sure.

This time, Thalor’s smirk had a hint of warmth.

"Good."

A drawer slid open. Paper shuffled. A sleek business card slid across the desk.

"This makes it official. You’re a Private Detective Consultant, working under my oversight. You’ll assist with the investigation. You’ll notice what others might miss. And hopefully, you’ll help us find David Hawkings."

Hawkins reached for the card—

And Thalor’s gaze flickered.

A fraction of a second too long.

Because that’s when he saw it.

The watch.

Bronze. Engraved. Dragons. Phoenixes. Symbols curling in intricate, ancient detail.

Thalor’s fingers stilled.

For the first time, since Hawkins had stepped into this office—

Thalor hesitated.

It was brief.

Most wouldn’t have noticed.

But Hawkins wasn’t most.

Something flickered across the detective’s face.

Not shock, not recognition—something close to it.

Then, with practiced ease, Thalor shut it down.

Smiling now, in a non-committal way, relaxing back, shoulders dropping into an effortless, unreadable posture.

"That watch." His voice was casual. Too casual. "Interesting piece."

Hawkins blinked, looking at the watch on his wrist.

The bronze gleamed against his skin, ancient engravings catching the light.

"Oh. Yeah." He ran a thumb over the cool surface of the metal. "An heirloom, you know? My family's had it for generations."

Thalor’s gaze lingered for a second longer, the corner of his mouth twitching—almost as if he wanted to say something.

Then, he thought better of it.

Instead, he simply gestured toward the business card still resting on the desk.

"Well, if you’re ready, take it."

A moment.

Then Hawkins reached out again.

This time, Thalor didn’t look at the watch.

For a moment, silence. Only the candle’s soft crackle filled the room.

Then—Thalor leaned back, silver eyes gleaming. “You’ve made quite the impression, Hawkins.” A pause. Calculated. “Professor Eluivîrion, Officer Leann Marie, and—oddly enough—the barista at that coffee shop on Walmer Road all had something to say about you.”

Hawkins blinked. “The barista?”

Thalor smirked. “Apparently, you’re quite memorable—though not for your generosity. Something about forgetting to tip.”

Heat crawled up Hawkins’ neck. He scratched the back of it. “I, uh… always forget my cash. That’s all.”

Thalor tilted his head slightly. Watching. “Might want to work on that. Attention to detail, Hawkins. It’s an important skill.”

A flick of his fingers, and the case file slid forward. Open. Waiting.

“David Hawkings,” Thalor said. “Twenty years old. Last seen near an abandoned warehouse three weeks ago. Witnesses reported a struggle, but when officers arrived—” He gestured. “Nothing. No David, no attacker, no leads.”

Hawkins leaned in.

The pages before him shifted, heavier than paper.

Then—he saw the photo.

His breath caught.

Tousled blond hair. Warm brown eyes. That faint, crooked half-smile that wasn’t supposed to be his—but somehow was.

A slowly settling, uncomfortable weight pressed on his ribs.

Not just similar. Wrong.

His fingers hovered just above the photograph, hesitant as if to touch it might confirm something he wasn't supposed to name yet.

The likeness had hit him before—on the bulletin board, in flickering light at the station—but here, under Thalor’s steady gaze, it felt sharper. More deliberate.

Hawkins’ jaw tightened.

He had his father’s side-parted black hair. His mother’s sharp features. Pale skin, glasses perched on a nose just slightly too long. A face shaped by his Vietnamese heritage in every angle.

David was all Canadian persuasion. Blond, brown-eyed.

Not him.

And yet—

The jawline. The dip of the nose. The slight asymmetry in their smiles.

Like the mirror with slight distortion as reflection was just wrongly positioned. Just twisted enough to unsettle.

A beat.

Hawkins exhaled. His voice barely above a breath. “He looks like me.”

Thalor didn’t react. No flicker of surprise. No shift in expression.

Just, “Yes.” Even. Unreadable. “The resemblance is uncanny.” A pause. “But don’t let it distract you. Coincidences exist.”

Hawkins’ grip tightened on the edge of the file.

"Do they?"

Thalor didn't answer.

Instead, he tapped another page. Another image.

A sigil.

Rough, jagged lines, carved into an old wooden beam. Not random. Not careless. It felt deliberate—precise, even in its chaos.

"This was found at the scene," Thalor said. "And it's not the first time we've seen it."

Hawkins leaned closer, breath shallow.

The shape twisted under the candlelight, shifting—not physically, but in a way that made his stomach turn.

"What is this?"

Thalor's expression darkened. "That's the problem. We don't know."

A flicker of tension in the air.

"It's appeared at three other crime scenes," Thalor continued. "All disappearances. And in every case, witnesses reported seeing the sigil shortly before the victims vanished."

Hawkins swallowed. The symbol—something about it dug into his mind, left a strange, unsettled pressure in his chest.

"What does it mean?" His voice was quieter than he meant it to be. "Gang tag? Cult?"

"We've considered that," Thalor said. "But it doesn't match any known gang markings." A pause. Slight, but intentional. "It's older. Somehow."

The word settled between them.

Hawkins pulled back slightly. "Older?"

Thalor's gaze flickered toward the sigil. Then, back to Hawkins. "Like it belongs to something else."

A breath.

Something else.

Hawkins forced himself to look at the sigil again—but only for a second.

Then, quietly, "Do you think this is why David disappeared?"

Thalor exhaled slowly.

"I think it has everything to do with it."

The room felt colder.

Thalor leaned back, fingers steepling. “And if we don’t figure out what it means, we may not find David.” A pause. “Or anyone else.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Hawkins clenched his jaw, his hand tightening over his knee.

He didn’t need reminding.

Daisy’s voice still echoed in his mind—whispered, fragile.

"It’s like he just disappeared. Like he never existed."

A sharp inhale. He looked up.

“Do you think… these cases are part of something bigger?”

Thalor’s expression was unreadable. Then—

“It might be.”

No elaboration. No reassurance. Just the weight of it, settling in Hawkins’ chest.

Silence stretched. Then—Thalor stood.

The candlelight flickered as he moved, the window behind him casting his silhouette in sharp relief.

The last traces of daylight painted the sky in gold and shadow.

“Get some rest, Hawkins,” he said. “You’ll need it. Tomorrow, we dig deeper. And I expect you to be ready.”

Hawkins looked down. The business card sat between his fingers, smooth and weighty.

A breath.

Then, resolve.

He stood, the weight of the case pressing against his ribs—but beneath it, something steadier.

He wouldn’t let Daisy down. He wouldn’t let David down.

Thalor turned slightly, silver eyes catching his. “And Hawkins?”

Hawkins paused at the door.

“Yeah?”

A smirk. “Tip your barista next time. Details matter.”

Hawkins blinked—then, without meaning to, let out a breath of a laugh.

The tension in his chest eased. Just slightly.

“Noted,” he said.

Then, he stepped into the hallway.

The door clicked shut behind him.