The lazy morning light promised boredom. The odor of ink and parchment permeated corners. The distant shouting and screeching of toddlers echoed into the stone halls, like nails scraping on chalkboards. Outside the window, branches of the willow tree waltzed with the wind like a lullaby, tempting every pupil into deep sleep.

In front of the lecture hall, Mr. Nelson clutched an unopened book. Dylan learned years ago that Mr. Nelson’s lectures were a stew of politics and history, the professor currently rambled about the government-issued Vigor Pills. Mr. Nelson paced left and right and continued with unhidden passion, blissfully unaware that the class was dozing off.

“The first turning point of the monarchy is The Carta. 200, no. 300 years ago actually. We’ve already covered that didn’t we? As I was saying, the second is the Vigor Pill, I trust you all to know the context to some extent. Especially you, Mr. Nemore.”

Dylan almost stood up out of reflex as he heard his name. Thankfully, Mr. Nelson, trapped in his own thought bubble, didn’t seem to notice.  

“With the pill, a streamline of inventions emerges. It is truly a shame the material of the pill is rare, otherwise it won’t be limited to officials. Now, who still remembers the effect of the pill?”

Dylan shrunk himself into the chair, his shoulders slouched down. After Mr. Nelson realized no one’s willing to answer, he sighed, “Very well, Mr. Dinkins. I’ll give you a hint, think of why the VAF was used in sport events particularly.”

Dylan vaguely remembered him from a few classes, Dylan turned around to locate that shy kid. The boy named Dinkins shot up and stammered to answer. His cheeks brightened to a bloody red. Murmurs and questioning glances pierced onto the boy, putting him at trial.

Not able to stand the nuance anymore, Dylan stood up to answer while Dinkins smiled weakly at him. Evidently grateful.

“The Vigor Pill is a government-developed pill exclusive to Quenburg. The pill has the effects of temporarily boosting an individual’s strength, stamina, sharpening their senses, and making them near invincible. This is why our country currently has the most prestigious military in the world.”

“Very good. Mr.  Nemore, as you said, when the Pill was firstly used…”

Tap. Tap-tap.

Dylan exhaled quietly as he ignored the sound. It was probably a kid bored enough to find entertainment in the tedious lecture.

Tap. Tap-tap.

He noticed the pattern this time. Dylan whirled around, and grinned as he met with the familiar, ever-warming eyes smiling back at him. Streaks of white played hide and seek in the blond hair. Dylan’s chest tightened as he noticed; he took mental note of convincing his dad to retire — again. ‘Field work’ isn’t the full-time occupation suitable for a 50-year-old, not that Dylan managed to persuade Phil before.

Outside, Phil mouthed, “…new case…very…emergency…”

Dylan raised up his hand eagerly. Mr. Nelson, who apparently was delighted by Dylan’s previous sudden participation, called on him. His eyebrows drooped drastically when Dylan asked for a leave.

Soon, Dylan reached the front gate, the cool autumn air batted onto him like ice on summer’s day. Phil already waited at the front gate.

“Can I take the pill this time?” Dylan inquired; he’s been asking about it ever since his birthday.  

“Nope, you’re still too young.” The expected answer came.

“But I’m of legal age, I can take it!”

“You’ll be over-relying on the pill if you start taking it. I’m not letting my son be a drug addict.”

“So, what happened this time?” Phil paused for a moment, while Dylan counted the possible and unlikely problems that might need him, unbothered by the silence of his father, “The baker keeping hostages with his baguettes. Pigs leading a riot and dictating the farm. Oh, even better, murder mysteries. The kind deemed unsolvable even after a decade.”

Dylan blamed Phil for his weird humor; the man influenced him more than anyone. Phil knew about Dylan’s quirks from day one. Internally, he hoped Phil was like him when younger, not that Dylan would ever admit or ask about it.

Although Phil chuckled, his creases of his forehead became more prominent as he continued, “They say it’s a break-in, the host found the thief, one thing led to another. But something’s off. You’ll know when you get there.”

He strutted down the poorly paved cobblestone path, not bothering to elaborate as Dylan slightly jogged to keep up.

The forest behind the tutor school faded and blended with more trees and hills. The stink of ink and sweaty schoolboys was no more. Wind bellowed against the stone, through the leaves, and grazing on top of the grass.

The hills undulated like waves of water halting whilst in motion, captured by a painting. Dylan panted a little when they reached another hilltop, the town stood before his eyes. The whitish glow from the government building shone even in the languid light, the rainbow always made its mark on the florist’s place, the green, divided by dirt and paved paths stretched beyond the seeable eye. Dylan knew if he turned, he would see shepherds and windmills. He never understood why the school was so far away from the town.

Dylan slipped down the hill, the dirt path turned to cobblestone ones gradually.

“Welcome to Dranem!”, the words painted onto the large billboard beside the road, highlighted, calligraphed, and underlined.

Soon, Phil and Dylan approached the town square.

Jen’s mansion was right next to the square. Maybe he’ll visit Jen’s after the case is solved. The last time he was there is on Jen’s birthday three months ago. Books, tea with sugar cubes and capital toys heal every soul coming in and out of Jen’s mansion.

As Phil strutted towards the exact mansion, Dylan’s eyes widened. Phil placed his hand on the doorknob.

“It’s not the prettiest scene in there.” He murmured hesitantly, quiet enough that Dylan almost didn’t catch his words.

Dylan recalled being in the mansion a few times. Odd antiques and trinkets filled the cupboard, all capital-stuff. The room permeated with the refreshing scent of books. Dylan never classified himself as the studious type. However, when he was still 6 years-old, he stepped into Jen’s place and almost wanted to join the band of bookworms. Occasionally, Dylan wished he was born in Erukas like Jen, so he could simply move into a town and buy a mansion near a noisy square.

The living room was covered by oil paintings of Jen with, what was assumed, her old family. They were the first of the few things that were put into the apartment. Young Dylan, being a kid with too much energy, encountered Jen when she just moved to town. He recalled running up to Jen, still in her 30s and wearing a black dress. She held her handkerchief close to her face. Her swollen, red-lined eyes emphasized the dark beneath the eyes. A strand of hair drooped down, and she had to swash it out of her view every few seconds. She was beautiful even in her frail state. Dylan remembered Jen chatting with several young officers, no-one smiled. Solemn looks passed among the group. The officers wore blue suits, humble gold lines stretched to shape flowery patterns, embellishing the cuffs and shoulders. A few of the men carried silver round plates the size of one’s hand, Capital-made technology. Dylan learned in school those plates are basically miniature-sized clocks. How? He didn’t bother listening.

The officers helped Jen move. A small canvas was the last thing taken out of the wagon. As the group went for a break, Dylan approached the painting, now laying by the mansion’s doorsteps. In the painting, young Jen laughs chaotically with another men in officer uniform, the two of them crashing into an embrace as rain poured down. 

Dylan traced a finger over the canvas, feeling the bumps and dips of dry oil paint. The officer’s jacket dipped into creases where Jen’s hand was placed, the tendrils of Jen’s hair danced with the wind.

“Be careful with that.” A fragile voice behind Dylan warned, her voice sounds like warm sand, soft and pleasant to touch.

A few months later, Dylan asked about the painting. Her mouth dropped open as she tries to find the words. Small Dylan knew she wasn’t happy. When he grew up, he soon realized the paintings were a clear sore spot for Jen, so he stopped the prying.

Dylan followed Phil up the stairs as coppery stench of blood invaded his senses, clawing at his lungs. His heart escalated as he felt the need to puke. A miniature chalk outline of a human was drawn on the floor, something that Dylan only saw in diagrams of Phil’s lectures or random books about crime solving. Red splattered onto the drawings that Jen cherished; opened closets puked out paper; the capital trinkets lay around the floor carelessly.

What is happening to this world? Dylan felt he’s still in a dream, and his intrusive mind is the one found guilty. For a heartbeat, he was six years old again—Jen pressing a sugar cube into his hand, laughing as he gagged on bitter tea. A dull pain reached his hand, followed with wetness. Dylan noticed his dug his nails too hard.

Recovering from the smell, Dylan took out his gloves to inspect the scene as he maneuvered around the study, forcing himself to analyze. Just like Phil taught you. You can do it. Just breathe.

Phil used to say, “If you want to excel in being an officer, first thing, don’t be afraid of pain. Second, don’t be afraid of blood,”

On a faithful morning, Phil took Dylan aside and stated firmly, “You’ll work at the butcher’s place every weekend starting from today. It’s not the real thing, but let’s hope you’ll be prepared if you’ve ever encountered too much blood.”

Indeed, Dylan spent his following childhood weekends with knives he classifies as machetes and a woman who he suspects has a beard. He knew how to deal with blood. Breathe in from the mouth, breathe out ……

It was simply a classic break-in gone wrong. He knew how to deal with a break-in.

However, something is certainly off. Maybe weird. Wrong.  

While Jen came from Erukas, making her a more reasonable target than the other folks in Dranem, everyone in the town knew Jen as a studious woman who loves reading. The lights of her bedroom stayed on even after closing time of the late-night stores in the square. She and her friends held sleepovers every other night to discuss the authors.

Whoever did this mustn’t be a local. Or they simply used the break-in as a distraction. A voice nagged on in Dylan’s mind. The more time spent in the room, the more patterns of intentional design surfaced.

While a lamp on the desk was tipped over, its angle was only possible if someone from behind the desk pushed it purposefully. While all the closets and drawers were ruffled, the bottom of those closets remained untouched. No real bugler would miss that. While the reports stated Jen’s body was found clutching a sword, possibly for self-defense, Dylan remembered the sword was originally hung on the entrance of the mansion. An unlikely possibility.

“Have any of you idiots eaten a pill this morning?” Phil’s voice boomed out in the closed space, sounding more commanding than what Dylan was accustomed to. After everyone responded no, Dylan realized what his father planned.

“Somone get a VAF.” Dylan stated, unconsciously straightening his back when he noticed Phil’s approving glance.

Jen’s death was intentional and planned, not so meticulously to make it a mystery, but close enough. The killer would be a trained officer or commoner who likes crime and mystery novels too much.

From how even he can see through the whole façade in a matter of minutes, the murderer clearly isn’t as skilled. If he had a pill, he would certainly take it, either for extra strength or just for comfort.

That’s where the VAF, Vigor Atmosphere Flash, would come in. The machine tracked whether someone who had taken the Vigor Pill occupied the area recently. If it showed green light, the suspects can be narrowed. There were certainly less than forty people in the whole town authorized for the pill, mostly officers. If it showed red light, the officials and the lads in the office can be cleared. Even though Phil shouts at those idiots constantly, it was merely because Phil makes a habit of pushing the best out of everyone he cared. Dylan knew only because he experienced it too.

Soon, someone brought the VAF and closed the curtains. The machine hummed, coming to life like a bear who just waken up from hibernation. Unlike a bear, steam poured out of its holes. After some painfully slow minutes, green light illuminated the room.