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Launched back into reality with the weight of the visions still clinging to him, not even given the opportunity to fully reassemble his thoughts was given to Claude. The storm of memories that surged through his mind, right after puncturing Seagrave’s heart, were all immediately eclipsed by the inferno unfolding before his eyes.
Mirage Asylum’s death throes manifested in violent convulsions of paint, its form rupturing in geysers of crimson. Losing any semblance of cohesion, the faces surfaced and sunk all around them, their silent screams rippling across the churning tide —refusing to fully join Miles Seagrave’s corporal remnants, which had already fully dissolved into liquid.
Amidst this breaking storm, Claude stumbled towards Jagdhund, fingers trembling as he tore away the serpentine tendrils of paint writhing against his crumpled body. Each of the old man’s ensuing coughs expelled more of the viscous substance, the younger detective feeling a surge of relief at the signs of life.
“The other two?” Jagdhund’s voice emerged coarse, barely audible above the cacophony of their surroundings.
Claude’s eyes darted through the chamber in response, but it was no use to try and find anything in there. The area itself seemed to be bleeding, dark red paint cascading from melting walls and ceiling to join the bubbling eruptions of the dying Punisher. The liquid surface rose with concerning speed, already lapping at their ankle with hungry persistence, and somewhere beneath those opaque currents lay two more souls he was failing to protect.
He was swimming through a nightmare, suspended in a medium where cardinal directions quickly lost all meaning, growing thicker with each passing second. A sudden motion from Jagdhund pushed the two of them apart, and in a final glimpse he caught of his face, Claude saw not fear but acceptance instead —as if this too was something he had expected all along.
It was harder for Claude to give up his instinctive fight for survival, even as each subsequent flail of his limbs only hastened the tide’s grip. The thick, cloying paint coiled around his throat neck a noose, and the air above felt increasingly thin, drained away from the world like the colours on the walls.
Ione’s face flickered in his mind —fragile, innocent, untouched by the shadows of this hell. The thought of her alone, of never seeing her again, sent a shudder through his soul deeper than any chill that the encroaching waters could ever conjure.
But such fragile threads could not hold against the torrent. The image of his daughter splintered and fell, devoured by the advancing red to leave only an aching hollowness.
This was no descent into the abyss like the one that started this stygian journey. It was different, a submersion that carried the dissonant sensation of emergence. Yet the paint still seeped painfully into his lungs, each breath only damning him further. He had to fight, even as the echo of his heartbeat grew gradually dimmer, keeping time with the dying pulses of the crimson void.
At least until immanence was returned to him like a hammer strike.
Claude’s eyes snapped open to find himself sprawled across weathered floorboards, his chest expanding with the taste of stale and dense air, the lack of paint in it a much-welcomed change. The vast room devoid of furniture stood eerily mundane around him, devoid of any supernatural hijinx. No shifting murals, no staircase descending into unending depths; only dust-laden emptiness and skeletal remains of empty picture frames adorning barren walls.
“Easy now. Don’t rush.” Jagdhund’s weathered voice cut through his disorientation, crouching beside him to offer a steadying hand. “You’ve been through enough for one day.”
Despite the reassuring words, Claude attempted to rise only for pain to lance through his chest like molten steel. Every breath felt like pressing on broken glass, adrenaline’s absence now passing the bill for every injury sustained. He settled for sitting up with Jagdhund’s help, swallowing back the bile building up in his throat.
“How…” The words scraped the rookie detective’s mouth, though he still managed a weak smile. “How are you even standing?”
The old mutt’s only was a wry chuckle, dry as rusted hinges. Like some war horse, Jagdhund simply pushed through whatever damage the world threw at him, refusing to show even the faintest weakness.
Movement drew Claude’s attention to the far side of the hall. Ethan Seagrave was stirring, his small frame shifting away from Cole’s obstinate embrace. The officer appeared to remain unconscious, uniform stained dark with what hopefully was only blood, his chest rising and falling in frighteningly shallow beats.
A raw fear seized the boy the moment their gazes crossed. He scrambled backwards until his back pressed against the distant wall, Claude swearing to have seen strange wisps of smoke in his wake, a phenomenom muted only due to all the bizarre happenings he’d witnessed by now —that, and genuine exhaustion. Still, the speed of his movement seemed impossible considering the wound Seagrave had dealt him, yet aside from his torn clothes there wasn’t a scratch visible on his skin.
Had that sword strike been a feint by the artist? There was no way…
Jagdhund tensed beside Claude but remained still, clearly leaving the delicate situation in his hands. The younger detective’s broken body forced him to stay seated despite every instinct screaming to reach for the frightened child.
“Ethan.” Claude kept his voice gentle, fighting through the pain to project calm. “You’re safe now. We’re not going to hurt you.”
The boy’s eyes darted between them like a trapped animal before settling on Cole’s motionless form. His expression shifted soon after —fear giving way to worry as he registered the officer’s condition.
“Was he the one who…” Ethan’s voice cracked, a frail and meek thing. His eyes remained fixed on the still officer, fingers twisting the hem of his plain white shirt. When no immediate response came, he took a hesitant step forward, each movement carrying a hint of realization. “Is he going to, because of m…”
His words dissipated in the musty air, but their weight remained. Claude recognized the look, seen it many times, in survivors piecing together fragments of memories they’d rather forget, trying to make sense of salvation found in unexpected places.
“I only did what I wanted. What I had to.” Cole’s voice emerged ragged and raw, yet somehow gentler than Claude had heard before from the officer. Gone was the usual hostility of his tone, replaced by something almost vulnerable. It was like watching a bear trying to nurse a wounded bunny. “I’m not like this because of you.”
>> “It’s not your fault.”
Whatever spell held Ethan at bay until now, it was thoroughly broken by that singular remark. He crossed the remaining distance in stumbling steps, Cole’s eyes opening to meet his. The officer’s hand rose with pained slowness to ruffle the boy’s grimy hair, a gesture awkward yet achingly sincere. Tears welled in the boy’s cognac eyes, catching the filtering daylight like amber in sunset.
Claude’s chest tightened at the scene, his own vision getting a bit blurry. After confronting so much darkness, so much insanity, this small moment felt almost holy in its deceptive simplicity. Even Jagdhund’s stern features softened almost imperceptibly.
“I’m glad you made it, brat.” Cole’s voice was barely above a whisper, rough fingers still tangled in Ethan’s hair. “Wasn’t just me trying to save you. Your mom was there too, and you fought hard as well. Good job, surviving.”
The mention of Ethan’s mother pulled Claude’s thoughts back to darker currents. His mind conjured the faces of everyone they encountered inside Mirage Asylum. Samantha Marlowe, LaCaze and his men, Seagrave himself —none of them were anywhere to be seen inside that room.
A sideways glance from Jagdhund caught his attention, that heavy gaze they shared when their thoughts aligned. They were thinking the same thing, and nodded to each other in agreement that it was a topic best left aside for now.
Because… There was no way they could have simply disappeared, right? The logical part of his brain rebelled against the implications, demanding proper explanations, evidence, bodies. Yet the prickle at the back of his neck returned to suggest otherwise, whispering that their absence meant…
Claude decided to leave the thought unfinished, focusing instead on the immediate. Ethan’s quiet sobs muffled against Cole’s chest, and the officer’s arms wrapped around him in stiff, almost awkward care, mindful of his wounds yet unwilling to deny comfort. The mansion’s secrets could wait until they got the two of them to safety.
And so he’d begin working on just that. Supporting his weight on Jagdhund’s stretched arm as he got up, Claude swatted away the dust off his clothes —doublechecking due to how hard it was to believe that there wasn’t any stray paint splotch on them. His body continued to protest at every stage, but it was mighty time he ignored it to focus on the task at hand.
Checking his phone felt almost bitter after everything they’d endured. The device’s screen was cracked, but it continued working dutifully, marking barely twenty minutes since they had first stepped into the mansion. Time had certainly stretched inside the paint subworld, yet the outside world barely moved in their absence.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Static buzzed from his radio as he called for backup, his voice steadier than he felt while requesting medical assistance and transport. As he spoke, his eyes remained fixed on Ethan and Cole, the boy clinging to the officer’s chest as if afraid he might disappear should he let go. Even when footsteps and voices began echoing from beyond the room, marking the arrival of their colleagues, the Seagrave kid showed no sign of wanting to separate from his protector.
As the two detectives watched the pair being carefully escorted outside —and Cole stubbornly refusing a stretcher despite his injuries— Jagdhund’s voice broke the relative quiet.
“Do you still feel it?”
The question needed little elaboration, Claude’s hand unconsciously rising to his chest where Pendulum’s presence lingered like a second heartbeat. It was no temporary side-effect of being exposed to Mirage Asylum. He held no doubts the ethereal blade had become a part of him now. Perhaps it had always been.
“Mhm, I do. How about you?”
“Same here… The stench of it all is…” Jagdhund’s nose flared slightly, his face tightening with concentration. There was something unsettling about the way the old mutt’s reacted to every whiff, as if catching scents that shouldn’t really exist. “What did you see, the moment you killed Seagrave?”
A chill went down Claude’s spine. He hadn’t mentioned those visions, yet somehow the mutt knew about their occurrence. The fact that the old man could smell such things almost disturbed him… But if there was anyone he could trust with this, it was him.
“Most of his life. Felt like a blink and eternity all at once.” Claude’s voice dropped lower, mindful of the various officers now moving through the empty mansion’s halls. “A long time ago, there was this guy who trespassed in an exhibition of his."
>> “I’m quite confident he’s the root of all this.”
Claude’s tentative deductions hung in the stale mansion air for a moment, a weight added to the already heavy atmosphere. Instead of being asked to elaborate further, Jagdhund’s gravelly voice emerged to challenge him instead.
“The root? No, that’s not it.” Their back-and-forth lacked the bite of confrontation. It was more an attempt to assemble the puzzle pieces that each held into a more coherent whole. “Instigator perhaps. But these things…”
“Punishers.” Claude interjected softly, the word slipping from his lips with disturbing ease.
“See that? You’re doing it too. That’s a name given by humans, slapped because we need a word to define them with. But these… Punishers, they’re not something one man could create, much less control. It’s out of their own accord that we’re capable of using them.”
>> “But I can’t help but ask why. Why us?”
Jagdhund’s voice trailed off into frustrated silence, features twisting into a frown as his nose twitched periodically. Conscious efforts or not, it was almost painful to watch the old mutt wrestle with insights that kept themselves just beyond his grasp. If that strange perception of his was indeed a newfound ability, it seemed to come with its own cruel limitations.
Seeking to redirect their discussion towards more productive grounds, Claude cleared his throat.
“Say, how many cases do we have unsolved at the precinct? Events that made no sense, perfect crimes without culprits?” The rookie detective let the implications settle, though he suspected Jagdhund was already several steps ahead in that particular train of thought. “How many more of these things do you think are out there?”
The question dissolved into heavy silence. Through the barricaded windows, early morning light filtered to cast long shadows across the cobwebbed mansion, each dancing shade suddenly suspect. This new reality pressed hard on Claude’s tired mind —the knowledge that beneath the veneer of crime statistics, paranormal horrors could now be lurking as well.
“None of this goes in the official report.” Jagdhund finally spoke, his tone carrying the resignation to a difficult secret they would have to guard now. It was a daunting decision, to find a way to explain all the injuries, to justify their findings without mentioning the supernatural. It made sense, since the other alternative would probably result in them being thrown into the loony bin. “We’ll need Benoit on board with this too.”
>> “And not a word of this is getting to Malvirta if I can help it.”
To mention the vice-chief here was a choice. Sure enough, Jagdhund had always maintained distance from the department’s higher ranks, but this particular wariness of Vigo stood out. There was history there, buried under years of professional courtesy and careful avoidance —though it was fairly funny to think that the old mutt could somehow be capable of any of these two things.
But as much as he’d like to finally question him about this, if he had ever been crossed by the guy, he very much doubted Jagdhund would open his mouth while on duty. Besides, there was something far more important to Claude right now.
“Hah, I can’t take any more of this.” The rookie exhaled while massaging his neck, unceremoniously turning towards the door. “I need me some home air. Make sure to drop by once you’re done, okay?”
>> “I’ll tell Ione about that birthday gift you have for her.”
Behind him, Jagdhund’s protest could be heard like falling thunder, but Claude just allowed a tired smile cross his lips. That dedication was part of him, and he had no doubt he’d stay in the mansion until there was nothing left to examine. Any other day he might have tried to match that thoroughness, but after fearing for his life at some points, seeing his daughter again took immediate priority.
Besides, there was just one more thing he needed to check by himself. Something he’d rather the old detective’s keen nose didn’t catch wind of just yet.
The cold morning air hit him like a splash of cold water as he emerged from the mansion’s oppressive atmosphere. Squad cars dotted the rural road, their lights painting the still crumbled driveway in alternating red and blue. Officers moved in the direction opposite to him with methodic efficiency, none of them noticing how the mansion’s reinforced windows seemed to return Claude’s gaze as he looked at it one final time.
One of the younger peeps around readily agreed to drive him home —Amy was her name. They made a very brief small talk before the passenger seat welcomed him like an old friend, though only once they began pulling from the property did he fully allow his guard to lower slightly.
His fingers found their way to his chest pocket, drawn to a weight that had been calling to him since the moment he woke up. The object he withdrew caught the morning sunlight and transformed it, scattering prismatic fragments across the car’s interior. It was beautiful in a way that made his eyes hurt, a crystalline pale-blue shard that reflected images whenever he focused on its surface. Moments of Seagrave’s life, he realized by memory. Had Pendulum extracted and condensed them into this artifact after striking his heart?
Amy’s complete lack of reaction to the intense iridescence confirmed one more thing. This object existed in a realm just adjacent to normal reality, just like Punishers did. The thought should have unsettled him more than it did. Perhaps he was simply too tired to be fully shaken.
A wry smile tugged at his lips as he turned the crystal between his fingers, watching how the bitter recollections shifted and flowed within. His mother would have loved this, he thought. How many times had she rambled on about the thin places where spirit and matter intertwined? He’d always believed, of course —his talent with the cards was proof enough that it ran in his bloodstream. But there was a vast gulf between reading omens in a worn tarot deck and wielding a dark, sentient blade.
Or was there? The more Claude examined it, the more familiar this all felt. The cards had always been about connections, about finding the invisible threads that bound people and events together. Wasn’t Pendulum just another way of seeing those links, of reaching across the boundaries between what was and what could be? Even this crystal seemed to resonate with that same fundamental truth.
That reality was more permeable than most people imagined, and that awareness of its own was a kind of power.
Still, cheap philosophy wouldn’t change the weight of responsibility now resting in his pocket. Whatever this artifact was, whatever purpose it might serve, he knew instinctively that one day it’d be important. He’d at least make sure it stayed safe until then.
Familiar streets began to roll past, and Claude carefully tucked the crystal away. His body ached, his mind buzzed with questions, and somewhere in the back of his thoughts Pendulum hummed its ethereal song. But none of that mattered right now. He was going home to his daughter, and for a few precious hours at least, that would be enough.
The future would bring its own challenges. There were reports to file, carefully excluding anything too impossible. Leads to follow up on, how many other cases might have supernatural explanations. And hard conversations to have with Cole about what he witnessed. It could wait for another day.
Right now, as he stepped out of the vehicle and waved goodbye to Amy, all he could think of was just how much he longed to hold his daughter, to remember why he’d fought so hard to make it back alive.
“I’m home!”
Announcing his arrival with the familiar creak of his apartment door felt almost surreal after everything that had transpired, yet instead of the quick scramble of small, enthusiastic feet, he was only greeted by the distant hum of their old refrigerator. A moment passed before he realized —the wall clock’s hands pointing accusingly at 11:27 AM.
Of course Ione wasn’t home. She’d surely be sitting in math class right now, probably daydreaming about anything else.
A tired chuckle escaped his lips as he ran a hand through his undone hair. The adrenaline crash was hitting him hard, making even these basic facts slip through his mind. The laugh died in his mouth though, transforming into a weary sigh. He must be more exhausted than he’d thought.
His coat, still carrying the musty scent of that accursed mansion, had barely touched the hook on the back of the door when it happened. The intrusion was sudden, violent, the hope for quietness making it even stronger than the previous ones.
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Claude’s knees gave out without warning. The world tilted sharply, and before he could catch himself, his temple caught the edge of the coat rack. Pain bloomed bright and immediate, adding its chorus to all the aches already plaguing his battered body.
“Damn it…” Claude hissed through clenched teeth, one hand pressed against his forehead where a know was already forming. The cryptic message dissolved like smoke, leaving behind the dull throb of what promised to be a spectacular headache. His fingers came away clean when he checked them. At least the coat rack hadn’t broken skin.
Right, Jagdhund had advised him to keep notes of those messages.
“You could at least have waited until I’ve had some coffee.”
Through the apartment’s thin walls, he could hear his neighbors shuffling around with their usual late-morning routine. The mundane sound was oddly comforting —a reminder that despite everything, despite the paint-born horrors and ethereal weapons and crystal shards filled with dead men’s memories, the regular world kept turning.
In about three hours, Ione would bounce through that same door, and he’d be able to ask her about her day.
That thought alone made everything else bearable.
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