THUD!!.
The sound reverberated through the dimly lit interrogation room as the officer slammed the table with both hands. His short, middle-parted black hair fell forward, shadowing his sharp features as he leaned in.
“Just answer the damn question, Rothfane. Where were you last night between 7 and 9?”
Nyro Rothfane, seated calmly on the chair meant for suspects, didn’t flinch. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, his eyes half-lidded with disinterest.
“How did it happen?” he asked quietly, his tone almost detached.
The officer’s jaw tightened, his voice rising. “That’s not what I asked. I asked you where you were at the time of the murder. Answer the question!”
Nyro raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into the faintest smirk. “So, the murder happened between 7 and 9.”
The officer—Garren Voltaire—gritted his teeth and pushed back from the table in frustration. He rubbed his chin and jawline as he turned toward the room’s one-way mirror. His voice dropped, low and tense. “You’re clearly not grasping the severity of this situation, Rothfane.”
Another man in the room, younger and impeccably dressed in a neatly pressed police uniform, stepped forward. His blonde hair was slicked back, his badge reading Victor Leslie. His jaw tightened as anger flickered across his face.
“Voltaire, sir,” Victor said sharply, his voice controlled but simmering. “Let me handle this. This guy’s not going to answer easily.”
Before Voltaire could respond, Victor grabbed Nyro by the ponytail and gave it a sharp tug.
Nyro inhaled sharply, his calm demeanor cracking for just a moment. “You think this is a joke, huh?” Victor hissed, his face close to Nyro’s. “We’re here working, and you’re here wasting our time!”
“Hey! Leslie!” Voltaire’s voice cut through the tension like a whip. “Who said you could lay a hand on him?” He stepped forward, his tone urgent and sharp. “You’re supposed to observe, not rough him up. Let him go. Now.”
Victor released Nyro’s hair reluctantly, but before he could step back, Nyro smirked. “Well, this is getting lively,” he said, and with a sudden push off the table, he sent his chair toppling backward, landing hard on the floor with a loud crash.
“Damn it, Rothfane!” Voltaire barked, rushing to yank Nyro and the chair upright.
Nyro’s smirk widened. “Careful, Garren. This kind of behavior doesn’t look great on the evening news. The headlines might read, ‘Innocent Rothfane heir tortured into confessing crimes he didn’t commit by DPD.’”
Voltaire’s face darkened, his patience fraying. “Shut up and answer the question. You’re a prime suspect, you were a regular there. Now, where were you?”
Nyro straightened his vest, his smirk fading. “At the time you mentioned? Sleeping. In my room.”
“And your alibi?” Voltaire shot back, skeptical.
“My niece,” Nyro said. “She saw me in my room around that time.”
Voltaire’s glare hardened. “I’m not buying that. Start from the top. Tell me what you did yesterday—every single detail. Don’t leave anything out.”
Nyro raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly. “You want the whole day?”
“Yes. The whole day.” Voltaire’s voice dropped, dangerously low. “And let me warn you, Rothfane—if I find a single contradiction, you’re done. After what you pulled last month, your family name won’t save you this time. Now, talk.”
Nyro’s smirk returned, but this time, there was a flicker of unease in his eyes. He sighed. “Fine. But you better be ready for a long story.”
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The morning sun filtered through the large windows of Bakers Brew Cafe, casting golden streaks across the polished wooden floor. A gentle hum of activity came from the back, where the aroma of freshly baked pastries mingled with the rich scent of brewing coffee. Darla Baker, the waitress in her late twenties, carried a tray, approaching a corner table with two steaming cups of coffee.
"Sir... your coffee."
Darla called out, her voice polite yet soft. She carefully placed the cups on the small wooden table. The first cup, in a simple white porcelain saucer, was set in front of the man seated there. The other cup was placed directly across from him—its place on the table oddly empty. The table was modest, with a faintly checkered cloth in muted beige, a small sugar jar, a single glass vase with a wilted daisy in it and a folded napkin.
The man, oblivious to her presence, sat with his head slightly bowed, his attention fixed on the pocket watch in his hand. The watch’s brass cover gleamed faintly in the morning light as he flicked it open, glanced at the time, then snapped it shut with a soft click. He spun the lid absently with his thumb, his movements rhythmic and unhurried.
Darla cleared her throat and tried again, this time with a bit more volume.
“Mr. Rothfane... your coffee.”
At her raised tone, the man jerked upright as if pulled from a trance. His light brown hair, slightly tousled, fell into his eyes for a moment before he brushed it back with his fingers. His sharp jawline tensed briefly before softening as he met her gaze.
“Oh, Miss Baker. You’ve already set the coffee down,” he said, a lopsided smile forming. “How kind of you. But...” He hesitated, glancing at the empty seat across from him. “it seems the person I was expecting isn’t coming...”
“Again?!” Darla burst out before she could stop herself.
A flicker of irritation visible in her words as her pent-up curiosity spilled over. “Who are you even trying to meet? It’s been more than a month! You come here every day, say you’re expecting someone, and then nobody shows up!”
The outburst hung in the air for a moment before Darla realized what she had just said. She clutched the tray against her chest, her face flushed crimson, and she stammered an apology.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Rothfane! That was out of line. I shouldn’t have said that. Please forgive me!”
To her surprise, Rothfane chuckled softly. “It’s fine, Miss Baker. I admire your honesty. Most people wouldn’t say what’s truly on their mind.”
He flipped the pocket watch open again, glanced at it, and then sighed, this time with a resigned air his shoulders sagging slightly.
“Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?” Darla asked, “I mean…” She trailed off, unsure if she should even ask.
Rothfane’s lips curled into a teasing grin. “Oh, right! I totally forgot.”
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“Forgot?! How can you forget something like that?” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with disbelief.
He chuckled again, leaning back in his chair. “Miss Baker, you’re so easy to tease. Hahaha,” his tone playful.
Before she could respond, he gestured to the cup across from him. “Since the person isn’t coming, why don’t you have a seat and drink coffee with me? It would be a shame to let it go to waste.”
“But, Sir... I’m working,” Darla replied, though her voice wavered as she glanced around the empty cafe. It was a quiet morning; most of the usual patrons had already headed to work. Only the cafe owner, her father, could be heard in the back, humming as he tended to the oven.
Rothfane gestured broadly to the empty room. “No one’s here. Take a break. Don’t you think you deserve it, Miss Baker? And stop calling me Sir or Mr. I’m way younger than you. Just call me Nyro.”
Darla’s brows furrowed in mock indignation. “Younger? You hardly look it.”
Nyro laughed, the sound light and unguarded. “Fair enough. But seriously, have a seat. The coffee’s getting cold.”
Hesitating for a moment longer, Darla finally set the tray aside and pulled out the chair opposite him, settling into it awkwardly, her hands folding nervously in her lap. She reached for the cup, its warmth comforting against her fingers, and took a tentative sip.
Nyro watched her with a mischievous glint in his eyes as he lifted his own cup, sipping slowly before blowing gently on the hot liquid. “Good, isn’t it?”
Darla nodded, though her gaze drifted to his face. She’d seen him every day for weeks, yet today was the first time she’d looked at him so closely. His light brown hair, parted messily to the right, framed a face that was both rugged and refined. His sharp jawline and high cheekbones gave him an air of authority, while his maroon-accented attire hinted at a touch of flamboyance. The small tattooed symbols on his wrists, barely visible when he raised his cup, added an enigmatic layer to his persona.
Caught in her observations, Darla didn’t notice when Nyro looked up and met her gaze. He smirked, rubbing his nose with his index finger in an almost boyish manner. “Am I that good-looking, Miss Baker?”
Darla's cheeks flamed as she scrambled for a response. “W-what?! I wasn’t staring at you!” she blurted. Desperate to mask her embarrassment, she grabbed her coffee cup and lifted it to her lips, chugging it in one go as though it might wash away her awkwardness.
Nyro’s grin widened, his sharp eyes sparkling with amusement. “You’re a terrible liar, Miss Baker.”
At his words, Darla choked mid-gulp, sputtering as a spray of coffee escaped her lips. The warm liquid splashed onto her blouse, leaving a dark stain.
“Easy there, Miss Baker,” Nyro said quickly, leaning forward with a touch of concern. “You’re going to make me feel bad for teasing you.”
Darla grabbed a napkin from the table, hurriedly dabbing at her clothes and then her face. Her movements were frantic, her blush spreading to the tips of her ears. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, her voice muffled as she worked on the mess.
Nyro rested his elbows on the table. “Really?” he asked, his tone teasing yet laced with curiosity. His eyes followed her hands as she moved, but when her sleeve slipped down her arm, his playful demeanor faltered.
He noticed them immediately—They were long, dark red marks. The cuts were thin and jagged, some still raw, others darkened with bruising—black, green, and deep red—as if something heavy had struck them repeatedly. Some marks were fresh, the skin still raised, while others had faded into dark patches that screamed of old pain. The wounds had the appearance of someone who had been whipped, the flesh torn and discolored, not deep enough to bleed but brutal enough to leave lasting damage.
Nyro’s expression tightened. “Miss Baker, what’s this? Are you hurt?”
Darla froze. Her eyes widened, panic flashing across her face as she realized her arms were fully visible now. In an instant, she pulled her sleeves down, her fingers trembling as she tried to hide the marks.
“This... this is nothing, really,” she stammered. “I... I fell down the stairs a while ago. That’s all.” She tugged at her sleeves, trying to hide the marks again, but her tone was too defensive, too forced.
Nyro didn't buy it, his lips pressed into a thin line. His gaze flickered from her arms to her face, catching something unusual. It was covered up by makeup, but with the sudden movement and the spill of coffee, some of the makeup had smudged away, exposing a matching red mark just below her cheekbone—faint but unmistakable. It looked like the imprint of fingers, as though someone had grabbed her with force or perhaps slapped her.
Before he could ask, a shout came from the kitchen.
“Oi, Darla! Stop lazing around and get in here! Now!” The sharp, angry tone of café owner made Nyro flinch slightly.
Darla flinched as well, her entire expression shifting from discomfort to fear. She stood up abruptly, smoothing her apron and glancing toward the kitchen.
“Y-yeah, coming,” she said quickly, her voice almost a whisper. Her smile flickered weakly, but there was an undercurrent of sadness in her eyes. “I’ve got to go. But, uh… this was fun, Nyro. Really.” She turned to leave, but before she could get far, she paused.
Nyro rose too, his playful smile gone, replaced with something darker, like the weight of his own thoughts had suddenly settled in. “I enjoyed it too, Miss Baker. Let’s chat some more if time allows.”
He paused, his gaze distant for a moment, then added quietly, almost to himself, “After all, you never know when you’re meeting someone for the last time.”
Darla hesitated, the words hanging between them like a secret neither of them dared to speak. She turned without saying another word and walked toward the kitchen.
Nyro watched her go, the faint sound of her footsteps fading into the clatter of the kitchen beyond. His gaze lingered on the door for a moment before he exhaled, turning toward the café’s entrance. With a smooth motion, he pulled the door open, the bell above it jingling softly, and stepped outside.
Just as his foot hit the cobblestone, a black cat darted across his path. Nyro’s eyes flicked down instinctively, but the cat didn’t stop. Instead, it passed through his leg like mist, its form rippling and fading as if it had never been there. He paused for a heartbeat, his lips curving into a faint smirk. Not unusual for this city.
The street was alive in its own quiet way, bathed in the muted gray tones of an overcast morning. A faint mist hung in the air, clinging to the edges of cobblestones that glistened faintly with last night’s rain. Sleek, black motorcars with curved fenders and brass headlights hummed steadily past, their engines blending into the faint clatter of horse-drawn carriages remnants of a fading era. Men in dark woolen coats and wide-brimmed hats strode briskly, their faces obscured by low-tilted fedoras. Women in modest dresses and fitted jackets carried parasols or handbags, their heels clicking faintly against the damp stone.
But not everyone here belonged to this world.
Nyro’s sharp gaze swept over the bustling street, catching details invisible to the ordinary eye. A frail ghost of a man hovered behind a living pedestrian carrying a folded Duskmoor Times. The ghost craned its neck, trying to peer over the man’s shoulder at the paper, its translucent face locked in a peculiar expression of frustration. A headline, or perhaps a comic strip? Nyro wondered. Something he never finished reading while alive.
Across the street, a spectral woman stood just beyond the glass of a flower shop. She shimmered faintly, her edges rippling like disturbed water whenever a passerby unknowingly walked through her. Her gaze was fixed on a man inside, who was arranging a bouquet with careful precision. Was she in love with him? Or did she simply find solace in the routine of his work? Nyro’s lips pressed together in a faint frown. Hard to say with ghosts—they’re more mystery than memory sometimes.
A faint chill brushed against him, pulling him from his thoughts. He glanced down, and his hand moved almost unconsciously to his pocket. The cool metal of his watch clicked open as he checked the time.
“11:24!” he blurted, his voice rising in alarm. “I’m going to be late for the memorial! Esmund's definitely going to kill me.” He groaned, running a hand through his already messy hair. “By the Shprocks, how do I keep doing this to myself?”
His eyes darted down the street, and he raised an arm. “Taxi!”
A boxy motorcar with spoked wheels and a dull green paint job sputtered to a stop. Its polished chrome grille gleamed faintly, and a plume of thin smoke drifted from its tailpipe. The driver, an older man with a bushy white mustache and a tweed cap, leaned out the window. His eyes crinkled with recognition.
“Young Master Rothfane,” the driver said with a nod.
Nyro stepped inside, settling into the creaky leather seat as the faint scent of oil and old tobacco wafted up from the upholstery. He leaned forward slightly.
“To the mansion,” he said firmly, closing the door with a resolute click.