The air inside the Burns mansion was thick with something unseen—something heavy, suffocating. Damien felt it the moment he stepped deeper into the house. Shadows flickered against the antique wallpaper as dim lights cast elongated figures across the corridors.

Helen Burns sat across from him, her hands trembling over the porcelain teacup she hadn’t even touched. The scent of expensive jasmine tea wafted through the air, but neither of them cared for it.

“What else can you tell me about your husband’s involvement with the Eastgate Syndicate?” Damien asked, his voice calm but firm.

Helen exhaled shakily, fingers gripping the delicate china as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded. “Thomas never told me much, but I know he met with them in secret. He always came home late, and he was... different.” Her gaze drifted to the flickering fireplace, as if watching memories come to life. “Paranoid. Angry. He kept saying that he’d made a mistake—one he couldn’t take back.”

Damien leaned forward, watching her carefully. “Did he ever mention a name? A specific person?”

Her lips parted, then hesitated. “He referred to someone only once. I overheard a phone call.”

A long silence stretched between them.

“And?” Damien pressed.

Helen swallowed. “He called him The Specter.”

Damien’s fingers twitched at the name. He had heard whispers of that alias before. The Specter wasn’t just a man—he was a ghost in the underworld, someone who erased people from existence without a trace. If Thomas Burns had been tangled with him, then Sophia’s death was no random murder. It was a warning.

Helen’s voice turned into a whisper. “After that call, Thomas became obsessed with security. He installed new locks, security cameras... but it didn’t matter.” Her fingers curled into the fabric of her dress. “One night, he left and never came back.”

Damien studied her expression, searching for the details she wasn’t saying. “And you never called the police?”

She laughed bitterly. “I knew they wouldn’t help. The kind of people Thomas dealt with? They don’t leave bodies. They leave ghosts.”

A faint rustling sound broke the silence.

Both of them turned toward the hallway.

Stolen novel; please report.

Helen’s face went pale.

Damien was on his feet in seconds, pulling his gun from his holster. The sound had been subtle, almost unnoticeable—but to a detective like him, it was enough. Someone was here.

A second later, the power cut out.

The house plunged into darkness.

Helen gasped. “No... no, no, not again.”

Damien grabbed his flashlight, flicking it on. A cold draft snaked through the mansion, making the drapes shiver as if something had passed through them. He turned his head, scanning the area.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Inside the house.

Damien’s grip tightened around his gun. He stepped into the hallway, his heartbeat steady despite the rising tension. The mansion was old—creaky floors and thin walls—but these footsteps were controlled, careful. Someone who knew how to move unnoticed.

“Stay here,” he ordered Helen in a hushed voice.

She clutched the edge of her chair, paralyzed by fear.

Damien moved swiftly, following the sound. His flashlight beam cut through the darkness, revealing nothing but empty corridors lined with faded paintings of the Burns family lineage. Their lifeless eyes seemed to watch him as he passed.

A door creaked open at the far end of the hall.

Damien raised his gun, stepping forward with precision. “Come out,” he called, voice calm but firm. No response.

He reached the door and slowly pushed it open.

The flashlight illuminated an old study. Shelves lined with dusty books, a large oak desk in the center, and a tall window that revealed the fog-choked city beyond.

No one was inside.

But something was wrong.

The room smelled like cigarette smoke. Fresh smoke. Someone had been here—minutes ago.

Then he noticed it.

A single white envelope on the desk.

His stomach tightened.

Slowly, Damien picked it up. The paper was expensive, high-quality—whoever left it wasn’t just some ordinary thug.

He flipped it open.

Inside was a single sheet of paper.

Just two words.

"Stop digging."

A chill ran through him.

Then—

A sound behind him.

Damien spun, gun raised.

The window was open. The wind howled through, rustling the papers on the desk. Whoever had been here had slipped away into the night.

His eyes scanned the study, his mind calculating every possibility. They had cut the power. Moved through the house undetected. Left a message without a trace. This wasn’t a warning.

It was a taunt.

He exhaled sharply. His instincts screamed that this case wasn’t just about Sophia Burns anymore. It was about something bigger.

Someone wanted him off the trail.

Which only meant one thing.

He was finally on the right path.

----------------------------------------

LATER THAT NIGHT

Damien returned to his apartment, locking the door behind him. He tossed the envelope onto his desk and sat down, running a hand through his hair.

The city lights flickered outside, casting distorted shadows through the window. His mind was still turning over the events at the mansion. The footsteps. The letter. The Specter.

He needed answers.

Pulling out his phone, he dialed a number.

It rang twice before a rough voice answered.

“Didn’t expect a call from you, Blackwood.”

“I need information,” Damien said. “On a man called The Specter.”

A low chuckle on the other end. “Bad idea.”

“Is it?”

“Listen, detective,” the voice said. “You don’t look for The Specter. He looks for you.”

A click. The line went dead.

Damien exhaled, staring at the phone.

Somewhere in the city, a killer was watching him. Waiting.

And he had a feeling he was running out of time.