The faint hum of a ceiling fan was the only sound in Damien’s small apartment, its rhythmic rotation failing to stir the stifling air. The dim lighting cast long shadows across a space that was both home and workspace. A cluttered desk sat against one wall, strewn with case files, coffee-stained notebooks, and a laptop humming softly as Damien typed furiously. The faint aroma of instant coffee mingled with the scent of old paper, a comforting yet oppressive mix.
He sat in his worn leather chair, his gaze fixed on the faint pattern etched into the skin of his left hand. The markings were intricate, almost geometric, but not quite symmetrical which unlike anything Damien had seen before. He ran his fingers over the faint lines as if searching for answers in the tactile sensation.
Turning to his laptop, Damien scoured the internet for any information that could explain the strange mark. His search history was a jumble of keywords: tribal tattoos Philippines, warrior marks history, ancient patterns. He learned about the warriors of pre-colonial Philippines, their bodies adorned with tattoos that symbolized strength, protection, and rank within their tribes. But nothing matched the intricate design on his hand.
Frustration gnawed at him as he leaned back, taking a sip of lukewarm coffee from a cracked mug. The room was sparsely furnished and functional but devoid of decoration. A couch, worn to the springs, faced a small TV that flickered with muted light. The open kitchenette bore signs of a bachelor’s life: unwashed dishes in the sink, an empty cereal box on the counter, and a trash bin overflowing with takeout containers.
The silence was broken by the voice of a newscaster on the TV. Damien glanced up as the news anchor delivered a grim report.
“Authorities are investigating the gruesome discovery of a mutilated body in a quiet urban neighborhood in Manila. Police describe the wounds as consistent with an animal attack, though experts are baffled by the ferocity and precision of the injuries.”
The news stirred something in Damien, a vague unease that refused to be ignored. He muted the TV and turned back to his laptop, scrolling through forums, obscure blogs, and archived articles.
Then, he decided to do something bold. He posted a cryptic message on a paranormal forum, describing a “dream” about a strange world teeming with dark creatures. He carefully omitted details about the Mulawins and the exact circumstances of his encounter, but the response was immediate.
Among the replies, one stood out.
Anonymous Sender: “I’ve seen them too. You’re not alone. Some of us have been taken or been spirited away to another place, like the world doesn’t want us back. Creatures of the dark are real. I’ve been researching this for years. Meet me. I can explain more.”
The sender attached links to stories and articles written by others who had experienced similar phenomena: vanishing into dreamlike realms, encountering shadowy creatures, and returning with inexplicable marks. Damien’s pulse quickened as he clicked through the links, his mind racing.
Before he could craft a reply, his phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a familiar name.
“Lola,” he muttered, picking up. “What’s up?”
“Damien,” her voice was steady but urgent. “There’s been another murder. A suspect might be involved, but we need to secure the scene first. It’s brutal or worse than before.”
“I’m on it,” Damien said, shoving his laptop aside and grabbing his coat. He glanced back at the anonymous message, the cursor blinking in the unfinished reply. But duty called.
The crime scene was a grisly tableau of violence. Blood spattered the walls and pooled on the floor, mingling with fragments of tissue. The victim’s body lay crumpled near a broken window, their eyes pierced by what appeared to be a sharp object. Bite marks marred their torso, chunks of flesh missing in a grotesque pattern. The smell of iron and decay hung heavy in the air, making Damien’s stomach churn.
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“We’ve secured the perimeter,” said Lola, her face pale but composed. “But it’s… bad.”
Damien nodded, his detective instincts taking over. He began examining the room, photographing the scene and mentally cataloging details. The window frame had deep scratches, and the broken glass suggested something or someone had forced its way in.
As he crouched to inspect a smear of blood near the door, a flicker of movement caught his attention. He turned sharply, but there was nothing there just shadows pooling in the corners of the room.
“Did you see something?” Lola asked, noticing his hesitation.
“Probably just my imagination,” Damien muttered, though he wasn’t convinced.
Unseen by anyone, a shadow slipped silently along the walls, its form shifting and writhing. It lingered for a moment, watching, before melting into the darkness.
The case was growing stranger by the minute, but Damien couldn’t shake the feeling that the horrors of the shadow world weren’t as distant as he wanted to believe. And as he caught sight of the faint mark on his hand once more, he knew the mysteries of the night were far from over.
Days bled into nights as Damien threw himself into the investigation, the city gripped by fear over the string of brutal murders. The victims, mutilated in ways no conventional animal or human could manage, painted a macabre picture. Though the bodies bore a gruesome familiarity to his shadowy experiences, Damien shoved the thought aside. Logic, he told himself. Evidence.
Each lead seemed to dissipate like smoke. The victims shared no clear connection at first glance, but one detail stood out: they had all frequented a bar on the city’s fringes, a high-end establishment that catered to an elite clientele. Its odd hours from "11 PM to 5 AM" added to its mystique. Damien made a mental note of its name, The Gilded Veil, before heading to a nearby café to bide his time until the bar opened.
The café was a stark contrast to the eerie, grim streets he had been scouring. Light jazz hummed softly in the background, and the air smelled of roasted coffee and fresh pastries. Damien ordered a cup of black coffee and settled into a corner booth, his back to the wall, a habit he never abandoned. He pulled out his notebook and began sketching connections between the victims, trying to map out patterns in their lives.
The clock ticked closer to 11 PM, and Damien drained his cup, leaving a tip on the counter before heading home. He rummaged through his wardrobe, searching for something that could pass in the upscale environment of The Gilded Veil. Eventually, he settled on a charcoal-gray suit that was sharp enough to avoid attention but not ostentatious. A plain black mask completed the ensemble, though its pointed ears and subtle ridges gave it a slightly animalistic edge. “Good enough,” he muttered, adjusting it in the mirror.
When Damien arrived at The Gilded Veil, he immediately understood its reputation. The exterior was understated, an unassuming door tucked between nondescript buildings, but the interior exuded wealth. Chandeliers cast soft, golden light over polished mahogany floors. Gilded accents adorned the furniture, and the patrons, masked and draped in fine clothing, radiated an air of secrecy. It wasn’t just a bar and it was a den of indulgence and vice.
Damien moved cautiously through the crowd, his detective instincts heightened by the charged atmosphere. He noticed drinks being spiked at several tables, money exchanged in handshakes, and the undercurrent of illicit dealings. He made mental notes for his report but stayed focused on his primary objective: finding a lead on the murders.
Then he saw her.
A woman sat alone at the edge of the room, her posture relaxed but her expression distant. She seemed out of place in this den of decadence, and something about her struck Damien as familiar. He approached her cautiously, slipping into the chair opposite her.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked.
She looked up, her eyes narrowing slightly behind her ornate mask. “Depends. Are you here to buy me a drink or sell me something?”
“Neither,” Damien said with a small smile. “Just a conversation.”
“Then I suppose it’s yours,” she said, tilting her head. “Who are you?”
“Damien Tenebris,” he said, leaning back. “I’m curious about this place, and you looked like you might have some answers.”
“Curious, are we?” she asked, her lips curving into a faint smirk. “You’re a detective, aren’t you?”
Damien stiffened slightly, but the mask he wore gave him some cover. “What makes you say that?”
“Your demeanor. Observant, but not just in a social way. You’re working.” She sipped her drink, her eyes scanning his face. “So, what are you looking for?”
“Clues,” Damien admitted. “There have been…incidents. People connected to this place.”
Her gaze darkened slightly. “You think someone here is responsible.”
“I think someone here knows more than they’re letting on,” Damien said carefully. “Have you noticed anything unusual?”
Before she could respond, the music dimmed, and the DJ’s voice boomed over the speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve been waiting for. Please welcome the owner of The Gilded Veil, the one who makes all of this possible, Mr. Vincent Dela Torre!”
The crowd erupted in applause as a tall, enigmatic man stepped into view, his mask more elaborate than the others. It was black and gold, with intricate filigree that caught the light, and he carried himself with the confidence of someone who knew he was untouchable. Damien felt an immediate sense of unease.
“That’s him,” the woman murmured.
“Vincent Dela Torre?” Damien asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the man.
“The man who runs this place,” she said. “And if you’re looking for answers, you’ll want to keep a close eye on him. People disappear around him.”
Damien’s pulse quickened. If Vincent Dela Torre had ties to the victims, this investigation might finally crack open. But as he watched Vincent greet the crowd with a charming smile, Damien couldn’t shake the feeling that he was staring into the face of something far darker than just a suspect.