The glow of Caleb’s apartment window offered little comfort as he parked his car in the alley below. His hand hovered on the key, but he didn’t turn the ignition off immediately. Instead, he stared at the blackened book resting on the passenger seat.

It felt alive.

The symbols on the cover had dimmed during the drive, but every so often, they pulsed faintly, like the dying embers of a fire. Caleb exhaled sharply and rubbed his face. Sleep wasn’t going to come tonight—not with what had happened in the crypt still fresh in his mind.

Grabbing the book, he stepped out of the car and scanned the street. The alley was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic and the occasional drip of water from a nearby gutter. Still, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, a lingering unease prickling at his senses.

Caleb climbed the stairs to his apartment, his hand brushing against the holstered gun at his hip. Inside, he locked the door behind him and set the book down on the kitchen table. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at it.

The events at the cathedral replayed in his mind—the shadowy figure, the blade, the whispering voice. He wasn’t sure what disturbed him more: the figure itself, or the fact that it had let him leave alive.

“Get it together, Strider,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

He grabbed a notebook and pen, then sat down at the table. Carefully, he flipped open the blackened book. The pages were brittle, their edges curling with age, but the markings inside were as vivid as if they’d been written yesterday.

The symbols were similar to the ones in the first book, but these seemed more… intricate. Layered. Caleb couldn’t shake the feeling that they were telling a story—if only he could understand it.

Hours passed as Caleb copied the symbols into his notebook, sketching their patterns and searching for any hint of meaning. But the more he studied them, the more they seemed to blur together, twisting in ways that made his head ache.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. The clock on the wall read 3:47 a.m., but Caleb didn’t feel tired. His nerves were too raw, his mind too alert.

A sudden creak from the floorboards made him freeze.

The sound came from the hallway just outside his apartment. Caleb reached for his gun, his movements slow and deliberate. The building was old, and noises like that weren’t unusual—but tonight, after everything he’d seen, he wasn’t taking any chances.

He moved to the door, his steps silent. Pressing his ear to the wood, he held his breath and listened.

For a moment, there was nothing. Then he heard it—a faint shuffle, like someone trying to move quietly but not quite succeeding.

“Who’s there?” Caleb barked, his voice firm but low.

Silence.

His hand tightened on the gun as he unlocked the door and swung it open. The hallway was empty, the dim light from the overhead fixture casting long shadows on the worn carpet.

Caleb stepped out, his eyes scanning the corridor. His pulse quickened as he noticed something on the floor near his door—a small, folded piece of paper.

He bent down, gun still raised, and picked it up. The paper was thin and yellowed, as if it had been torn from an old book. Unfolding it, he found a single word written in neat, spidery handwriting:

Leave.

Caleb’s jaw tightened as he glanced up and down the hallway again. Whoever had left the note was long gone, but the message was clear.

He stepped back into his apartment and locked the door, his mind racing. He had dealt with threats before—criminals trying to scare him off a case—but this felt different. This wasn’t about intimidation. It was a warning.

As dawn began to break, Caleb sat at the table, the note resting beside the open book. He hadn’t slept, but he didn’t feel the need to. He flipped to a page near the center of the book, his eyes catching on a single phrase written in a language he didn’t recognize.

Beneath it, however, was a rough translation scratched into the margin:

The Vault is not a place. It is power.

“What the hell does that mean?” Caleb muttered under his breath.

Before he could puzzle it out further, his phone buzzed on the table. He grabbed it, his eyes narrowing when he saw the caller ID.

“Jack,” he said, answering.

“You’re not gonna believe this,” Jack said, his voice tense.

“Try me.”

“Another body just showed up. Same MO—no signs of a struggle, no forced entry. But get this: they found another key. And it’s not the same as the one we’ve got.”

Caleb felt the weight of the blackened book in his hands. “Where?”

“Abandoned warehouse down near the docks. I’m heading there now. You in?”

“I’ll meet you there,” Caleb said, already reaching for his coat.

As he hung up, Caleb’s gaze flicked back to the book. The phrase echoed in his mind: The Vault is not a place. It is power.

Whatever was happening, it wasn’t over—not even close.