Seraphim POV
I sat at the small desk in my temporary quarters in Caelum, papers scattered
before me like remnants of a war zone. My fingers ran over the reports, each one
heavier than the last, each one a piece of the same haunting puzzle I couldn't
quite solve.
Lucian's words from earlier still echoed in my mind. "If you can't do it alone, try
asking for help."
I had replayed that conversation in my head a dozen times since we parted ways.
His tone had been oddly gentle, almost like he understood something I didn't. But
the thought of asking for help, of relying on someone else—it gnawed at me. I
wasn't someone who needed help. I never had been.
But then, there was this case, these murders, this… chaos. I could feel the walls
closing in, the investigation slipping through my fingers like sand.
I rubbed my temples, trying to push aside the creeping sense of failure. The
weight of it all was starting to suffocate me, each new victim only adding more to
the burden.
I glanced back at the reports. The names, the faces, the details I had memorized.
I should have been further along by now, but every clue seemed to lead to a dead
end.
But as I skimmed the files again, something stood out. A detail I had missed
earlier—a common thread, a pattern.
The first victim had been a minor city official with questionable ties. The second,
a mid-level industrialist. The third, a small-time politician with larger aspirations.
They all shared a similar trait—connections to the underbelly of Caelum's elite,
people who thrived in the shadows.
And now, another victim. Another player in the same game.
It was a faint connection, nothing solid yet, but it was enough to ignite a spark of
something. A lead. A whisper of hope.
The pieces were falling into place, one by one. I leaned forward, heart pounding.
Lucian's advice, though, kept clawing at the back of my mind. "Try asking for help."
I scoffed under my breath. No, I wouldn't ask for help. Not yet. But I couldn't
ignore this.
The victims were being picked off one by one, but why? Was it just a random
series of killings? Or was something bigger, more sinister, at play here?
I quickly grabbed my jacket, the papers still spread across the desk, unfinished.
I had to follow the lead. The answers were somewhere in Caelum, buried beneath
layers of lies and deception. And I would find them.
With one last glance at the mess of reports, I turned and left the room, feeling
the weight of the case settle once again on my shoulders.
The city was waiting, and I had a feeling it was going to tell me more than I was
ready to hear.
The call came in just as I was stepping out into the dark streets of Caelum.
Another murder. The news spread like wildfire, and with it, my stomach twisted
in familiar anticipation. I didn't need to be told twice.
The scene was at one of Caelum's high-rise luxury towers—a world away from the
slums I'd come from, a world built on the blood and sweat of the people who had
been left behind. The tower's glass windows reflected the neon lights of the city,
casting eerie reflections over the crime scene below.
I arrived in minutes, the hum of the city fading as I stepped through the
barricades. The officers on-site barely acknowledged me, too busy processing the
latest in a string of murders that had been plaguing the city for weeks. The victim
was an industrialist—Victor Thorne. A name I'd heard whispered in certain circles,
tied to illegal dealings and underground syndicates.
The officers moved aside as I approached the body, already partially obscured
by the shadows that clung to the corners of the room. Victor Thorne lay lifeless,
suspended by a thick rope around his neck, his feet barely brushing the floor. The
scene looked like a classic suicide at first glance. But as I took in the details, I
knew something was off.
Thorne's body hung from a wooden beam above, his limbs limp and twisted
unnaturally, the rope tied in a way that seemed almost too precise. His face,
frozen in a twisted grimace of shock, told a different story—one of struggle, of
pain, not a man who had simply decided to end it all.
I surveyed the room with my usual detachment, but the scene didn't sit right. The
position of the body—it was too perfect, too calculated. The rope was taut, pulled
to just the right length, and yet the marks on Thorne's neck were too clean. There
wasn't the usual mess you'd expect from a hanging. And the blood that had
gathered beneath him, too perfectly concentrated, too evenly spread, screamed
something more sinister than simple self-destruction.
Then, I noticed it—a glint of silver near his feet. I crouched to get a better look.
A small pendant lay there, its chain snapped. I held it up to the light, turning it in
my fingers. The shape of the charm struck a faint chord of familiarity, but I
couldn't place it immediately. It wasn't something that belonged to Thorne—that
much I was sure of.
Straightening, I slipped the pendant into my pocket. It would need closer
inspection later. Questions swirled in my mind, but one thing was clear—this
wasn't just another murder. It was deliberate, calculated. And it was only the
beginning.
The pendant sat on my desk, catching the light from the desk lamp as it swung
gently. I stared at it, running the evidence through my mind again and again. The
charm itself was intricate, almost ceremonial, but it wasn't until I compared it to
the file images on my tablet that its true meaning began to surface.
Saints. The thought lingered like a bad aftertaste. Their symbol wasn't common
enough to show up by coincidence. Yet here it was, tied—perhaps literally—to a
murder victim.
My fingers tapped against the table, a nervous habit I couldn't seem to break. I
couldn't help but hear Lucian's voice in my head, a haunting echo of his earlier
advice: "If the burden is something that you can't hold on alone, try asking for
help."
Help. This case was growing too tangled to unravel alone. I needed someone with
experience—someone I could trust.
I reached for my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I landed on the
name. Darius Cain. He wasn't just a former partner; he was a damn good
investigator. The kind of guy who could smell trouble before it even stepped in
the room.
The phone rang twice before he answered, his familiar gravelly voice coming
through the line.
"Seraphim. Long time."
"No time for catching up," I said quickly. "I've got a lead on a case, and I need
your help. You free?"
There was a pause, followed by the faint sound of papers shuffling. "Always.
What's the case?"
"Meet me at the Caelum precinct in an hour. I'll fill you in."
By the time I hung up, the plan was already forming. Darius and I would go
undercover to investigate the Saints' movement. If this pendant was tied to their
revolutionary agenda, then we were about to step into the lion's den.
But something about this didn't sit right with me. Thorne's death wasn't just
another strike against the elite. It felt... personal.
As I pocketed the pendant again, I knew one thing for sure—this case was far
bigger than I'd anticipated.
The Old City was a labyrinth of decaying structures and dim alleys, where silence
spoke volumes and the law barely dared tread. Darius and I walked through its
shadows, blending into the sea of worn faces and hurried steps. The Saints'
hideout was said to lie behind an abandoned chapel, tucked away in the heart of
this forgotten district.
The chapel door groaned as we stepped inside, revealing a modest gathering of
people huddled under the flickering glow of old lanterns. The air was heavy with
dampness and the faint smell of incense. At the front of the room, a hooded man
stood on a makeshift podium, speaking with fervor to a rapt audience.
"They call us radicals," the man declared, his voice steady but impassioned. "But
we see the truth. While they sit in their golden towers, we starve. While they
sing praises to their gods, we bury our dead. We are the ones fighting for justice,
for freedom!"
The crowd murmured in agreement, their voices tinged with both anger and hope.
I scanned the room, taking in every detail. The worn clothes of the attendees,
the marks of labor on their hands, the makeshift banners emblazoned with Saint
symbols—all of it painted a picture of people fighting for survival, not staging
assassinations.
Darius leaned closer to me, his voice low. "This doesn't feel like a room full of
murderers."
He was right. There was no hostility in their gazes, no whispers of violence. They
looked like ordinary people, desperate and hopeful. But something still nagged at
me.
As my eyes roamed the room, they caught on a pendant hanging from the neck of
one of the attendees. It was identical to the one I'd found at the Thorne scene.
I nudged Darius subtly, nodding toward the man.
The pendant gleamed faintly in the dim light as the man leaned over a table,
speaking quietly with another attendee. I moved closer, straining to catch
fragments of their conversation.
"...we've been careful," the man with the pendant was saying. "No one outside the
Old City knows the truth of our cause."
His companion nodded. "Good. If anyone suspects us, it could undo everything
we've worked for. We need the people's trust, not their fear."
I frowned. Their words didn't align with the murder scenes. The Saints weren't
acting like assassins; they were acting like people trying to stay hidden and avoid
trouble.
The hooded speaker on the podium raised his voice again, drawing the room's
attention. "Our time will come, but for now, we remain vigilant. The elite think
themselves untouchable, but we are the storm that will uproot their corruption.
Patience, my brothers and sisters. Patience."
The crowd erupted in quiet applause, the mood resolute but restrained.
Darius gave me a sidelong glance. "If these people are behind the killings, they're
doing a damn good job of hiding it."
I nodded slightly, my mind racing. The evidence pointed here, but the pieces didn't
fit. Could it all be a coincidence? Or was there another player in the game, using
the Saints as a scapegoat?
As the meeting began to disperse, I caught one last snippet of conversation from
the man with the pendant:
"Be careful with the symbols. If one of them gets misplaced again, it could draw
unwanted attention. We don't need any more accidents."
Darius and I exchanged a glance as we slipped out into the night. The necklace,
the symbols—it was all too convenient. Someone wanted the Saints to take the
fall. The question was who, and for what purpose.
The streets of the Old City seemed to breathe with a life of their own, each
corner whispering secrets of those who had been forgotten. As Darius and I left
the underground meeting, the weight of unanswered questions clung to me like a
second skin.
The pendant from the crime scene, the Saints' carefully guarded words—it all
painted a picture of a group walking the fine line between resistance and survival.
But something still gnawed at me. The pieces didn't fit together. If the Saints
weren't behind the killings, then why had their symbol appeared at Thorne's
murder scene?
Darius broke the silence as we walked. "You look like you're chewing on something
big. Got any theories?"
"Too many," I admitted, my gaze fixed ahead. "And none of them make sense."
He nodded, his expression grim. "We'll dig into it more tomorrow. Don't burn out
before we get somewhere solid."
As we parted ways, I found myself wandering the streets of Caelum, the city's
cold wind cutting through my coat. My thoughts drifted back to Lucian's words
from our last meeting—his suggestion to follow the trail where no one else dared
look.
"Sometimes the truth isn't hidden—it's just ignored," he'd said.
I tightened my grip on the pendant in my pocket, its cool surface a stark reminder
of the questions I still needed answered. Lucian had been right before. Maybe he
could shed more light on this tangled web.
With that thought, I turned toward the heart of Caelum. I needed answers, and
Lucian always seemed to have them—though I wasn't sure if I liked the price that
came with his wisdom.
I found him again at the same bench where we had met last time. The familiarity
of the scene was almost unnerving—Lucian seated comfortably, cigarette in hand,
as if he had all the time in the world.
This time, I didn't hesitate. I walked over, sat beside him, and let the first words
that came to mind spill out. "Thank you for the advice."
Lucian turned to me with a faint look of recognition, his lips quirking into an
amused smile. "Oh, it's you again. Well, if I was of any help, I suppose I can call it
a good deed for the day." He leaned back, gesturing with the cigarette. "But how
about you introduce yourself properly this time?"
I hesitated for only a moment. "Seraphim," I said, keeping it simple.
"Seraphim," he repeated, testing the name as if trying it on for size.
"Seraphim, isn't it, The truth-seeking angel—one of the highest among the
heavens." His tone carried a touch of amusement, as if he enjoyed the irony.
"Interesting. And do you always start conversations by thanking strangers for
unsolicited advice?"
I allowed myself a small smirk. "Not usually. But it turned out to be... valuable."
His eyes narrowed slightly, studying me. "Valuable, you say? Well, I'm glad to hear
it." He flicked ash from his cigarette, his expression unreadable. "And what
exactly did you find so valuable, Seraphim?"
I kept my tone neutral, refusing to reveal too much. "Let's just say it helped me
connect some dots. I've found a few clues I might have otherwise overlooked."
"Clues, huh?" Lucian's smile widened just enough to make me uneasy. "Well, I'm
happy to hear that. It's always satisfying when a bit of advice bears fruit."
I studied him for a moment, searching for any sign of deeper intent, but his calm
demeanor betrayed nothing.
"Let's hope the investigation continues to be fruitful," I said, rising from the
bench.
Lucian didn't stand but looked up at me, his smirk unwavering. "May it lead you to
all the answers you seek, Seraphim." His voice was smooth, almost playful, but
there was an edge to it that lingered in the air.
I hesitated but decided to push further. "Since your advice was useful, do you
have any others this time?"
His expression didn't falter, but his eyes flicked toward me with an almost
imperceptible shift. "Advice?" He chuckled softly. "Well, here's one for free:
Always look beyond what you're shown. Things aren't always what they seem. Like
Thorne's study, for example—meticulously clean, not a speck out of place. Almost
as if it was scrubbed down before anything happened. Doesn't that strike you as
strange?"
I froze for half a second before forcing myself to remain composed. That detail—
about the study—hadn't been released to the public. Only someone who had been
there or had intimate knowledge of the scene would know that.
"Strange," I echoed, trying to sound neutral.
Lucian's smile widened as if he enjoyed the unspoken tension. "Well, I suppose I
shouldn't keep you. May your investigation uncover all the answers you seek,
Seraphim."
I stood, my mind already racing. "I'll hold you to that."
As I walked away, his words replayed in my mind. The meticulous state of the
study—how could he have known? A subtle unease settled in my chest. The
realization didn't fully take shape, but something about Lucian wasn't adding up.
For now, I couldn't afford to dwell on it. There was still too much to uncover, and
I needed to keep my focus sharp. But the feeling lingered, like a faint whisper in
the back of my mind.
As I walked away from Lucian, his words echoed in my mind, the subtle insinuations
lingering in the air like smoke. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was only seeing
a fraction of the truth, that each step I took was leading me deeper into a web
of deception I wasn't fully prepared to untangle.
The clues were all around me, but something felt off. Lucian's advice, though
useful, had done more than steer my investigation; it had cast a shadow over
everything I thought I knew. The study, the marks left behind, the way the
details seemed too perfect—too orchestrated.
I didn't know where this path would lead, but I couldn't stop now. There was too
much at stake.
In the end, I didn't know who I could trust or who was playing their own game,
but one thing was certain: I was no longer just following the investigation—I was
becoming part of it.
And I couldn't afford to lose.