In a dim, aging room where the paint peeled like old skin and the wooden bed creaked with every breath, two figures existed in silence. The first—a thin, trembling man—sat crouched in the far corner, his back to the room, facing the wall like a prisoner of war. The second sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, a gun resting silently by his thigh, its cold metal glinting in the streetlight filtering through the grimy window.
Myth.
His eyes didn't waver. Fingers moved swiftly across the phone screen, muted taps echoing in the stale air. He'd already connected to a VPN and layered multiple proxies—cloaking himself behind digital shadows.
He wasn't taking chances.
He accessed his car's dashcam system and live video from his social media. He wanted to know what was happening and what had happened.
He glanced once at the man in the corner.
Still silent. Still scared.
Good.
Because Myth needed time. And no interruptions.
He leaned over the flickering screen, scrolling through the dashcam footage from earlier. The feed showed exactly what he had hoped: Taro, the street kid, had done his job. The boy had taken the file from the contact and carefully placed it inside the car though open window, slipping away without drawing attention.
Other than that, the street had remained mostly empty. No tail, no loitering silhouettes. Just dim streetlights, the occasional vagrant, and silence.
Myth exhaled, but not out of relief. His plan had only just begun.
The reason for all this caution was simple.
If the Ashfall portal incident really had foul play behind it, if Seekers or powerful officials were involved, then they'd no doubt have eyes and ears everywhere. Police, taverns, transport logs. Someone like Myth, who had shown sudden interest and knows something in a cold case, would raise red flags. They wouldn't wait for detectives to reach him. They'd try to get to him first. Silence him. Or use him.
And then there was the most important detail.
Why was Myth so confident that his "unknown missing person"—Sid Hayden—was involved in the incident?
To those watching from the shadows, it presented only two possibilities:
One—Myth was lying. Sid Hayden didn't exist. Just a fake name to stir attention or bait someone out.
Two—Myth was being helped, or used, by someone who did know Sid Hayden. Someone with information the public never had.
That alone made him a threat. Or a tool.
Which is exactly why Myth had staged everything so carefully. Why he'd rented a room under a fake name, and then never used it. Why he'd taken over another man's room at gunpoint.
There were three reasons behind that move
First reason was Safety.
If anyone with power was tracking him, they could bribe the innkeeper or force him to talk. Knowing Myth's room number or checking hallway cams could lead them right to him. But by not staying in his booked room, Myth stayed unpredictable.
Second reason was Misdirection.
if the people involved aren't interested in checking the car immediately and instead plan to trace Myth's phone and vehicle later for clues, they'll notice several discrepancies, like how Myth ordered the information but never actually accessed it.
If these people are big shots, they'll likely review public surveillance footage and track Myth's trail to the inn. Once they start questioning the inn staff, they'll probably discover that Myth never entered the room that was officially assigned to him.
All of this will only deepen their suspicion—that Myth was never there to rest. He was there to meet someone. Someone anonymous.
Third reason was Partial Truth.
Myth had met someone. He was getting help. And if someone did interrogate him later, he could tell the truth—just not all of it. An anonymous source assisted him. And that alone would be enough to keep his story intact.
So, for now, Myth sat silently in that dusty, decaying room.
One eye on the footage. The other on the door.
Waiting.
From behind him, the man in the corner shifted slightly.
Myth didn't look away from the screen, but his fingers lightly tapped the grip of the gun beside him.
"Don't," he said, voice low and firm. "You'll get your creds. Just stay quiet."
The man nodded, shrinking back into the corner like he was trying to merge with the shadows.
On the bed, Myth leaned closer to the phone screen.
The social media feed flickered—grainy, low-light footage of the alley where his car was parked. A faint hum from the mobile's mic echoed, catching the distant buzz of street noise and the occasional shuffle of a vagrant passing by.
Nothing moved.
Then—
Myth straightened slightly.
A figure had entered the frame. Tall. Hooded. He stood at the edge of the screen, near the alley's mouth—close enough to be seen, far enough to stay unidentifiable. The man didn't approach the car. Didn't move at all. He just stood there.
Watching.
Still.
Almost too still.
Myth narrowed his eyes.
The feed glitched for a second. Then the camera blinked out—the shutter closed.
Myth's hand slowly curled into a fist.
Someone was watching the car. And they knew how to shut things down.
For the first time that night, tension truly crept into Myth's chest.
His breath slowed. His hands trembled—just a little.
This wasn't like lying to the police.
This wasn't like threatening a frightened man with a gun.
Those were normal people.
But the figure in the footage... Myth had a gut feeling—that man wasn't normal.
He was most likely a Seeker.
And Seekers were unpredictable.
Myth's thoughts raced.
'Am l being paranoid?'
'What should I do...? There's only entry footage from the inn's cameras, no exit. If I stay too long, he could camp outside, waiting for me to come out. If, by some nightmare chance, all the public cams are compromised, then he could be here in fifteen minutes. That's worst-case... unlikely, but not impossible."
He started pacing inside the room, quietly. Thinking.
'But if I leave now, through the fire exit, the public cams might pick me up, sure, but not in real-time. They don't stream live to just anyone. That gives me some breathing room... maybe minutes ... maybe hours'
He checked the time.
'I only need to survive until 8 a.m. When the crowd floods the streets, tracking me becomes a hundred times harder.'
He stopped pacing. Looked out the dusty window. Took a breath.
Myth had made up his mind.