Arc's First Case

Arc closed his eyes, his open palms directed toward the unlit white candle in front of him.

He followed Quill's instructions. To tap into one's soul, he must find the gates of it—the connection between the body and the heavens—to borrow a divine spirit's powers and embody one's highest self—the White Form.

So he relaxed, and slowed his breathing down as he retraced memories and emotions from past successful taps.

Then once again, he was in that dark place, seemingly infinite.

It had been a month since he learned that the glowing being in front of him right now was the soul.

Yet Arc turned as a familiar presence intruded. It only laughed.

From the many taps he attempted, the demon, too, was always present.

He stepped back and immediately touched the soul from fear.

Eyes pried open, and the candle flickered to life, casting a soft glow over his long, luminescent white hair where there had been none. His eyes were glowing, and he felt the rush of newfound energy.

"You're getting faster with your taps," Quill said, seated across from Arc with a foot propped on the table, absorbed in a book.

They were on the floor above Wicked Wings, a room full of gym equipment.

"I've gotten quite the hang of it," Arc replied, glancing at Luna on the other bench, who had just successfully tapped into her white form.

"That's good. Now spar," Quill said without looking up from his book. "First one to get the other's back on the ground wins."

The two shared a look. Luna stood up and walked over to him.

"Luna..."

"It's Crescent now."

"Crescent..."

"Come on now, let's spar."

Arc was hesitant. Yesterday's spar, nor the result, was not as fun when you can't even land a hit on a girl.

"Don't hesitate, you'll tap out of your form again," she said, walking over to the mat. "You can hit me."

He stood, walking with shoulders slumped to the mat to join her, assuming a tentative fighting stance.

"Okay, try hitting my palm, here." Crescent held up her hand, and Arc struck it, but she effortlessly gripped his fist until he pulled away.

"That was weak."

"You're just strong."

"In our White Forms?" Crescent sighed. "Then let me remind you of a few things first."

Before they could begin, the door burst open, and Pierrot entered, also in his White Form.

"You three!"

They turned to the door.

"Why are you on tap?" Quill asked, setting his book aside and approaching Pierrot, and the two followed.

"Take this case," Pierrot replied, swiftly gathering supplies into a backpack from a nearby cabinet. "It's a stationary demon."

"What's happening? What about you?" asked Quill.

"Another active case." Pierrot closed his backpack and briskly walked out of the room. "I sent you the address!" he shouted as he walked past the door.

Quill checked his phone for details before turning to Arc and Crescent.

"Get ready. This will be your first case."

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Conference Room 2 was vacant. Everything was spotless and orderly. Swivel chairs were neatly tucked around a long, light wood table in the center.

She slipped inside, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. The humming of machines and the bustle of conversations that irritated her were now mercifully muffled. She released a deep breath.

Yet despite being alone... the whispers persisted.

The cold did not leave her be.

Snickers.

Hissing.

Murmurs.

Orders.

Cryptic words in a language she couldn't comprehend encircled her.

Her hands trembled uncontrollably, fingertips brushing against the smooth surface of the conference room table. Breaths came shallow and rapid as her gaze darted left to right, searching for their source.

"Who are you?!" Her voice echoed in the empty room, but the whispers only intensified in response.

Something seemed to materialize on the edge of her vision. She turned towards it, but it vanished, replaced by a snicker from above. Startled, she spun around, her senses on edge, trying to pinpoint those who caused it.

The room began to swirl, her vision blurry and dragged.

With a sharp crack, a heel of her shoe broke, sending her swaying forward. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the cold, hard floor.

Desperation clawed at her mind. She scrambled into the corner, her body shaking violently.

She clutched at her ears, hitting them, blocking them, trying to drown out the relentless noise. The whispers seemed to grow louder, more insistent, feeding on her fear.

"Go away!!" she shrieked, her voice breaking.

She flailed her arms around her head, as if warding off the unseen. Her disheveled hair hung wildly around her face, strands falling loose as she swiped at the air. The slit in her skirt tore further in her movements, and one shoe dangled from her foot.

Her nails, chipped and jagged, clawed at her scalp, leaving smudges of red on her arm, neck, and face from where she had scratched herself.

Then it hit.

From her back was a cold hand...

It reached beyond inside her.

She could feel the biting chill, the frigid terror spreading to every corner of her body.

Her head snapped up. Her mouth gaped in silent horror. Her eyes turned an unnatural white, empty.

Then silence. Her head slumped down, and her body wilted, hands lifeless and unmoving. A marionette with her strings cut.

A minute later, as if controlled, she stood up. She walked out of the conference room and made her way back to her cubicle, which is the action ingrained in her very being.

Her movements were stiff, mechanical.

Gazes and murmurs followed behind her as she staggered through the hallway, missing a shoe. Hair covered her face, and no one cared or dared to ask.

She reached her desk and sat down, her posture unnaturally rigid.

A co-worker, noticing her odd behavior, approached and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Miss Pauline?" he asked, his voice with a hint of concern. "Are you alright?"

Pauline's neck twisted backward with a disturbing snap.

Her eyes now all black.