Chapter 9: The Revenant's Memory

Detective's Office — Front Hall

The room was quiet. Only the soft tick of the wall clock marked time, slow and unbothered.

Jack sat on the old couch, shoulders hunched, both hands buried in the sleeves of a second-hand coat far too big for him. The wool fabric sagged on his narrow frame like it was trying to swallow him whole.

Lorian leaned against the window, watching him with a cold, unreadable expression. The rain outside blurred the streetlamp's orange glow, turning the world to smudged watercolor.

"I still don't understand why you're being so nervous," Lorian said.

Jack's mouth twitched. "Because I'm wearing your coat."

"It's just fabric."

"It's yours."

Lorian didn't argue. He simply gestured toward the steaming cup of tea on the table between them. "Drink. Then talk."

Jack hesitated, then picked it up with trembling hands. He sipped in silence. The tea tasted bitter. Or maybe that was just guilt coating his tongue.

"…I remember something now," he finally said, voice faint. "Not everything. But one night… it's coming back."

Lorian said nothing, waiting.

One Week Ago — Winston Estate, 1:13 a.m.

Room 111 was dimly lit by the soft glow of a bedside lamp. Jack tossed and turned in bed, sleep refusing to take hold. Something gnawed at his nerves—an unshakable unease.

Then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It wasn't loud. But in the stillness of the estate's sleeping wing, it echoed like a gunshot.

Jack sat up, blinking in confusion. "Who is it?" he asked, rubbing the back of his head.

A low voice responded.

"It's me."

He knew that voice. Raspy. Weathered. Tired.

Oliver Winston.

The head of the household. But what was he doing at this hour, alone?

Jack wrapped himself in a jacket and crossed the floor barefoot. He opened the door.

And there he was—seated in his polished wheelchair, clad in a silk gray shirt, as pale as the moonlight behind him. His thinning white hair looked silver under the hallway sconces.

"Good evening, Jack," Oliver said, his voice like a lullaby out of tune.

"Sir… is everything alright?"

"No. No trouble. I just wanted to see you. My most faithful servant."

Jack stiffened.

Oliver's hand moved slowly, reaching into his coat. He pulled out a pocket watch, silver and heavy, its surface engraved with intricate, almost occult designs. An upside-down man surrounded by reaching arms.

The watch began to sway.

Left. Right. Left.

Jack couldn't look away.

"Jack," Oliver whispered, "you've worked hard. You've served loyally. But you've been overlooked."

The pendulum glinted in the light.

"Others reap what you sow. That arrogant man, Arnold—he took what was meant for you. The promotion. The praise."

Something burned in Jack's chest. Resentment. Yes. It had always been there, buried beneath duty and discipline. But now it surged upward.

Oliver's voice grew quieter.

"You deserve more."

Jack blinked.

"Yes… I…"

"You should have had it all."

The last thing Jack remembered was stepping forward.

Then—blackness.

Present

Lorian's eyes narrowed. "So… he planted the seed."

Jack nodded, ashamed. "I didn't realize it then. Not even later. But he used something—some kind of hypnotic suggestion. I think it twisted what I already felt and turned it into…"

"Murder," Lorian said flatly.

Jack swallowed.

"But why?" he whispered. "Why would he go through all that effort just to get rid of Arnold? He could've fired him. Hell, he could've paid someone else."

Lorian crossed the room and opened the window slightly. The wind carried in the damp breath of the city. He stared into it, thoughtful.

"Because Oliver Winston isn't playing a game of employment," Lorian said. "He's playing a game of masks."

Jack looked up.

"I think he wanted the killing to come from you," Lorian continued. "Someone under his influence. Someone he could push… and then discard."

Jack's voice broke. "But I was loyal."

Lorian turned to him.

"Exactly. That's why it worked."

They sat in silence. Only the rain whispered between them.

Jack suddenly said, "There's something else."

Lorian nodded for him to go on.

"A few months ago, his eldest son moved into the manor. After that, the staff started getting dismissed. Oliver said it was budget cuts. But… he kept me. Kept Arnold. Kept the bare minimum."

"To isolate the environment," Lorian murmured. "Fewer eyes."

"I thought it was just cost-saving. But now I'm not so sure."

Lorian walked to the desk, pulled out his notebook, and scribbled a few notes.

"You ever see Oliver… talk to himself?" he asked without looking up.

Jack hesitated.

"Yes," he said. "Once. I passed by his study. I thought he was on the phone, but… there was no receiver. He was whispering to the shadows."

"And when you walked in?"

"He stopped. Immediately."

"Did you hear what he was saying?"

Jack shook his head. "I couldn't make out the words."

Lorian exhaled sharply. "You might've walked in on him talking to something not of this world."

Jack shivered.

"There's something else," he added. "At the time, I brushed it off. But now… now I think someone else was there."

"Invisible?" Lorian asked.

Jack nodded. "Or beyond visible."

Lorian tapped the notebook.

"Winston's not just wealthy. He's powerful—in a way that makes people like you and me expendable."

He walked toward Jack, his voice low.

"You're not just a killer. You're a victim. And now you're something else entirely."

Jack looked at him. "What am I?"

Lorian's smile was razor-thin.

"You're a revenant. My revenant."

Jack didn't know what that meant. But he nodded anyway.

"What now?" he asked.

"We don't act," Lorian said. "Not yet."

Jack blinked. "But—"

"He's too powerful. Too prepared. If we strike now, we lose. So we do what predators do."

He leaned close.

"We watch. We listen. We wait."

Jack's voice was barely a whisper. "And then?"

Lorian straightened, turning back to the window.

"Then the city will remember why it fears the night."