Chapter 4: The Cracks Beneath Stillness

The sky blazed crimson, like a gaping wound torn across the western horizon. A gentle drizzle fell, scratching the car windows like whispers of sorrow that refused to fade. Wantar and Yeri stood before a modest mid-range apartment building—the last place Ming had called home before everything spiraled into a waking nightmare.

“Are you sure we’ll find anything here?” Yeri’s voice was barely more than a murmur.

“We have to be sure. At least, I have to,” Wantar replied. Her tone was flat, but there was a flicker—small, almost invisible—in her eyes, a hidden ember refusing to die.

They exchanged brief words with the building manager, requesting access to the surveillance footage. It wasn’t easy, but their official status wore down the resistance. They needed to trace Ming’s movements before the arrest. If she had accomplices, the trail would be in the recordings.

The manager led them to Ming’s unit. As he unlocked the door, he muttered, “Can’t sell the place until this whole mess is over. Legal nonsense that never cares for small businesses.” Then he left them, standing at the threshold of what could have been the lair of a killer—or the shelter of a victim.

They stepped inside. A sterile coldness hung in the air, the scent of disinfectant too sharp. The furniture sat in eerie perfection, untouched. Like a stage waiting for its lead actor to return.

“Looks like a photo shoot set,” Yeri whispered, her eyes scanning every inch with sharp alertness.

They walked into the bedroom. On a tiny shelf sat several framed photos—Kao and Ming. Smiles frozen in time. Love, paused indefinitely.

“They were really a couple,” Wantar murmured, lifting a frame with a trembling hand. “That means we need to look for cracks in their relationship. Maybe that’s where the truth begins to show.”

“Celebrity and commoner. Two worlds apart. I think Ming was obsessed,” Yeri said, brushing the edge of the neatly made bed, her eyes tracing the painfully precise order of the room.

It was too neat. Too flat. No bold colors. No bursts of emotion. Pastel tones blended with the soft yellow glow of the lamps.

“I don’t like it,” Yeri whispered. “It feels like… there should be something here. Rage. Grief. But there’s nothing. Just... a mask.”

“What do you mean?” Wantar asked.

“This isn’t a room of someone who lost control. It’s a room of someone who… gave up. Or worse—someone who planned every detail.”

“Cold. Controlled. Psychopath?” Wantar muttered, but her voice lacked conviction. She feared the possibility. Fearing that the softness was just a thin veil over something monstrous.

Yeri combed the room with sharp eyes. Ming’s desk was unnaturally clean. She opened a drawer—immaculate. She scanned the bookshelf and froze at one title: The Theory of Nihilism.

She opened it. Several passages were marked:

“The absence of meaning is the beginning of freedom.”

“Humans create meaning because they cannot bear the void.”

She swallowed hard, then shut the book and returned it—afraid it might leave something behind in her.

Another book caught her attention: Encyclopedia of Myths and Urban Legends. She flipped through it. Illustrations of strange beings danced across the pages—soul-sucking specters, forgotten rituals, guardian spirits of ancient dynasties.

“Why would an English teacher own this?” she muttered.

Wantar glanced at the cover, then shrugged. “Maybe just a hobby.”

Yeri wasn’t convinced. Her thoughts began to thread together pieces that didn’t quite fit—but refused to be ignored.

“Maybe she was inspired,” Wantar said from the other side of the bed. She opened a drawer—just magazines. All themed around mysteries and the occult. In another drawer, there was… nothing.

“This one’s empty,” she said, but her voice was heavy. As if the emptiness meant more than just a lack of objects.

Yeri approached, touching the inner lining. No dust. Recently cleaned.

“She was hiding something,” she whispered.

Wantar opened another drawer—photos of Kao and Ming. Smiles too perfect. Too staged. Or were they?

They took the photos. No fingerprints. No notes. Just images and a silence that screamed.

In the living room, Yeri turned on the TV. Black screen. Nothing but reflection. She walked out to the small balcony, where perfectly arranged flower vases lined the rail.

In the distance, a massive LED screen flickered to life. A commercial for D’Kingdom’s new jewelry line sparkled across the skyline. The name made Yeri’s blood boil.

“They’ve been in power too long…” she murmured bitterly. Her mind dredged up old rumors—about guardian spirits protecting the D’Kingdom dynasty. Powers untouched by law.

Wantar joined her. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” she said quietly. But her heart pounded faster.

“Then let’s move on to Jos and Kao’s apartment,” Wantar said.

They left. One step closer to the truth. One step deeper into the dark.

***

Elsewhere, Jason sat alone in his dimly lit office, his expression grim. In his hand, the autopsy report for Jos and Kao—a report he had read over and over, yet the words refused to settle.

Blood. Human tissue. But not all of it belonged to the victims. Or at least… not just the two.

He leaned back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “They weren’t the only victims…?” he whispered.

The official cause of death was brain death, not blood loss. Yet among the remains were traces—fragments of human tissue—that did not match either Jos or Kao.

“There was a third victim.”

Jason closed his eyes. Who were they? Why weren’t they found? And why were only fragments left behind?

Were they facing something more than just a killer?

Something more horrifying—a system, a ritual, or an entity beyond logic?

He opened his eyes again. The world felt smaller, tighter, like time was slowing. A heavy fog of unease wrapped around his chest.

This… this wasn’t going to end with just Ming’s arrest.

***

Kao’s apartment was in the city’s elite district, a world sterilized from ordinary life. Everything gleamed white and pristine, as if the light itself tried to erase the sins etched into the walls.

Wantar and Yeri stood at the door in silence. They exchanged glances, reading each other’s fears without words. This wasn’t just an investigation anymore. This was confrontation—with the shadows within.

“You sure you’re okay?” Wantar asked, voice softer than usual.

Yeri took a deep breath. “I have to be. We don’t have the luxury not to be.”

The door opened.

Luxury and stardom greeted them—a wide room, branded items, a wall of trophies and awards bearing Kao’s name. But everything felt lifeless. Like a museum. Cold and preserved.

“Like someone who was too busy being perfect… they forgot how to be human,” Yeri whispered.

Wantar nodded slowly, sweeping her gaze over the room. “And someone else who fell in love with that illusion.” A quiet reference to Ming.

They began to examine the space. At Kao’s vanity, Yeri found a diary—locked, but the tiny clasp snapped open easily. Inside, the handwriting was elegant, curved… and sorrowful.

“I know Ming has changed. But I’ve changed too. I can’t carry all of this alone…”

“Jos is starting to notice. And that scares me.”

She read it aloud, voice trembling. Each line a quiet confession of wounds left untreated. Secrets too deep for light.

“Kao was the kind who kept pain inside,” Yeri said, flipping through the pages—until she found a rough tear.

Someone had ripped a page out.

“What did Jos know?” Wantar murmured. She stared at the torn edge. Whatever had been on that page… someone didn’t want it to survive.

***

Back at the police precinct, Jason stared at his phone before finally calling Max and Teguh. He couldn't carry this burden alone.

Teguh arrived first. Jason waited for Max before revealing everything.

Once they were all seated in the briefing room, Jason slid the report across the table.

“Max, we have a problem,” he said as Max stepped in.

“Alright. Hit me.”

Jason handed him the forensics and autopsy files.

“You think there’s a third victim?” Max asked, voice barely holding steady.

“I don’t think—I’m certain. But there’s no identity. No body. Just… blood. And human tissue.”

Silence followed. Jason could feel their thoughts grinding through the weight of that revelation.

Then Max spoke, voice low and deliberate. “Have you ever heard of the myth of the Three-Soul Offering?”

Jason frozen.

“What are you saying? Don’t tell me—”

“This isn’t just about a murder, Jason,” Max said, louder now. “This is about something that’s been awakened.”

Jason’s heartbeat thundered. The rational world he clung to began to crumble.

***

Back at Kao’s apartment, Wantar knelt by a wardrobe, hand brushing the bottom of a drawer—and stopped.

Something shifted.

A flash drive, no larger than her thumb, lay tucked beneath the lining like a secret. She stared at it as though it were a key to hell.

Yeri came closer. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure. But… I think it’s going to change everything.”

She slipped it into her pocket. But even before they could leave, Wantar turned—her eyes catching something in the bedroom mirror.

A man’s silhouette. Standing still. Not there when she turned around.

No breeze. No movement. But the hairs on her arms bristled with cold.

“Let’s go,” Yeri said quickly, her voice tight. She’d seen it too. Or felt it.

They didn’t look back.

***

That same night, Max stood on the rooftop of the precinct building. The wind tugged at his shirt, whispering secrets the city had tried to bury.

In his hand was an old document, pulled from the police archives—half-lost, half-forbidden. It spoke of ancient rituals. Of spirits bound to protect legacies.

Of creatures that watched from behind mirrors.

“This isn’t about murder anymore,” Max whispered to the wind.

“This is a war against a history that never died.”