Massah, Landwick District.


    The golden hues of twilight filtered through the windows of the “Good Fortune” grocery, casting a bright glow over the goods on the shelves.


    “Mr. Lawson, that’ll be nine pounds and fifteen pence.”


    Chris Jamison stood behind the counter, smiling as he took the twenty-pound note from Smith Lawson.


    “Do you need change?”


    “No, Chris, I’d rather not have any. Carrying coins always makes me uneasy.”


    Smith Lawson, over sixty years old, looked at Chris and couldn’t help but marvel at what a fine son Imir Jamison had raised.


    Chris was tall and lanky, with chestnut-brown hair that shimmered faintly under the sunlight. His features were strikingly handsome, and his clear blue eyes sparkled with innocence and kindness. His genuine smile made him all the more endearing.


    Beyond his good looks, Chris was known for his helpful nature. Whether fixing a neighbor''s broken fence or writing letters for those who couldn’t read, he was always willing to help.


    In an era with greed and desire, Chris’s presence was nothing short of a miracle.


    “This is ten pounds and eighty-five pence.”


    “Thank you.”


    Mr. Lawson carefully placed the paper bills and coins into his jacket pocket, picked up his cloth bag, and prepared to leave.


    “Smith, I didn’t see you at church last weekend.”


    A deep voice stopped Mr. Lawson in his tracks.


    He turned to see Imir Jamison stepping out from the shadowy depths of the grocery.


    Imir’s appearance was plain and forgettable—one that could easily blend into any crowd. His features were unremarkable, his complexion pale, and his dark shirt looked slightly worn.


    “I went to the countryside to attend my brother’s funeral,” Lawson replied, a mix of sorrow and fear flickering across his face. “He was murdered in his bedroom.”


    Chris, standing behind the counter, perked up at the mention but remained silent, knowing Imir would pursue the matter.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    “Your brother? Seth? He was a kind man. Who would take his life?” Imir asked, his brows furrowed.


    Lawson hesitated. After moving to Massah City, he had little contact with Seth, and the brothers only saw each other a few times a year.


    “The police said he had no enemies, so the chances of solving the case are slim—”


    Chris couldn’t help but smirk inwardly. In an era where forensic technology had yet to reach fingerprint matching or DNA analysis, solving crimes relied solely on investigating relationships and logical deductions. If the motive was random and devoid of personal ties, the police often found themselves at a loss.


    “It’s easy to kill, but catching the culprit is another matter,” Chris mused to himself.


    Today’s Massah Daily reported multiple homicides, claiming the police were working hard to investigate—essentially admitting they had no leads.


    “May Seth’s soul find peace,” Imir said solemnly, raising his right hand to trace a cross over his brow and chest.


    Lawson, visibly shaken, promised to attend church that weekend and left the “Good Fortune” grocery.


    “Imir, with so many murders in Massah, why hasn’t the Dawn Goddess protected her followers?”


    Once there was no customers, Chris dropped his facade, taunting Imir with a raised eyebrow.


    Imir, unfazed by his son’s attitude, gazed out at the street and replied calmly:


    “The gaze of the gods does not always linger on Massah.”


    Chris widened his eyes, knowing his devout father’s faith was unshakable.


    “Having you as my father must be karmic payback for my past lives,” Chris thought bitterly.


    Ever since being reincarnated into this world as Imir’s son, Chris had endured countless Sundays being dragged to the Dawn Chapel. Any attempts to resist were met with defeat at the hands of his god-obsessed father, leaving him no choice but to endure sermons.


    Over time, Chris gained the reputation of a “young, devout believer,” with neighbors convinced he was destined for the Dawn Temple as a revered saint.


    To this, the ever-smiling Chris could only think: “Oh, how I suffer in silence.”


    Night fell swiftly.


    Chris and Imir reorganized the grocery’s shelves and, glancing at the clock on the wall, realized it was time for dinner.


    Chris locked up the grocery, following Imir into the living quarters separated by a thin wooden partition. Behind the partition stood a square table, where Chris promptly slumped into a chair.


    Imir entered the kitchen, slicing smoked meat into even pieces and retrieving two boiled potatoes from a basin. He placed them on a plate and brought them to the table.


    “Praise the Goddess,” Imir intoned with his usual serene piety.


    Chris grabbed a potato and began devouring it, his other hand reaching for the smoked meat. Imir frowned at his son’s voracious appetite, sitting silently as Chris wolfed down his food.


    “I''m done!” Chris announced, leaping to his feet and bounding upstairs.


    The creaking of the stairs subsided, and only then did Imir pick up his potato, chewing slowly.


    Suddenly, rapid footsteps echoed as Chris rushed back down.


    “Imir, I’m heading out for a bit.”


    Without turning, Imir replied, “The papers said the nights are unsafe recently.”


    “Don’t worry, I’ll take your old car. Who’s going to mess with me?”


    Imir glanced briefly at Chris’s waist before falling silent, signaling his approval.


    Chris grabbed the car keys from the drawer and drove off.


    <hr>


    Chris hummed a tune as the scenery blurred past, finally stopping in a deserted street. Under the cover of darkness, he waited.


    At last, a figure appeared at the far end, glancing around before slipping into an alley. Chris’s eyes gleamed green. Quietly exiting the car, he began to follow.