"There are a few interesting finds," the old gentleman said at last, his voice cultured yet warm, like a baritone from a distant past. He sat straight-backed, cane leaning by his side, and spoke as if selecting each word from a velvet-lined box. "On Neukman Street, there''s an antique shop with an exquisite wall clock. It''s about three centuries old, from the Black Forest region. Oak frame, carved oak leaves, a copper pendulum. Yes, it''s a bit worn, but still remarkably well-preserved."


    He paused, eyes flicking upward as if replaying the memory. "In that same shop, there''s a pair of enamel-painted vases from the Loong Emperor period. The glaze is pristine, and the pastel hues are layered so delicately you''d think the peony petals might flutter off in a breeze. Unfortunately, one vase has a hairline crack near the neck, so fine it almost escapes notice."


    He tapped the floor gently with the tip of his cane, as if weighing his next words. "What intrigues me most is a landscape painting by Gordon van Michel, crafted over four centuries ago. It shows a soft, dusky countryside—rolling hills fading into the horizon, a wheat field catching the last golden light, a few oak trees holding court in the foreground. The colors are bright but never garish, and the brushstrokes feel almost like a whisper. You can sense the stillness of that rural twilight."


    "It sounds extraordinary," Carl said, nodding, his voice lower now as if out of respect. "Quiet scenes like that always calm me down. You''ve been running around the city all day. How do you feel?"


    The old gentleman sighed, setting his cane aside. "Lansnat''s weather is miserable. Sunshine in the morning, then rain pounding the rooftops all afternoon. Leads isn''t like that—it''s got a warm, steady sun most of the year."


    Carl shifted in his chair. "Leads does have more predictable weather. And the industries there—minerals, wine—everything just feels more... refined, I suppose. Lansnat can''t really compete."


    The old gentleman shrugged, a subtle lift of a well-tailored shoulder. "Speaking of wine," Carl ventured, trying to read the old man''s face, "What''s your go-to drink? A martini, perhaps?"


    A soft light kindled in the old gentleman''s eyes. "Yes, a dry martini," he said, voice nearly purring. "I prefer it with just the right ratio of gin to vermouth, a strip of lemon peel. First, the juniper''s crisp bite hits your tongue, then that mellow sweetness from the vermouth, and finally the citrus lifts it all up. Each sip feels like dancing a quiet waltz."


    Carl tried not to smile too broadly. He had rarely seen the old gentleman''s guard slip like this. "You know," Carl said, "Lansnat might be short on world-class wine, but it''s got antiques aplenty. Largest auction house around, oldest library, and a museum that could keep you busy for weeks. Have you visited yet?"


    "Not yet," the old gentleman said softly, gaze drifting to the window. Outside, dusk settled like a worn velvet blanket, and a distant church bell rang, its bronze surface gleaming in the fading light. "I should find time."


    Carl leaned forward, making his voice casual. "So... anything strange happen today? Or about last night at the bar—anything come back to you?"


    The old gentleman didn''t answer right away. He tapped lightly on the table, fingers long and elegant, each tap keeping time with the distant bell. Carl followed his gaze. The church bell trembled atop the old steeple, ringing a note that felt like a question with no answer.


    "We''re all trapped," the old gentleman said, voice dropping to a hush that barely rose above the bell''s toll. "None of us can truly break free. Not the living. Not the dead."


    Before Carl could probe this strange remark, the sharp click of heels announced the waitress''s arrival. She placed two plates of steaming steak before them, and as she left, the jazz piped through the speakers slid quietly into a melancholic piano solo. Something in the air shifted—an unsettled calm, as if the restaurant had just exhaled.


    Carl took his first bite of steak, savoring the juice and warmth, trying to ignore the weight in the old man''s words. "It''s cooked perfectly," Carl said, forcing some cheer into his voice. "The doneness is just right."


    He watched the old gentleman cut his steak—each movement precise, each slice so smooth it felt choreographed. It reminded Carl of old clubs where tutors taught table manners to future lords and ladies.


    "What do you think?" Carl asked, trying to sound easygoing.


    "The seasoning''s on point," the old gentleman said thoughtfully, taking a measured bite. "The black pepper''s subtle enough to let the beef shine. Still, a hint of red wine sauce would layer the flavors nicely. In some of the older places in Leads, they use aged wine, a few choice spices, and a sprig of rosemary to create something really special..."


    He spoke with the certainty of a seasoned food critic, and Carl couldn''t help but picture him strolling through candlelit halls and aged cellars, tasting, judging, committing it all to memory.


    They chatted about cuisine for a while—fine reds from Leads, Lytro''s pungent cheeses, Kainyu''s delicate afternoon teas, Brevesll''s signature stone-grilled dishes. But Carl hadn''t forgotten the old gentleman''s cryptic statement. After a lull, Carl steered back to it. "You mentioned we''re all trapped..."


    The old gentleman set down his utensils and dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "May I tell you a story?" he asked quietly. Suddenly, the restaurant lights seemed to dim, the piano notes lowering to a murmur.


    Carl nodded, feeling a faint unease.


    "Long ago," the old gentleman began, voice as smooth as a distant cello, "they say this world was governed by a supreme cat—a ruler none had truly seen, called WhitBlock." He paused, letting the name hang like a half-spoken spell. "Its loyal watchers were everywhere, maintaining a balance beyond our understanding, preventing chaos from ripping reality apart."


    Carl felt his heart clench unexpectedly as an image surfaced: that dead cat he''d found behind the bar, its body rigid and cold in the alley''s half-light.


    "But not everyone accepted WhitBlock''s rule," the old gentleman went on, fingers circling his wineglass. "One day, a fierce Tiger tore through from beyond. This Tiger... it was something else entirely. It brought terror and ruin. We were small, helpless. It didn''t just threaten us—it made us face our own insignificance."


    Outside, the twilight deepened, the streets below lit by the orange glow of gas lamps. The old gentleman''s voice resonated in the hush of the half-empty restaurant, each word scraping at the edges of some buried truth.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    "The Tiger gave all creatures three days: submit or be destroyed. Everyone responded differently—some swore loyalty, others plotted rebellion, some fled, some just waited for the end. Some believed the world was too vast to control, that the Tiger''s threat was hollow." His voice dropped even lower. "But they underestimated its power."


    Carl leaned forward, heart thudding, reminded of the cat''s lifeless eyes and of Thomas''s unsettling, tiger-like stare.


    "On the fourth day, the Tiger''s forces wiped out an entire city. At dusk, just before moving on, a cat appeared. Some say it was WhitBlock, others say just a lieutenant of that hidden king. Whichever it was, it stood before the Tiger''s horde..."


    The old gentleman let his voice trail off, stood up, and tossed his napkin onto the table. Carl stared, stunned. "What happened then?" he pressed, as if afraid the story would fade away.


    The old gentleman settled the bill at the counter with impeccable grace. Turning, he gave Carl a long, meaningful look. "Let''s just say the war between the cat and the tiger was never about heroes and villains. The sheep always pay the highest price. Some things, Detective, are better left in the shadows."


    With that, he pushed open the door and vanished into the twilight. Carl watched the fading silhouette, questions churning in his mind, a dark suspicion unfurling like smoke. For a moment, the piano music fell silent. Only the quiet clink of cutlery remained, clear and unnerving in the hush.


    ---


    The next morning, sunlight sliced through the blinds in the police conference room, striping the long table and the tired faces gathered around it. The chief droned through routine updates, his voice grave and steady. Then a soft knock broke the stillness.


    "Come in," the chief said, glancing at the door.


    An officer stepped inside, head bowed with quiet respect. "Chief, the victims'' families have arrived. They traveled from Leads and Anyru, waiting in the reception room."


    The chief''s eyebrows knit for an instant. "Jones," he said, turning to a woman near him, "head to the reception. Brown, you go too."


    Carl spoke up, voice subdued but clear. "Chief, I''d like to join them."


    The chief studied Carl''s face, then nodded. "Fine. All three of you, go."


    They stepped into the corridor, their footsteps muffled on the polished floor. Carl''s shoulders felt tight. The families'' pain was always the hardest to face.


    In the family reception room, a comforting lamp glowed over beige sofas. Soft landscape paintings lined the walls, trying to lend some warmth to a room meant for sorrow. Daisy''s parents and Dasco''s mother sat hunched slightly forward. The parents wore simple clothes that smelled faintly of fields and open air. Dasco''s mother, dressed in a modest teacher''s outfit, tried to hold herself together with trembling dignity. Their eyes were rimmed red, sleepless and swollen.


    Daisy''s mother clutched a photograph of her daughter performing on stage, Daisy''s smile suspended forever in that bright, happy moment. Her father hovered protectively at her side. Dasco''s mother fiddled nervously with her phone, eyes downcast.


    Jones approached them first, her voice quiet and gentle. "I''m so sorry for your loss. We know how difficult this is. We have some questions... if at any point you need a break, just say the word."


    Brown took a seat, notebook in hand, managing to be both professional and kind. "When was the last time you heard from them?" he asked softly.


    Daisy''s mother rubbed her tired eyes. "Tuesday night," she said, voice cracking. "She told us she''d be at the library. Finals were coming... she promised to help out on the farm once they were done." Her fingers tightened on the photograph.


    Daisy''s father''s eyes shone with tears he struggled to hold back. Dasco''s mother spoke next, voice wavering: "My boy messaged me that same day. He was busy with a new column for the school paper. Told me not to worry, that he was fine." She showed them the text: a normal conversation, heartbreakingly ordinary.


    Carl stood to the side, the weight of their grief pressing into his chest. He forced himself to breathe evenly.


    "We need to know about their daily routines," Jones said, carefully, "their social circles, activities. Anything might help us understand."


    Daisy''s father cleared his throat, voice catching. "Daisy loved the drama club. She felt alive on that stage." He held up his phone—a photo of Daisy in costume, spotlights catching her proud grin.


    "Dasco wrote reviews for the drama club," Dasco''s mother added quietly. "They got close there. He told me Daisy''s performances sparked his creativity." Her voice cracked, but she fought the tears.


    Brown jotted notes, nodding. "Any other clubs or interests?"


    "Daisy took dance classes, joined a modern art association. She wanted to explore all kinds of art." Daisy''s mother''s voice broke then, and Jones pressed a tissue into her trembling hand.


    Carl noticed Dasco''s mother''s hesitation. Jones offered a small, encouraging nod. "Please," she said softly, "anything could help."


    Dasco''s mother sighed, voice low. "My son talked about taking more part-time jobs. He complained about how expensive the city was. I told him to focus on school, but he insisted..." She stopped, voice thick with regret. Jones gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.


    Carl''s thoughts drifted back to the strange 5000 transaction in Daisy''s account. Before he could ask, he spotted movement outside the window. Three young men huddled in the corridor''s shadows, trying too hard to blend in.


    "Excuse me," Carl said, keeping his voice neutral. He slipped out, careful not to disturb the families.


    In the hallway, he strolled as if he had nowhere urgent to be, but his eyes were locked on the trio. They wore baseball caps pulled low—Yankees logos standing out. One was lanky and jittery, sweat beading at his temple. When they saw Carl, they bolted.


    Carl swore under his breath. "Stop!" he shouted, chasing after them. Their footsteps thundered down the corridor, splitting off in different directions. Carl picked the pair heading for the back door. He radioed for backup, weaving through an archive room thick with dust and stale paper. The building''s old stairwell rattled under their frantic flight.


    Bursting outside, Carl squinted as autumn sun struck his eyes. The back lot was empty and still, just a few parked cars and a fence. The two guys were trapped, scanning for an escape. The third tried scrambling over the chain-link fence, boots scraping metal.


    Carl jumped into a patrol car, wheeled it around with a screech, and cut off their path. Jumping out, badge flashing, he barked, "Don''t move!"


    They froze, faces pale as if doused in cold water. Backup arrived in seconds, hauling down the one on the fence.


    Up close, Carl saw their youth—barely out of their teens. The one with glasses stared at the ground, the lanky one kept trembling, and the older guy in work pants pressed his lips tight.


    Carl''s voice was stern. "Who are you? Why were you lurking near that room?"


    The one with glasses sneered, eyes bright with spite. "Daisy got what was coming to her," he spat, voice bitter. "Everyone thinks she was so innocent—"


    "Shut your mouth!" The lanky one lunged, rage and pain twisting his face. Carl held him back, a hand firm on his shoulder.


    "Knock it off!" Carl said, tightening his grip, voice rising. "We don''t have time for this. You''re all involved somehow, so start talking."


    The glasses-wearing one lifted his chin defiantly. "Oh, come on. She played him, and he—"


    "I said shut it!" the lanky one nearly sobbed. Tears shimmered in his eyes, anger and regret mixing like oil and water.


    Carl''s blood pounded in his ears. "Look, calm down. We need facts, not your personal grudges."


    The older one, the one who called himself Chris, spoke softly: "Officer, name''s Chris. I work at a nearby garage. The other two—Alanx and Marcus—they''re from Duville College."


    Carl recalled the bartender''s words: these three had been at Le Petit Café before the incident. "You were at Le Petit Café two nights ago, right?"


    Marcus—the one with glasses—gave a curt nod. "A detective named Smith asked us questions before," he said, voice dripping sarcasm. "Didn''t realize we''d get the full interrogation now."


    Carl narrowed his eyes. "Then why come snooping around the station today? Got something new to share or just looking to stir trouble?" His heart was hammering, and he could feel that something darker lay just behind their evasions.


    The autumn air pressed against them, crisp and carrying the scent of dry leaves. In that silence, Carl felt all the loose ends tightening around them, like invisible threads waiting to snap.