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#Post#: 1499--------------------------------------------------
New Xavier and Ricardo
By: Minyaagar Date: February 18, 2026, 2:53 pm
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The envelope was heavier than it should’ve been.
Thick parchment, sealed with dark crimson wax marked by a sigil
that shimmered faintly when it caught the light — something
ancient, elegant, and undeniably alive. Riccardo turned it over
twice before breaking the seal, half-expecting it to hiss, burn,
or vanish in smoke.
Instead, the ink moved, shifting like oil under moonlight until
it settled into words he somehow understood without knowing the
language.
“You are summoned to the Hall of Concordance.
Midnight sharp.
— The Council.”
No return address.
No name.
Just the faint scent of saltwater and ozone that lingered on his
fingers.
The courthouse looked abandoned from the street — boarded
windows, ivy swallowing its stone pillars. But when he stepped
through the heavy doors, the air changed.
Dust gave way to candlelight suspended midair, unburning and
unmelting.
The tiled floor gleamed like polished obsidian, and the world
itself seemed to hum — a frequency that vibrated behind his
ribs.
He wasn’t alone.
“So this is the human they’ve been whispering about.”
The voice was music given shape — low, lilting, and edged with
an almost hypnotic quality that made Riccardo’s pulse skip. He
turned toward it and saw Azuren.
The Siren lounged along the curved edge of a fountain that
hadn’t existed a moment ago. His skin shimmered faintly green
under the floating lights, the scales along his collarbones and
forearms catching green and blue in their reflections.
Teal green- hair fell in gentle waves, wet-looking even though
not a drop of water touched him. His eyes — a green so deep it
bordered on turquoise — assessed Riccardo like one might study a
song before deciding whether it was worth performing.
“He’s tall,” Azuren continued lazily, voice rippling like wind
across calm water. “And not afraid. That’s rare.”
From the dais above, Sylasz spoke — his tone softer, yet no less
commanding.
The elf’s long silver-white hair caught the ambient glow like
spun moonlight, his robe traced with faint runic light that
pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
“Bravery and ignorance are close cousins, Siren,” he said.
Then, turning to Riccardo, his pale eyes sharpened. “You’ve
stepped into a place few mortals even know exists. Do you
understand the weight of that?”
Riccardo shrugged slightly. “Didn’t exactly get a briefing.
Figured it was important enough if it came sealed with magic wax
and glowing ink.”
That earned the faintest smile from the elf — almost approval.
The rest of the chamber’s occupants stirred.
Two vampires lingered in the back — one immaculate and
aristocratic, the other lounging with an easy, predatory grace.
A pair of dragon shifters stood near the pillars, their sheer
presence filling the air like the echo of thunder held just at
bay.
And presiding over them all was the Elder Dragon, scales faintly
visible beneath his human guise, golden eyes calm but ancient.
“Riccardo Sarento,” the Elder said, his voice a deep rumble.
“You’ve caught our attention more times than you know. The
mortal who walks into cursed places and feels what others
cannot. You’ve seen shadows move where there should be none.
You’ve listened. That makes you valuable.”
Riccardo met his gaze evenly. “Or a liability, depending on your
point of view.”
That drew a faint ripple of amusement — even from Azuren, who
smiled slow and sharp.
“He’s witty too. We should keep this one.”
Sylasz’s look silenced him, though his grin lingered.
The Elder continued, “We face a problem none of our kind have
been able to track. Something is crossing from the Veiled Realm
into the mortal city — unseen, unmarked, and dangerous. Our
magic senses it but cannot pinpoint its source. You, however…”
He paused meaningfully.
“...walk the border between sight and instinct.”
Riccardo’s fingers brushed his chin — that quiet, familiar tell.
“You want me to find something you can’t see.”
“Exactly,” Sylasz said. “You’ll have guidance. Xavier will
accompany you.”
Riccardo blinked turning to look at the vampire that Sylasz had
indicated, a look of intrigue showing in his eyes. He couldn't
help but wonder why Xavier had been chosen to go with him.
-Fin-
The chamber quieted as the vampire moved.
Xavier stepped forward with the fluid grace of one who had
centuries to perfect every motion. His slacks were pressed, his
navy button-up tucked neatly, but it was the way he carried
himself — like the air bent slightly to make way for him — that
marked him as old. Dangerous. Controlled.
Long silver hair, tied loosely at the nape of his neck,
shimmered as he passed beneath a floating candle. His skin was
pale, but not the lifeless kind — instead, it held a strange,
alabaster clarity, like moonlight poured into flesh. And then
there were his eyes: soft blue, the color of melting ice, and
too still. Too knowing.
Xavier gave a small nod. “Riccardo Sarento.”
His voice was smooth — not like Azuren’s melodic charm or
Sylasz’s echoing command, but something precise, elegant, and
faintly weary. Like a lullaby spoken in a forgotten dialect.
“I don’t make a habit of walking among the living unless
necessity demands it,” he continued, folding his hands behind
his back. “This time, it does.”
He paused, eyes sweeping the chamber, but not lingering on
anyone. As though he saw beyond them.
“There have been... signs. Shadows where there should be none.
Cold where fire burns. People forgetting moments of their own
lives, as though something passed through them and took more
than just time.”
His gaze settled on Riccardo again.
“My older brother, Jarrel, was one of the ancients. A Sin-
Pride— a being born from the unmaking of mortal emotion, held
dormant by the balance of Hope.”
There was a murmur among the Council, but Xavier didn’t pause.
“Two nights ago, Jarrel woke.”
“She didn’t come,” Xavier continued, his voice low and sharp
with something like grief worn thin.
“He waited, and said he didn’t feel her. It felt like he was
lost..” He let the silence settle. “That means something has
changed. Something old, something unnatural, has breached the
veil.”
>>>A few moments of silence stretched.”and we need to find out
why - or our world is in danger of a violent end.” He said.
—fin—
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
The chamber seemed to hold its breath after Xavier’s words,
ancient and heavy. Even the floating candles dimmed slightly, as
if the air itself absorbed what he’d said. A Sin awoken. Hope
broken. The veil weakened.
Riccardo’s gaze flicked from one face to another — dragons,
elves, vampires, sirens — all creatures who’d seen centuries of
history and ruin. And yet, he realized, they looked uneasy. That
was worse than fear. Fear meant something could be fought.
Unease meant they didn’t know how.
He cleared his throat, breaking the silence.
“There are always dark forces — and darker people — waiting for
a crack to crawl through,” he said quietly. “Some chase the end
of the world like it’s a prize. Others just… want to watch it
fall apart.”
His voice didn’t rise, but the weight behind it carried. “Most
humans don’t feel it. They don’t notice when the light changes
color, when the air hums wrong, or when a city starts to sound
off-key. But I do. Always have.”
Riccardo exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing his chin — that old,
thoughtful gesture.
“Call it instinct. Call it a curse. I just know when something’s
off. And right now, it’s everywhere. In the streets. The dreams.
The quiet moments before dawn. The whole damn city’s vibrating
like it’s about to snap.”
A few of the council members exchanged glances. The younger
dragon shifted his weight uneasily, the air flickering with
faint golden scales.
Azuren tilted his head, eyes gleaming like deep water. “He feels
the shift of the current,” the Siren murmured, his voice
rippling low and lyrical. “Without a drop of magic in his
veins.”
Sylasz’s gaze lingered on Riccardo a moment longer, cool and
assessing. “That sensitivity is what drew our attention to you,
Officer Sarento. You see what others dismiss. You listen. That
makes you dangerous — and valuable.”
Riccardo gave a faint, humorless smile. “Dangerous depends on
who’s listening.”
The elder dragon inclined his head, his golden eyes grave. “What
you sense may be the first tremor. When the old ones stir, even
the smallest fracture can become a chasm.”
Riccardo nodded, his jaw tightening. “Then we don’t wait for the
ground to open. We find where it’s cracking.”
For a moment, the council seemed to study him — not as a man,
but as an instrument. A rare kind of tuning fork that vibrated
to a frequency even magic couldn’t name.
Azuren folded his arms, the water-light along his skin dimming
to a more serious hue. “He’ll need a guide,” he said softly.
“Someone who can walk the dark without being swallowed by it.”
Sylasz inclined his head once, his silver hair sliding across
his shoulders like silk. “Xavier has volunteered.”
That earned a flicker of motion — subtle but sharp — from
several of the council members. Surprise. A touch of unease.
Riccardo caught it. He didn’t ask why.
The elf’s expression, however, betrayed nothing. “He knows the
nature of this threat better than any of us. And if the balance
truly falters, he will be the first to sense it.”
A silence stretched. The dragons rumbled low, considering.
Azuren’s eyes glinted with something like curiosity — or pity.
Finally, Riccardo nodded once. “Then I guess I’ll take his
lead.”
The air shifted faintly, cooler now — as though the shadows
themselves leaned in to listen.
Sylasz gave a small, formal bow of his head. “You begin at
sundown. The first signs of the breach appeared near the
waterfront — where the Veil thins with the tide. Tread
carefully. Even the sea may not be what it seems.”
Riccardo’s mouth quirked faintly. “It never is.”
He turned his gaze toward where Xavier stood — silent,
unreadable — his expression still carved from that same cold
elegance. For a heartbeat, their eyes met: human and immortal,
warmth and moonlight.
Whatever words were waiting on the vampire’s tongue, the council
would hear them next.
For now, Riccardo simply nodded.
“Shall we get started then, partner?”
-fin-
Xavier’s gaze lingered on Riccardo, a cool calm rolling off him
like mist over moonlit water. He didn’t answer immediately —
didn’t need to. The weight of his presence filled the pause.
Then, with a measured grace, he stepped forward. His coat
whispered against the stone floor, and his hand extended —
steady, deliberate.
“Partner,” he said at last, voice smooth and low, carrying that
quiet authority that needed no raise in volume. The faintest
curve touched his lips, not quite a smile, but acknowledgment.
“Let’s see if the city sings for us the same way.”
Their hands met — human and vampire — and for a fleeting moment,
even the air seemed to ease, as if the Veil itself approved of
the pact.
Cool. Poised. Unshaken. Xavier had spoken, and the partnership
was sealed.
“Been talk of a few mysterious deaths- I need to investigate,
but I lack the means to discern if it’s drugs or spell… please
follow me- my workspace has the files and some from the station
on the case.” He said to motion the man with him.
—fin—
Riccardo’s hand lingered for a second longer in Xavier’s cool
grasp before he withdrew, flexing his fingers once as if to
ground himself. There was something deliberate about the vampire
— every movement calculated, every pause heavy enough to mean
something. The kind of presence that made most people
second-guess breathing too loud.
He fell into step beside him, matching his stride. The silence
between them wasn’t awkward — just dense, like the city fog
before a storm.
“Deaths,” Riccardo said after a moment, his voice low but sure.
“I’m guessing the official reports don’t make much sense.
Probably marked as accidental or undetermined, right?”
He shot a look toward Xavier, reading the faint shift in the
other’s expression. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
His hands slipped into his jacket pockets. “See, the trick with
reports like those is to read what isn’t written. When a
detective doesn’t buy the story, they leave breadcrumbs. Phrases
like ‘possible substance abuse’ or ‘inconsistencies with cause
of death.’ They’re not supposed to question the ruling, but they
do it anyway — in the margins, between the lines. Habit from
trying to make sense of something they can’t explain.”
Riccardo’s brow furrowed slightly. “I’ve seen that kind of
pattern before. Cops trying to convince themselves it’s normal
when they can feel it’s not. Happens right before a case goes
cold or gets buried under red tape.”
He glanced sidelong at the vampire, studying him for a beat. “If
you’ve got the files, I can help you sort what’s natural from
what’s… not. I’ve been doing that longer than I’ve wanted to.”
A dry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “But I’ll warn
you now — if we’re going through reports all night, I’m gonna
need coffee. Strong. None of that bitter instant crap either.”
He paused, tone easing into something faintly teasing. “You
don’t drink it, do you? Figures. Still, you’re welcome to watch
me caffeinate my way through a supernatural crime spree.”
His gaze flicked back toward the corridor ahead as they walked.
“So… your workspace. That where you keep the files?”
He waited, letting the silence stretch, then added quietly,
“Neutral ground’s fine by me. I’ve worked in worse places.”
Another few steps, his tone lowering as he scanned their
surroundings. “And for the record — you don’t have to worry
about protecting me. I know when to duck and when to swing.”
A faint smirk touched his mouth, though his eyes remained sharp.
“Though if you’re offering backup, I won’t say no.”
He adjusted his coat collar as they neared the exit, the night
pressing in from beyond the doors. “Alright, lead the way. Let’s
see what kind of ghosts our city’s hiding.”
-fin-
Xavier’s gaze lingered on the street beyond the doorway before
he finally spoke, his voice quiet, deliberate, carrying the
weight of memory.
“The patterns-,” he said, as if tasting the words. “They shift
like tides—always moving, but always returning to the same dark
corners. The city likes to pretend it forgets, but I’ve watched
these streets long enough to know better. Clusters of
disappearances, then nothing for months. A lull before the next
storm. People call it coincidence. I call it rhythm.”
He stepped into the night air, the wind brushing against his
coat. “I used to track it for sport, you know. Even before the
reports started to blur together. Back then, I thought I could
map the danger, predict where the shadows would settle next. I
was wrong—one night I followed the wrong trail. Lost the
pattern… lost myself. Whole hours gone. Streets I’ve walked for
decades felt like a maze someone had rearranged. The city
swallowed me until dawn.”
His eyes flicked toward Riccardo, glinting with something
between curiosity and caution. “That was the first time I
realized the game had changed. Whatever’s out there now isn’t
just following the old rules. And if I can get lost in my own
hunting grounds… anyone can.”
>>>
Xavier’s mouth curved faintly, humorless. “So yes, I’ve seen the
margins in those reports, the whispers between lines. And I’ll
help you read them. But understand this—patterns lie, and the
city enjoys the trick.”
He let the man in. “It’s not the first time the behavior has
been like this. I often thought it meant our god apocalypse was
at hand. But it turns out it’s just some nut job manipulating
people with magic. Only now, it’s escalated—there are no traces
of magic or drugs in their systems. Yet they act as if they
don’t remember murdering the victim.”
He sank into the chair at his cluttered table, scattered with
eyewitness reports and the suspects’ statements. “At this point,
I consider them victims too,” he said with a sigh. “I feel like
I need to clear their names. Even the supernatural world is
getting pulled in.werewolves don’t even have the scent of the
perp on them.” He said with his eyes narrowing.
—fin—
The moment Riccardo stepped inside, he could feel the weight of
time in the room.
Xavier’s workspace wasn’t what he’d expected — neither lair nor
crypt, but something caught between eras. Old books lined the
walls, their spines worn smooth, titles half-faded by centuries.
A cracked phonograph sat on a low shelf beside a laptop glowing
faintly in the dark, its blue light reflecting off scattered
papers. The place smelled faintly of candle wax, ink, and
something colder — not rot or dust, but absence.
He shut the door behind him, the sound oddly final.
“Guess you weren’t kidding about living between centuries,” he
murmured, scanning the organized chaos spread across the table.
Crime scene photos. Typed reports. Handwritten notes in neat,
looping script. It was half-police work, half ritual.
When Xavier spoke of the shifting patterns, Riccardo didn’t
interrupt. The man’s tone carried the same rhythm as his city —
beautiful, heavy, and quietly haunted. He’d met soldiers who
talked that way after too many tours, people who saw ghosts in
every quiet moment because they’d learned the ghosts were real.
He moved closer to the table, eyes narrowing as he looked over
the latest files. Victims’ names. Statements that contradicted
each other. Signs of struggle without trauma. Witnesses
describing nothing they could hold on to.
His brow furrowed. “You said there’s no trace of magic or
substance in their systems,” he said after a moment. “And no
scent from the werewolves who tracked the scenes?”
He looked up, meeting Xavier’s gaze with steady focus. “So… this
perp can hide or mask his scent.”
--
He tapped a knuckle against one of the reports — a rhythm of
thought. “That’s not something I’ve seen before. It’s not just
clever — it’s invasive. Something that moves through people,
maybe even as them. The victims that don’t remember killing—”
He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “It’s like possession, but…
cleaner. Too clean. Almost surgical.”
Riccardo took another step closer to the table, one hand bracing
against its edge as he scanned another report. His voice dropped
slightly. “Whoever this is, they’re not leaving signs because
they don’t need to. They’re not taking lives for hunger or
thrill — they’re collecting something.”
His eyes flicked toward the vampire again, sharp and
questioning. “Tell me—when you got lost that night you
mentioned, did you feel something? Not fear. Something colder.
Like a pressure in the air.”
He let the silence hang for a moment, studying him. “Because if
this thing can make you forget… maybe that’s part of it. Maybe
it’s feeding on memory. Or the act of remembering itself.”
He straightened, expression tightening into thought. “We should
start by tracing the first incident where the scent went
missing. If we can find where the trail died, maybe we can see
what kind of ground we’re standing on now.”
A dry, tired half-smile ghosted across his face. “I’ve got a
hunch this isn’t the kind of thing that stays quiet for long.”
-fin-
Xavier’s voice emerged from the dimness, quiet but steady.
“You’re closer than you think, Riccardo,” he said, his gaze
fixed on the photos scattered across the table. “It is a sense
of lost time. A gap where one would not start or end.. the night
I lost the trail. It didn’t feel like fear or danger—more like
I’d stepped outside myself and couldn’t find the way back.”
He reached out, sliding one of the reports toward him with long
fingers. “I’ve hunted things that feed on blood, on flesh, on
terror. This isn’t like that. It’s… selective. Surgical, like
you said. It takes only what it wants, and leaves the rest
hollow.”
His eyes flicked up, catching Riccardo’s. “If it can erase
memory, then every step we take toward it is a step it could
make us forget. That makes the first lost scent even more
important. Anchor points. Places it hasn’t stripped clean yet.”
Xavier leaned back slightly, the faint creak of the chair loud
in the hush. “I’ll follow where the trail went cold. But we’ll
need more than our eyes and instincts for this. Whatever’s
moving in our city… it’s already learned how to make ghosts of
the living.”
He paused, letting the candlelight dance across his expression.
“And if we don’t move fast, it’ll learn how to make ghosts of
us, too.”
—fin—
Riccardo leaned back from the table, eyes scanning the maze of
reports one more time before meeting Xavier’s gaze. Candlelight
cut across the room, painting thin gold lines over the vampire’s
pale features. He could feel that same strange hum in the air
again — the kind that crawled along his nerves when something
unseen brushed too close.
He exhaled slowly.
“So just how are we supposed to fight this thing?”
His tone was quiet, but the question carried weight. “Or is the
Council expecting us to just find it — mark the spot, and let
them handle the dirty work after?” A pause, a faint narrowing of
his eyes. “They weren’t exactly clear on what happens once we do
find the problem.”
He reached for one of the case photos, holding it under the
nearest lamp. “I’ve been on enough assignments to know what that
usually means. They don’t want answers — they want a buffer.
Someone expendable to go where the rest of them can’t.”
The paper crackled faintly between his fingers. “Don’t get me
wrong, I’m not complaining. I’ve walked into worse with less to
go on. But this thing—” He gestured toward the scattered files.
“If it’s learning, if it’s adapting, we might be the only ones
who can still see it before it wipes itself out of every record
we have.”
He set the photo back down and straightened, the faint lines at
the corners of his eyes deepening as he thought. “That means we
need to move fast and smart. Start where the last memory gaps
showed up. Maybe the victims didn’t just lose time — maybe they
lost something else in those hours. Something we can still
trace.”
For a heartbeat, his gaze lingered on Xavier — steady,
assessing, and undeniably drawn. “And if you’ve walked this city
long enough to call it home, then you probably know where it
hides its secrets.”
He gave a small, wry smile. “So — what’s our play, partner?”
-fin-
Xavier’s fingers drummed lightly against the edge of the table,
the candlelight flickering across his sharp features. He let the
silence stretch for a moment, the kind of silence that weighed
heavy in rooms like this.
Finally, he spoke, voice smooth but edged with something darker.
“The Council… they never play straight. You’re right about that.
If they wanted us to succeed cleanly, they’d have given us more
than scraps and whispers. No—this is a test, or a trap, or
both.”
He leaned forward, the pale glint of his eyes catching
Riccardo’s. “But you’re thinking the right way. Fast and smart.
The gaps in memory, the missing hours… those aren’t just
coincidences. Whatever this thing is, it’s feeding on more than
fear. And if it’s erasing itself, then it’s scared. Desperate
things make mistakes.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth, humorless. “You want to know
the city’s secrets? I’ve walked its bones, Riccardo. I know the
alleys where the shadows never move and the halls where the
walls are always listening. Start at the old quarter, near the
river. That’s where the first disappearances slipped through the
cracks. If anything lingers, it’ll be there.”
He rose slowly, his coat whispering against the chair as he
moved. “We follow the absences, we find the thing. And when we
do… we don’t wait for the Council to clean it up. If it’s
learning, then we can’t afford to let it learn any more.”
He extended a hand toward the door, his smirk returning just
enough to break the tension. “After you, partner. Let’s hunt a
phantom.”
—fin—
Riccardo listened in silence, eyes fixed on the vampire as he
spoke. The words landed like pieces of a puzzle sliding into
place — jagged, inevitable. He’d suspected as much about the
Council; now it was just confirmation of the gut feeling that
had been prickling at him since he walked into their marble
chamber.
“Figures,” he said finally, voice low. “Every time someone
higher up says ‘trust the process,’ it usually means they’re
betting on someone else to bleed first.”
He gathered the reports into a rough stack, sliding them back
into their folder with the kind of methodical care that came
from years of habit. There was something steady in the motion —
grounding. Like resetting his pulse before walking into a fire.
When he looked up again, the flicker of candlelight caught in
his eyes. “Still… I’d rather they underestimated us. Makes it
easier to surprise them later.”
He pushed back from the table and stood, the legs of the chair
scraping softly against the floor. “Old quarter by the river,”
he repeated, tucking the folder under one arm. “That area’s
always been bad news. Half the buildings there are abandoned,
the rest are condemned. The locals say it’s cursed — which,
considering the company I keep these days, might not be
superstition anymore.”
A ghost of a grin tugged at his mouth. “Good thing I’m not the
type to spook easy.”
He paused just long enough to meet Xavier’s gaze again. The
vampire’s calm was almost unnerving, like still water before a
plunge. And yet, beneath the detachment, Riccardo could feel
something else — a quiet purpose that mirrored his own.
“Alright,” he said, adjusting his coat and stepping toward the
door. “Let’s see what kind of phantom leaves a trail even a
vampire can lose.”
He reached for the handle, the night air seeping through the
gap, cold and electric. Somewhere outside, the city whispered —
that low, restless hum that never really stopped. It felt
heavier tonight. Watching. Waiting.
Riccardo glanced back just once, the faintest smirk on his lips.
“Hope you’re not the type to get nostalgic,” he murmured.
“Because after tonight, the city’s rhythm might never sound the
same.”
And with that, he stepped into the dark — the echo of his boots
mingling with the distant sigh of the river, the phantom’s pulse
somewhere ahead.
-fin-
Xavier’s eyes tracked the darkened alley before him, still and
silent as his thoughts unraveled the twisted strands of the
night. The faint smell of blood lingered, but there was
something off about it—a distortion in the scent, like it had
been left too long in the open air. Not fresh. *Not right*. His
fangs ached, but it wasn’t hunger that clawed at him; it was the
growing knot of suspicion tightening in his gut.
“Lost the trail here,” Xavier muttered, his voice low, and
almost apologetic, though it hardly ever seemed like an apology
when he said it. He wasn’t one to miss, but tonight felt
different. *Fractured*.
Riccardo glanced at him, as if expecting some grand reveal. But
Xavier knew this was far from an open-and-shut case. His eyes
flicked to the alley walls, the shadows clinging to the worn
concrete like dark secrets. The city felt *alive* around
them—too alive—but it wasn’t the city that had him on edge now.
It was the creature he had found earlier. The werewolf.
“Didn't come up entirely empty-handed though,” Xavier continued,
his tone cool but undercut with a tension that hadn’t been there
before. "Found a werewolf, cornered him in one of the side
alleys nearby…everything points to him being the one who killed
the guy. The blood, the scene... *it all adds up*.”
He stopped himself, the faintest hint of frustration creeping
into his tone as he took in Riccardo’s confused expression.
>>>
“I found him *confused*," Xavier said, his words deliberate,
controlled, as though trying to steady the chaos in his
thoughts. "Panicked. He didn’t even know what had happened. He
was a mess. Couldn't remember anything from the night, a total
blank."
Xavier’s gaze darkened as he looked back at Riccardo, his eyes
narrowing with the growing weight of the situation.
"He *was* covered in blood. The body was less than a block away
from him, and everything pointed toward him being the one to do
it. But he *doesn’t remember*." His jaw tightened as he
continued, the weight of the confusion pulling at him. "This
isn't like the usual pack mentality. No frenzy, no shifting
against his will, no animalistic urges. Just... *nothing*. He
can’t remember anything."
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair in
frustration. “But the thing is—his scent was all over that body.
That victim, *he had been torn apart*. It was all too precise.
Almost like... *someone set him up.*"
Xavier turned his head slightly, his voice taking on a harder
edge as he glanced back at Riccardo. "Whoever did this, they
used the werewolf as a pawn. Made sure he was manipulated into
committing the murder—and then wiped his memory clean. I don’t
believe he did it of his own will. I’ve seen it before—the signs
of someone being controlled, but not aware of it. The blood?
That's all on him. But it wasn’t *him* that did it. Not in the
way you think."
His eyes flicked down to the scattered remnants of the crime
scene—the jagged edges of broken glass near a rusted dumpster,
the faint traces of a struggle marked in pools of dried blood.
The body had been gone for hours, maybe longer, but the remnants
were still there, frozen in time.
>>>
"The victim..." Xavier murmured, "He had been... sliced open,
nearly gutted. It wasn’t just a simple kill—it was methodical.
Someone knew what they were doing. And I don’t think it was the
werewolf’s doing. I think the kid was *set up*. Whoever
orchestrated this made sure he’d leave behind the perfect trail
to himself."
Xavier’s eyes flickered with an emotion that barely
surfaced—something unsettling, even to him. He stepped forward
into the alley, the dim light from the nearby streetlamp casting
long shadows over the scene. “This doesn’t feel like just a
murder," he said softly, his voice taking on a darker tone. “It
feels like a setup. *A game*. And I’m starting to think the
werewolf isn’t the only one being played."
—fin—
The alley pressed close around them, walls slick with damp and
shadows that seemed thicker than they should’ve been. Riccardo
crouched near the bloodstains, the faint tang of iron sharp in
his throat. The city’s noise bled out at the edges here—no
sirens, no footsteps. Just stillness, too absolute to be
natural.
He let his fingers ghost over the cracked concrete where Xavier
had pointed. “You’re right,” he said quietly, half to himself.
“This doesn’t feel like frenzy. Feels like choreography.”
The word left a sour taste in his mouth. He straightened slowly,
scanning the walls. Something prickled at the base of his neck—a
familiar, low hum under the skin that always came when the world
shifted.
His gaze caught on the far wall. Between the graffiti and grime,
something flickered—barely there, like a reflection without
light. Riccardo frowned, stepping closer. To anyone else it
would look like a patch of damp brick. But as he angled his
head, the shimmer took form: a faint sigil carved into the
surface, pulsing once before fading again.
He exhaled through his nose, rubbing a thumb over the mark. The
stone felt warm beneath his skin. “There’s something here,” he
murmured. “Can’t tell what language, but… it’s not paint. It’s
active.”
The hum in the air deepened, a low throb he could feel more than
hear. His heartbeat matched it for a second, pulse stuttering
before returning to normal. He glanced over his shoulder toward
Xavier.
“So…” his voice came rougher than before, “whoever did this
didn’t just cover their tracks—they left a signature. Problem
is, only I seem to see it.” He smirked faintly, though it didn’t
reach his eyes. “Lucky me.”
Riccardo stepped back, giving the vampire room to approach if he
chose. “If I’m right, this mark’s tied to the memory wipes. Some
kind of anchor. You erase the memory, you leave a residue so no
one can trace it. But…” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “If
I can see it, maybe I can track it.”
He drew a slow breath, gaze lingering on the faint glow as it
began to fade again. “So tell me, Xavier—ever hunt something
that hides its trail by burning the world’s memory of it?”
He straightened, pulling his coat closed against the night air.
“Because I think we just found its fingerprint.”
-Fin-
Xavier’s eyes narrowed as he studied the wall where Riccardo’s
hand lingered. To him, there was nothing but wet brick and the
faint smear of old graffiti, yet the detective’s posture told
him everything he needed to know.
“I see nothing,” Xavier said softly, his voice a low rumble that
barely stirred the alley’s stagnant air. He stepped closer,
tilting his head with an almost predatory patience. “But I’ve
learned not to doubt what you can see.” His gaze flicked to the
cracked concrete, to the bloodstains that glimmered dark in the
shadows. “No wonder the council called you in- they made a good
call.”
He crouched beside the mark he could not read, fingers hovering
just above the surface without touching it. “A signature, you
say. Clever… and dangerous.” His eyes were distant, as if
weighing threats he could neither smell nor hear. “If it hides
itself from the world’s memory, then it has already erased my
kind from this place. Yet it leaves you the key.”
Xavier rose slowly, the leather of his coat creaking in the
stillness. “Then we hunt it your way, detective. Lead, and I
will follow. Whatever left that trace—” he glanced along the
alley, the edges of his mouth tightening “—I trust you when you
say it’s real.”
He exhaled a breath that misted faintly in the cold air. “And if
it means burning the memory of the world to do what it does…
then we had best find it before it decides to burn us, too.”
—fin—
Riccardo stared at the faint carving a moment longer, committing
every curve and jagged angle to memory.
When the glow faded completely, leaving only blank brick behind,
he pulled a small notebook from his jacket — the same one he’d
used in the force, corners worn and leather soft from years of
handling.
“Good thing I still believe in pen and paper,” he muttered,
flipping to a clean page.
He began to draw.
The shapes came easier than they should’ve — his hand moving
with a surety he couldn’t explain. He didn’t just remember the
sigil. He traced it the way someone retraced a scar. The lines
were sharp, looping into one another, ending in a downward curve
like a hook dragging downward.
When he finished, he stepped back, studying the sketch.
It stirred something in him — dread and recognition tangled like
barbed wire.
“This symbol…” he said slowly, turning the book toward Xavier so
he could see. “It wasn’t made to be seen. It was made to be
felt. Like a bruise under the skin of reality.”
His pulse thudded against his ribs — not fear. Awareness.
The hum in his bones hadn’t faded. It crawled up his spine like
electricity.
He snapped the notebook shut. “We need someone who can read
this. If the council didn’t hand this over, either they don’t
know what we’re dealing with or they didn’t expect us to get
this far this fast.”
Riccardo turned to Xavier, expression sharpening.
“And I’m not betting our lives on the council being thorough.”
He took a step toward the mouth of the alley. The city stretched
out in front of them — neon reflections on wet asphalt, night
air biting sharp and cold. Somewhere beyond the river fog,
something stirred.
He looked back to Xavier, voice firm but controlled.
“There’s one person who might know. Someone older than the
council’s politics. A historian — or a relic-keeper. Sylasz
hinted someone like that existed, someone who remembers the time
before magic was organized into neat little laws.”
He started walking, footsteps confident but tense with purpose.
“We take this sigil to whoever that is. If they recognize it, we
get answers.”
A beat.
“If they don’t…”
He glanced at the vampire beside him, the faintest smirk tugging
at one corner of his mouth.
“Then we know we’re dealing with something none of them have
seen before.”
His gaze softened, but only just.
“You with me, Xavier?”
Riccardo’s tone left no room for hesitation — but invited it all
the same.
The hunt had changed.
Now they weren’t just tracking something hidden.
They were chasing something ancient enough to erase itself — and
arrogant enough to leave a calling card only one man could
witness.
-fin
*****************************************************