Morning had slipped in before she even noticed. Soft light filtered through the window, where small birds perched on the sill, singing their gentle dawn songs. Sikakama let out a long yawn as she made her way to the breakfast table, finding Corin already seated and waiting.
"What's this?" he asked, noticing the spread of papers in front of her.
Sikakama picked up one sheet and held it out toward him. It showed a sketch of a fluffy white cat with a drawn collar, labeled "Lost Cat," along with details and the location of its home.
"I tried to draw him based on the description the little girl gave me," Sikakama said. "I guessed he must have a lot of fur, since his name is Mr. Fur."
"Did you make all of this?" Corin asked, clearly impressed.
"Yes," she said confidently, "Someone might have seen him somewhere, or someone might find him and bring him here; either way, we benefit."
"So that's why you didn't sleep last night?"
As she stared at the paper in her hands, she said,"It's a traditional idea… but it will do the job."
She posted some of the sheets around, and also stood, trying to hand them to passersby. Of course, not everyone seemed interested, but she made the effort to offer them anyway.
And so the days passed in the peaceful, quiet village of Hawthorn. Most of Sikakama's time was spent moving between patrols to look for the cat, along with morning rounds with Mr. Corin—until the day the clouds thickened and a heavy downpour fell.
It was a Saturday when the rain poured relentlessly. Sikakama stood by the window, watching the droplets race down the glass. Since the weather was stormy, she stayed indoors with Mr. Corin.
He spent the entire day shut inside his study, absorbed in paperwork and administrative duties, not stepping out even once. Meanwhile, Sikakama sat alone with her thoughts, unable to shake the worry gnawing at her. She kept thinking about the cat—where it might be in this relentless rain, and what she would possibly tell the little girl if she returned empty-handed. It felt as though she had failed her very first task, trivial as it seemed, and the weight of that thought left her dispirited.
When Mr. Corin finally emerged from his study, he was carrying a board marked with black and white squares—a chessboard. He gave her a gentle smile, as though inviting her to set her worries aside, even if just for a moment.
Warm light streamed across the chessboard, reflecting off the polished wooden pieces, as Sikakama and Corin sat facing each other. Each piece on the board seemed like a soldier on a battlefield, waiting to be moved.
Sikakama, playing White, began cautiously, pushing her king's pawn forward to claim the center and open lines for her bishop and queen. I shouldn't rush into an attack… I need to build my defense first, control the flow of the board, and wait for the right moment, she thought.
Corin, playing Black, smiled faintly as he mirrored her move, advancing his central pawn and preparing lines for a future assault.
The pieces advanced slowly. Sikakama developed her knight and bishop, each move guided by instinct, protecting key squares and monitoring her opponent's threats without risking much. Corin, in contrast, spread out his minor pieces, some appearing weak or insignificant, yet through them, he wove a network of traps. Every small exchange between knights and bishops was part of his larger strategy.
At a critical moment, Corin moved his queen to a position threatening the kingside. Sikakama repositioned her rook and bishop to cover weak points, attempting to prevent any direct breakthrough.
In a bold counter, she launched an attack, partially encircling Corin, pushing her knight forward and trying to penetrate his wing.
Corin noticed the challenge and smiled faintly, enjoying the pressure she had created:"Impressive… trying to corner a former war strategist in a game of chess. Seems you have a knack for this."
Sikakama smiled lightly, "Actually… it's my first time playing chess."
Corin paused, genuinely surprised.
"Then how are you playing?"
"I imagine all possible outcomes," she replied, eyes still scanning the board, "and choose the moves that cost me the least losses."
Corin studied the chessboard, thinking, Her moves are unusual… unstructured, nothing like a professional's—no formal openings, no pre-planned strategies. Yet she always responds to my threats at the last moment, moving as if carried by the game itself—chaotic, unpredictable… but strangely effective.
But Corin was always a step ahead. He quickly regained control, gradually dismantling her partial encirclement.
What will his next move be? Will he attack here… or there? Sikakama thought, trying to anticipate. But I've secured this wing well… at least for now.
Then she realized—the pawns! Those small soldiers, each having moved only a single step forward at a time and seeming insignificant, had been creeping closer all along. She had been so focused on the major pieces, moving freely across the board, that she hadn't noticed how the pawns were gradually closing in, forming a subtle encirclement around her king.
Using his minor pieces in coordination with the pawns, Corin steadily tightened the noose, slowly constraining the White king's movement and preparing the path to checkmate.
The White king was trapped. Every square around it fell under control.
Sikakama tried one last move to save her king. Corin gave a patient, knowing smile.
"You have natural talent, Sikakama. Truly. But your weakness…" He tapped the square where his queen had fallen. "…is that you never sacrifice a piece. You try to win alone, but victory always demands sacrifice."
Finally, with a precise pawn move, coordinated with his rook and bishop, checkmate was achieved.
The board fell silent. Sikakama whispered, staring at it in disbelief:
"Did he really… checkmate me… with just minor pieces and a pawn?"
Corin calmly gestured toward the fallen pawn.
"Never underestimate the smallest piece on the board. Even the tiniest piece—limited as it may seem—can change the course of battle."
Sikakama groaned, falling onto her back, staring up at the ceiling:
"Chess is so boring… I'll never be able to beat a former war strategist."
"You played well… especially for your first time," Corin said, a faint smile on his face.
Sikakama straightened up, her voice tinged with suspicion, "You were deliberately playing poorly, weren't you?"
Corin, surprised, replied, "What… really?"
She groaned, lying back on her back again, staring at the ceiling. "Don't try to fool me—you were stalling to prolong the game."
Their conversation was interrupted as a maid entered, carrying a tray of warm tea in ornate cups.
Steam curled gently from the warm tea the maid had brought. Sikakama took a slow sip, the heat spreading through her body, weighing down her eyelids little by little.
The weather itself seemed to lull her into drowsiness and ease; the damp scent of rain-soaked earth lingered in the air, while the steady tapping of raindrops drummed against the ground in a soft, unrelenting rhythm. Everything around her conspired to draw her deeper into calm surrender.
She lay down on the wooden floor, turning onto her side, resting her head on her arm as if it were a pillow. The heaviness pressing down on her felt strangely comforting, leaving her with no will to do anything but give in to that quiet, lazy stillness.
Outside, the rain played its monotonous symphony, and with every note of its rhythm, her breathing slowed. She drifted deeper and deeper, until at last, sleep swallowed her whole.
At the doorway, the maid stood in perfect posture, hands neatly folded in front of her. Her white hair was pinned up in a tidy bun, and her clothes were immaculate, the precision of her appearance a quiet contrast to the soft chaos of the rainy room. Though her face bore the gentle marks of age, there was a dignity in her stance that filled the space with a calm, watchful presence.
In a narrow alley in Pendralice, swallowed by gloom, a trail of blood stretched across the cobblestones.
The sound came first—an agonizing drag splitting the silence, drawing nearer, until a blood-soaked body emerged, pulled mercilessly by the leg, leaving behind a crooked red smear across the stone path.
Darkness enveloped the place, broken only by the ticking of a giant clock, striking loudly… backwards. Suddenly, a single eye appeared, its pupil a vertical slit, opening with a terrifying intensity.
The next morning, Sikakama woke up quickly, surprised to realize it had been just a disturbing dream. She stretched her arms and let out a yawn. Her hair was tousled, and one of her eyes remained half-closed, as if she hadn't fully woken. She felt her body heavy, as though she had been sleeping for days on end. She was still on the floor, but someone had already brought a pillow and tucked her in with a blanket, so she guessed it might have been Mr. Corin.
She glanced at the clock and realized she was about to miss her train. Hastily, she rose and bent down to gather the blanket and pillow from the floor, returning them to their place with unsteady steps.
Passing by Mr. Corin's office, where he was absorbed in the morning papers, she caught his voice: "No need to worry—today is your day off, so it's perfectly fine to wake up late."
She could not remain still. Fearful of missing the train, she left in a hurry, offering a brief nod of thanks before he could finish his sentence.
Though the rain had stopped, the muddy tracks had already crept into the house, leaving a pair of shoes smudged at the entrance. The sky was clear now, and sunlight poured through the windows, bathing the room in warmth and making the day feel truly refreshing.
Sikakama made her way back to Pendralice, the narrow streets winding before her as the city slowly stirred to life under the soft morning light.
As she walked, her thoughts drifted to the hospitals she still needed to search. The capital was enormous, and she might have to expand her investigation beyond its borders. At this rate, the process could take months—maybe even years—and there was no guarantee she would find anything at all. Not surprising for someone as unlucky as me, she muttered to herself.
But she steadied her resolve. We lose nothing by trying, she reminded herself.
I wonder if I'll run into Milo today… she thought, lifting her gaze to the sky as a golden thread of light reflected across her face, and a faint smile touched her lips.
Her steps carried her forward, but the calm of the morning abruptly shifted. A strange tension rippled through the air—murmurs, hurried footsteps, people gathering ahead. Sikakama stopped short, drawn by the crowd clustered at the mouth of the alley.
Murmurs buzzed, and a hungry curiosity rippled through the gathered crowd, while the policemen, clad in dark uniforms, white gloves, and gleaming badges atop their hats, held the way with outstretched arms. Yet she moved forward with steady, deliberate steps.
Her eyes immediately fell upon it—the same vertical trail of crimson on the cobblestones, leading to where the body lay. Her chest tightened the moment she saw that spot, where the motionless figure lay as if its soul had long since departed.
The corpse had been mutilated with savage brutality, its face so disfigured that blood masked every recognizable feature. Just before a policeman shoved her back with rough force, her gaze caught for a fleeting instant on the ruined face—beneath the left eye, a small mole.
Suddenly, all noise drained away—the crowd's cries, the officers' shouts—fading into a faint echo. Her gaze remained fixed on the alley. Then, without warning, her vision shifted.
For a heartbeat, the world dissolved into darkness.
The corpse lay in the same place, shrouded beneath the veil of night.
And beside it stood a figure—cloaked, motionless, its identity concealed.
Her breath caught. In a blink, the image vanished, and the alley returned to the present.
A short distance away, two detectives stood apart from the crowd, speaking.
The first detective, a young, skinny man with neat features, holding a small notebook in which he had been recording the evidence with an ink pen, said grimly, "The body was cut apart. It's going to be hard to identify his face."
The second detective, older and slightly heavyset, his eyes sunken and weary, with thinning hair making him appear older than he was, added, "Even if you could recognize the face, you wouldn't know who it is. No one reported a missing child."
The young detective replied, "And it seems no one has any idea what happened. We couldn't find a single witness, let alone any identification for the victim."
The experienced detective spoke in a gruff voice, "Most crimes happen at night to avoid witnesses. Even if someone sees the perpetrator, unless they're very close, they won't get a clear view of the features. Most likely, darkness will obscure the details." Then, with a sarcastic tone, he added, "And what ID card? Most of the homeless here don't have one, and if they do, it's usually fake or stolen."
The young detective muttered, "At this rate, we'll miss lunch."
"You only care about your stomach, as usual. We need to finish this case—the higher-ups are pressuring me because of the recent surge in crimes," he said in a deep, gruff voice laced with irritation.
The young man spoke with a mix of frustration and confusion: "But who benefits from killing a homeless person, especially a minor? I don't understand the purpose of these crimes. If the motive were theft, wouldn't it make more sense to target a rich or noble person? You gain nothing from killing a homeless boy." He added, his features showing displeasure, "I'm still a rookie detective for this very reason."
"There are many reasons a person might end up dead—especially in the streets, where gangs and all sorts of shady dealings are everywhere," the seasoned detective replied.
His sunken eyes and weary tone carried the certainty of someone who knew these back alleys all too well. Years spent as an investigator had made him accustomed to seeing crimes like this.
The young detective walked away.
The second detective sighed and looked up at the sky.
He pulled a cigarette from the inner pocket of his coat and a lighter from the back pocket of his trousers. Shielding the flame with his hand, he lit the cigarette, placed it between his lips, inhaled deeply, then released a long, heavy exhale.
The smoke curled upward, twisting lazily into the air. His voice grew rougher as he muttered,
"Ah… just another homeless person meeting his end in these streets."
A dark heaviness lingered inside him—one that had stayed with him for a long time.
Even he no longer remembered when that feeling first crept in, or when it grew enough to shape who he had become.
There are two kinds of detectives, he thought.
The first: the type who, the more crimes they see, the harder they work to solve them—hoping, somehow, to make the world a better place.
And the second: no less dedicated, no less dutiful, but who eventually loses the most important thing a detective can have—hope in changing the world.
He stared at the clear blue sky, its brightness a stark contrast to the turmoil inside him.
Crimes had become nothing more than part of his daily routine.
"It seems this is no longer just a child's game," the detective said to himself, recalling his childhood, when he was obsessed with becoming a detective and pretending to catch criminals. But now he realized it wasn't just an innocent game as he had thought back then.
A voice pulled him from his thoughts. "Excuse me, sir…"
It was Sikakama.
He turned to her. Smoke curled upward as he exhaled.
"Have you found anything about the killer?" She asked quickly, her eyes betraying how eagerly she awaited an answer.
"Who are you?" he asked, holding the cigarette between his fingers.
Sikakama showed her badge. "I'm from the Knights Division of Surrey District, under the command of Mr. Corin."
"They're accepting girls now?" the detective said.
"Forget that for now. Did you find anything about the killer?"
The detective averted his gaze, returning the cigarette to his mouth. "We lack evidence and witnesses. If things continue like this, we'll have no choice—the case will be closed soon."
"You can't give up before catching the killer!" Sikakama pressed, her voice sharp with urgency. Then, speaking quickly with clipped mutterings, she added, "There must be some clue that can lead us to the killer, or someone must have seen him. Have you actually questioned everyone here? We need to interrogate them again…"
The detective tried to cut her off, but she kept muttering. Raising his voice sharply, he called, "Kid… kid!" instantly forcing her into silence, his eyes drifting toward the gawking crowd. "No one cares about what happens in these streets—not even when it's a dead homeless kid. Most people avoid the homeless anyway. Once their curiosity is sated, they'll just go back to their lives as if nothing happened."
He flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his foot. "It's like a vast, crowded world—the busier it becomes, the less attention people pay to the fate of a single individual."
His response wasn't far from the truth. Most of the onlookers who had paused were only there to satisfy their curiosity, nothing more. No one genuinely cared about what had happened; soon, they would forget it as if it had never occurred.
Sikakama's voice hardened. "His name is Milo."
The detective fixed his gaze back on her. "What?"
"He's not homeless. His name is Milo," she said firmly.
The detective stared at her for a moment, studying her expression—how serious she looked—before asking,
"Are you related to him in any way?"
"No, I'm not related… but we were friends," she replied.
Hearing that they were friends pushed him to question her again.
"Do you know his full name?"
She hesitated for a moment at the sudden question. After a few seconds of thought, she answered quietly, her voice low and discouraged,
"No."
But he continued.
"How old exactly was he?"
"I think… fourteen," she answered uncertainly.
It was only an estimate—based on how Milo looked and the age gap she remembered between them. It wasn't an exact answer, and the detective noticed that from her hesitant tone and her body language, which clearly showed uncertainty. Still, he proceeded.
"Did he have any family or relatives?"
"I don't know," she whispered.
"Where did he usually stay?"
Again, she answered that she didn't know.
"When did you last see him?"
"Last week…" she began, but couldn't finish.
"Did you notice any changes in his behavior recently?"
"I think he was acting normally," Sikakama tried to recall.
Milo hadn't shown any signs of being in danger or troubled. Yet she suddenly remembered—just for a brief second—how he had paused before leaving, one single step, as if he wanted to say something… but she hadn't suspected anything at the time.
She fell silent, frustration tightening inside her.
She couldn't answer most of his questions.
Was it her fault?
Should she have asked him what was wrong?
Would none of this have happened if she had simply paid more attention?
Her thoughts were cut short when the detective spoke again:
"Then how can you call yourselves friends?"
Sikakama lowered her head once more. She truly didn't know anything beyond his name, Milo.
Then he pulled out a piece of paper and handed her a pen. "Sign here."
Sikakama looked at the paper for a few seconds, then took the pen and signed exactly where the detective indicated.
"Good. You can take his belongings in this box," he said, as another man handed her a small package. They turned and walked away, leaving her alone, the cigarette lying on the ground where it had slipped from his foot.
Her head spun as if she were dizzy. The world around her seemed distorted. People passing by looked like black shadows. It felt as though the whole world was ruled by cold, heartless figures. Life had lost its meaning in an instant.
The box was still in her hands, but her eyes felt empty amidst all the darkness. A shadow whispered from behind her, low and cold:
"Humans… aren't they disgusting?"