Sikakama made her way back to Hawthorn, heading straight to find Corin—who was already in his office.
She briefed him on the crime in Pendralice, where a young boy had fallen victim, and updated him on the investigators' actions. Her goal was to have Corin ensure the case file stayed open, yet he calmly told her he had no authority to intervene.
A flash of frustration ignited within her, sharp and uncontainable. Sikakama stepped forward, her jaw set, the corners of her mouth tightening with barely restrained irritation at Corin's indifferent response.
"So you're saying we should just sit and do nothing? Just watch?"
Corin, seated at his desk, still composed and calm, replied,
"The case falls under Pendralice city police, so there's nothing I can do. We have to trust the investigators—it's their job."
The incident had indeed occurred outside his district, and technically it wasn't Corin's jurisdiction—he had no intention of intervening.
But she refused to let that stop her.
Her eyes, filled with stubborn resolve, locked onto his.
"Then at least help me access his file."
Corin's voice remained calm, steady—almost too steady.
"And what exactly will you do with it?"
"There might be something in it—anything," she said. "I can't access it myself… but someone in your position can."
Corin exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair and pressing a hand to his forehead, weary from her relentless insistence—insistence that didn't waver no matter what he said.
Sikakama drew a breath, her voice lowering.
"Please… just let me try."
He looked at her for a long moment before speaking; with this kind of persistence, he had little choice but to give in.
"Fine. But if I bring you the file… will you stop involving yourself in this case?"
It was clear what he wanted—and she agreed.
---
They eventually obtained the file, though it held only sparse information.
Sikakama stared at the thin file, disappointment slipping across her features.
It was barely a handful of papers—no witnesses, no evidence, nothing to grasp.
She murmured the scarce records aloud:
"There's barely anything here… petty theft, pickpocketing, no family, part of a thieves' gang."
It was as if the crime had never happened at all—no trace, no clue, no lead.
Corin rose from his desk and walked toward her with slow, measured steps, standing beside her with a straight back. His voice softened, sounding almost like consolation:
"I understand how you feel… but what's done is done. We can't change fate. Don't let your emotions control you. You need to move forward."
But Sikakama, her head slightly bowed, spoke words quiet yet cutting through the calm, full of conviction:
"This is what everyone always tells you: move forward, always move forward. Should we always pretend that nothing happened and just keep moving ahead?
But what about those who can't? Don't they deserve for us to even look back at them just once?You say we can't change fate—we can't rewind time or undo what's already happened. But we can make sure it doesn't happen again."
Her voice rose steadily, shaking the stillness around them, her resolve clear and unwavering.
With that, Sikakama left his office, leaving Corin alone with her words.
Darkness swallowed the room, pierced only by the lone moonlight filtering through, casting faint, fleeting shadows. She lay on the bed, her cheek resting against her arm, lost in the endless whirl of thoughts about what had happened. The darkness seemed to envelop her, trapping her in a maze of unending reflections.
Then she sat up and opened the lid of the rectangular box on the desk. Inside were a few belongings—a photo of them, taken on the day of the celebration. She stared at it for a moment—Milo was smiling. If only he had known what was going to happen, would he have still been smiling then? Her eyes then fell to the bottom of the box, where a sharp silver knife with an ornate handle gleamed, catching the light.
She picked it up in her hands, staring at it thoughtfully.
Sikakama contemplated the file again in silence. The case had no witnesses, and the victim had no family ties to question—no relatives, no friends, no one who might offer a lead.
But there was one thread left to follow.
The boy had been entangled with a gang. If answers existed, they would be found there. Her gaze hardened as the thought settled. She recalled his words from before—the way he had once spoken of the gangs that prowled the streets.
After a long pause, her gaze shifted to the red cloak folded in her travel bag.
In West Hallowend, a cramped district of crooked lanes and aging brick houses, streets like Black Elm Road and Timber Row twisted between shadowy alleyways. Across the rooftops, a shadow moved with startling speed, leaping from one building to the next beneath the black canopy of night. Each landing was silent, each movement sharp and fleeting—like a phantom threading its way through the sleeping city.
The crimson cloak rippled in the darkness, cutting through the void like a bloody spark suspended in the wind. On the rooftop of a tall building, Sikakama crouched low, her head hidden beneath her hood, her eyes fixed on the scene below. A shadowed alley where shady men stood, exchanging money with a group of boys.
One of the men stepped toward a frail boy, gripping his neck lightly as he sneered:
"Hah… is this all you managed to steal? If you want to keep working in my territory, you'll pay the full share."
He shoved him aside with a laugh, joined by the coarse chuckles of the others, smoke from their cigarettes curling upward into the stale night air.
Suddenly, Sikakama leapt from the rooftop. The moon behind her cast a silver halo around her as her body sliced through the air. Her boots struck the wall mid-fall, rebounding in a graceful arc. She twisted lightly, letting the momentum fade, and touched the ground on one knee, dust swirling around her like pale smoke beneath the moonlight. She strode silently into the alley—until a heavy hand clamped onto her shoulder.
"Who are you?"
He never had the chance to understand. She twisted his wrist and slammed him to the ground, his body hitting the dirt with such force that spit flew from his mouth. The others froze for a heartbeat before one shouted:
"That bitch!"
She surged forward like a scarlet flash, cutting through them one after another. A man drew his pistol and fired wildly, but she unsheathed her blade, deflecting the bullets in a spray of sparks. In an instant she was upon him, Desperate, he tried to fire again—but his fingers were injured before they could even touch the trigger. His gun clattered to the ground.
He staggered back, clutching his bleeding hand, but Sikakama spun and drove her fist into his face, slamming his skull against the wall. In the corner, a skinny boy trembled, wide-eyed with fear. Sikakama glanced at him briefly before turning back, seizing the man by the collar and hauling him up with one hand. His eyes shook as they met her burning gaze.
"Take whatever you want… just don't kill me!" he begged.
"You know Milo, don't you?"
"M… Milo?" he stammered.
"Don't play dumb. The boy who works for you."
He hesitated, then muttered:
"There are many boys… they all look the same. Maybe if you describe him—"
Then she took out the photo that had been taken of the two of them.
" He was found dead, and it so happens he had no connections except with a gang leader running a theft network, using people—including minors. Imagine what they did to him."
The man's eyes widened in recognition.
"Ah… yes. I remember. He came, wanted to join us. The leader let him in. I never hurt him!"
"Take me to your leader," she demanded.
He had no choice but to obey.
Inside, a man sat in a dimly lit room that resembled an office. He wore only a shirt and vest, unbuttoned in a few places, his shoes catching the faint light as they rested on the surface of his desk. He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, smoke from his cigar lazily curling in the air. When the sound of the door opening reached him, he tilted forward and opened his eyes. She stood there at the doorway, the gang member by her side holding his injured, bleeding hand, his voice trembling with fear. Outside, there was no one left—every gang member had been thrown to the ground.
When Sikakama's eyes fell upon him, she couldn't hide a flicker of surprise at his appearance. He was nothing like she had expected—an ordinary-looking man, not particularly old, with a decent appearance, a healthy, fit body. If she had seen him on the street, she would never have guessed he was a gang member.
But he was still a gang member, so she couldn't let his appearance deceive her, she thought.
She tossed the photo onto the desk, her face expressionless but eyes piercing. "Do you know him?" she asked.
The man's gaze fell on the photo, studying it carefully. He finally moved, sliding his feet off the desk, still maintaining his calm. Whatever had happened didn't seem to faze him. He finally spoke. "Aren't you a bit too young to be working for the government?"
"I am not a government agent," she said firmly, cutting off any assumptions.
"Really? You look the part," he replied quietly, extinguishing his cigar in the desk ashtray.
"The boy in the photo… one of your men told me he came to you," she continued after a brief silence of three seconds. "He's dead now."
The gang leader held the photo, staring at it intently, then replied in a calm voice, "I haven't seen him for a week."
"A week… Could he really have been missing for a whole week? The last time I spoke with him was a week ago… Could he have disappeared since the celebration?" Sikakama thought, shocked.
Sikakama stepped toward his desk.
"Help me. I need to know anything you can tell me about Milo. He came to you before, and you've met him. You must know something I don't."
"I don't know much about him either," he replied, "just his name, a bit of background, and where he lives."
A shift crossed Sikakama's expression—finally, the first thread.
"Then tell me where he lives."
His face stayed cold, unreadable.
"And why should I help a government knight?"
"I told you—I don't work for the government."
"Go back where you came from. We don't deal with government people."
It was clear he wouldn't budge, and staying any longer would be a waste of time. She turned to leave, hope slipping away.
But then he spoke again.
"But tell me this… why would a government man talk to me instead of assuming I'm the killer and trying to take me down?"
"Because I don't feel like you're the killer. And honestly—if you were, you would've used your gun the moment I walked in."
His eyes darted straight toward the open drawer where his gun rested. How had she known? He had no idea. His expression sharpened, and after a few seconds, he stood up.
She had already turned away when he said,
"I'll take you there. But I won't guarantee you'll be welcome."
Sikakama stopped and faced him again.
"You said you don't deal with government people—why the change now?"
The corner of his mouth lifted into a faint, crooked smile.
"I changed my mind… I want to know what you intend to do."
Then his expression shifted, his lip curling into something closer to a cunning smirk.
"—but you should know… nothing comes without a price. You'll have to pay later."
Is this what they call a shady deal? she thought.
"Don't worry — it won't be anything beyond your capability."
Trusting a shady gang member was a foolish step by any sane measure — a choice full of risk and suspicion — but there were no other options. She thought the difference between someone branded an "outlaw" and a man in a fine suit in an official hall was only appearance. Both could break the rules; the only real difference was that one did it with a gloved hand, the other with a dirty one.
For a moment, silence settled between them, thick and heavy.
Sikakama stepped forward and extended her hand.
"Take me there."
The building stood on Ratcliff Alley, roughly a fifteen-minute walk from Black Elm Road. It was old and crumbling, with wrought-iron balconies, its paint peeling in wide strips to reveal the gray stone beneath. The stairwell smelled faintly of smoke and dampness, mingled with the sharp tang of mildew. Rats scurried along the edges of the hallway, disappearing into cracks and holes.
A few of the poorer residents were visible through open doorways. A woman sat near her apartment, chain-smoking as she watched the world go by. The scent of tobacco and unwashed laundry clung to her. From another doorway came the rough cough of an older man, his undershirt stained yellow, as he leaned against the wall, eyes half-closed. The narrow corridor was filled with the hum of life—whispers, footsteps, and occasional arguments—but it all carried a sense of decay, as if the city had forgotten this corner entirely.
Sikakama followed the gangster through the dimly lit hallway. Children of the building peeked from behind doors, curiosity shining in their faces but wary of strangers. The air was thick with dust and the faint, acrid odor of smoke from a dozen small fires lit in cramped apartments.
Finally, they reached Milo's old room. It was tiny, almost claustrophobic. The floorboards creaked underfoot, and dust coated every surface. A few scraps of food lay on a corner of the floor, surprisingly untouched. The walls were scarred and chipped, the plaster flaking in chunks. The window was small and grimy, letting in little light, though a faint breeze whispered through it, carrying the distant sounds of the city.
Sikakama paused, taking in the room. It was plain, neglected, and yet it carried traces of life—a life that had vanished too soon.
Sikakama went door to door, knocking on the wooden apartment doors, trying to question the neighbors, but not everyone welcomed her presence. Several doors were slammed in her face, refusing to speak or even listen, and there was nothing she could do. Occasionally, she was met with curses.
Voices from behind closed doors rose one after another—complaints, shouts, and insults, each louder than the last. An overweight woman glared at Sikakama, not even trying to hide her annoyance. "Seems like these so-called knights have come to harass us," she muttered.
A gruff older man appeared suddenly, and Sikakama instinctively stepped back two paces. "Sent here to kick us out, are you? Tell that greedy owner that no matter how high he raises the rent, I'll never leave my apartment!" he barked.
"I'm not here for that, sir," Sikakama replied, confused by his anger, though it was clear his fury stemmed from the sudden rent hike.
Another voice, that of a woman from inside her apartment, added, "Yes, tell him we're not leaving, no matter what!"
The angry, protesting voices multiplied one after another, filling the corridor with a chaotic chorus.
Sikakama froze in place, unable to act against their displeasure. She turned her gaze toward the gang member, who—despite the tension—wore a faint smile.
"I told you," he said.
Then, eyes watched silently through a narrow door crack, and without warning, several younger children leapt on the gang member. One of them jumped onto his back and grabbed his neck, and the man burst into laughter at their antics.
After a few minutes, when the children had calmed and stopped teasing him, the gang leader introduced them to Sikakama. She was surprised—these kids lived in an apartment funded by a gang member, and they treated him with playful affection. She watched as the children circled around him again, teasing him playfully.
When Sikakama bent down to ask about Milo, the gang member said she would need their help.
The oldest child spoke up:
"We don't know… but Milo had a roommate. He disappeared after that incident, and nobody's seen him since."
Sikakama frowned. Where could he have gone? Did he suffer the same fate? Or is he alive… maybe he knows what happened?
"Many of the boys disappear suddenly. Some find a better place to live, others just vanish without reason," the gangster said.
"Then why did it coincide with Milo's death… and his partner's too?" she replied, her tone sharp with suspicion.
Sikakama's eyes scanned the room, lingering on the remnants of food. Why hasn't it spoiled? she wondered. Then she slid the window open to let in a breath of fresh air and noticed that the window's lock was broken. Or maybe he wants us to think he's gone…
Night fell. A thin figure climbed through the window, careful and silent. Sikakama was already there, waiting for him. The intruder froze, panic spreading across his face as he saw her.
Before he could run, she grabbed him by the back, dragging him inside. The door slammed shut behind them.
He was skinny and trembling, his voice high and anxious.
"I… I don't know anything! I didn't steal anything!"
The commotion drew the gangster into the room. He froze, noticing Milo's roommate.
"You! You ratted us out! You brought someone from them here!" the thin man shouted.
"She's not here to arrest anyone," the gangster tried to calm him.
But the thin man ignored him, insisting loudly.
Sikakama watched the argument for a moment, irritation flickering across her face. Then she set him back on his feet, dusting off and straightening his shoulders to smooth out the wrinkles caused by her grip. She exhaled deeply.
"I'm not here to arrest you. I want your help," she said. "When was the last time you saw Milo?"
The man shook his head nervously.
"I… I haven't seen him in a while."
His tone betrayed him. Sikakama knew he was hiding more than he admitted. He wasn't ready to speak freely, so she needed another approach. Her eyes swept over the room, landing on the stolen goods piled in the corner.
"All of this—this is evidence. It could send you to prison," she said calmly.
The man stammered, panic rising in his voice.
"You… you told me you weren't here to arrest me!"
"Yes," Sikakama replied. "But that was under the condition that you tell me about Milo. Since you refuse, the agreement is void."
Fearful, the man began to speak, his words trembling.
"The one who killed Milo… he wasn't ordinary. He was a noble."
"A noble."
"If they found out I was Milo's partner, they'd… they'd end me. That's why I sneak out through the window every night."
Sikakama leaned closer.
"What happened? Tell me."
"He… he tried to enter a forbidden place," the man said, voice shaking. "A party!"
"A party?"
"Yes. He was tired of living here. I warned him… if he got caught, he'd be imprisoned. But he didn't listen. He went anyway."
"But he promised me he would never steal again," she said, her voice tinged with disappointment, as she sat back in the chair, arms resting on her thighs.
Then she added, "Do you know where it happened, and the nobleman's name?"
"No… I don't."
Sikakama thought quickly. Why would someone be killed just for sneaking into a noble's party to steal?
Sikakama's mind swirled with uneasy thoughts. The crime was puzzling—had Milo really tried to steal from a wealthy man and then been caught and killed for it? Could this really be the end of his story? She understood the tension between the noble class and ordinary people, especially when it came to thieves, but did that give anyone the right to take a life over a petty theft? The question weighed heavily on her, pulling her into a deep spiral of reflection.
Her voice dropped to a whisper as she gazed at the room in shock.
"What did he see at that party… that cost him his life?"