Maverick stood frozen, a strange chill creeping up his spine.
The wind picked up. The bronze bells hanging from the temple eaves clinked softly, their echoes drifting down the empty corridors like ghostly whispers.
He stood at the temple gate, unmoving. The monk's words felt like a drop of ink falling into still water—small, but sending ripples through his mind.
"Go west…?"
His brows drew together slowly. What's out west?
And then—like a sliver of light leaking through a long-forgotten crack—a memory broke free.
Moonlake Temple.
When he was a kid, his dad used to take long work trips to the northwest, often staying at Moonlake Temple. Sometimes he'd be gone for weeks. Maverick remembered one time his father even joked,"If I ever disappear, come find me at Moonlake out west."
Three years ago, his dad left for one of those trips—and never came back. No one ever found him. It was like he vanished into thin air.
Maverick had once believed his dad abandoned him. He'd even hated him for it.
But now… the monk's words"Go west" suddenly lined up with that distant, hazy name—Moonlake Temple. It felt like some invisible thread was tugging at him from deep inside fate itself.
What's really at Moonlake Temple?
Just then, his phone buzzed in his pocket again.
Another text from Lincoln—the second strange message.
"Maverick, come to see me in office tomorrow morning. It's urgent."
This time, something else hit him: Lincoln used his name.
Maverick stared at the screen, a sheen of sweat forming on his forehead.
He called me by name... Does that count as'answering' the warning?
And then it struck him—how did Lincoln know he was even back in District 19? Unless... he was watching?
Should I leave now?
His mind spun as he somehow found himself back at the temple steps. The monk's warning rang in his ears like a blade hanging over his head. Somewhere far off, he could almost hear a voice—cold and unclear—whispering his name.
He hesitated. His fear told him to run.
But something stronger pushed back.
He knew Lincoln would've called if it weren't something serious. A text like that? It meant whatever this was… it couldn't be explained over the phone.
If Lincoln's in trouble… I can't just walk away. He's my only friend in this whole massive city.
Maverick took a deep breath. His gaze hardened with resolve.
"Alright. I've made up my mind."
He turned, stepped off the stairs, and vanished into the crowd, heading back toward his apartment. First, he'd get some rest. Then tomorrow, he'd find Lincoln.
Behind him, the monk—who had seemed to be dozing—slowly opened one eye and watched the young man's silhouette disappear into the distance. A soft sigh escaped his lips.
Beside him, a curious old woman leaned in and whispered,"Master… is something bad going to happen to that boy?"
The monk folded his hands together and murmured,
"~Ah, fate is like a net—no one can escape the web of cause and effect! "
He sighed again, closing his eyes.
"May the Buddha have mercy… Amitabha."
-----------------
The rental apartment sat at the very top of an old hillside housing complex.
At the entrance, there was a timeworn guard booth and a half-rusted car barrier.
A straight, narrow slope climbed upward, flanked on both sides by four- or five-story apartment blocks—grey walls streaked with cracks, window frames eaten by rust, as if the whole place was breathing the stale air of a sickness that had never quite healed.
Most of these buildings had been converted into short-term rentals for tourists, so the people who came and went were… a mixed bag.
It wasn't until night that Maverick finally trudged up those familiar steps, walking in with a few travelers hauling suitcases.
At some point, a baseball cap had appeared on his head, its brim pulled so low it hid half his face in shadow.
His posture leaned forward slightly, his stride dragged down by exhaustion—like a worn-out office worker heading home after a late shift, mind already far away.
Passing the guard booth, his eyes barely flicked over it—
Yet he still noticed the old security guard, who was usually half-asleep, now sitting bolt upright in his chair, scanning each person who entered with a sharp, hard gaze.
It wasn't the casual glance of habit—it was the silent, deliberate searching of someone looking for a match.
Maverick's steps slowed for just a moment, then moved on.
The guard hadn't touched his newspaper; the cup of tea on the desk was still full, no steam curling from it.
He kept climbing. The stairs were familiar, like he'd walked them ten thousand times before—
But tonight, each step felt like it landed on a hidden tripwire, tension tightening almost imperceptibly.
He didn't look back.
When he turned toward his building, he noticed the front light—broken for months—had been fixed.
The moment he stepped onto the last step, it clicked on with a sharp snap, chasing away the darkness.
Strangely, the sudden brightness only made his chest tighten.
It was too bright. Bright in a way that felt… targeted.
He muttered under his breath, "Guess the lazy building managers decided to get off their butts for once."
Pushing the door open, he stepped into the old stairwell.
The damp air carried the scent of plaster and aged wood. Somewhere above, a door shut with a dull thud, the sound echoing faintly down the hall.
His brow furrowed. He didn't remember anyone going in ahead of him.
Maybe someone was heading out?
But as he moved deeper in, the only footsteps were his own.
He slowed his breathing, fished a cigarette from his pocket, and lit up.
The small flare of orange warmed his face for a second. He exhaled a smoke ring, as if the familiar ritual could hold back the growing edge in his nerves.
When he reached his floor, the hallway light—usually on—was dead.
At the far end, a window rattled in the wind, letting in strips of cold moonlight that sliced across the floor like silver blades.
The eight doors along the corridor were shut tight.
No light seeped from under them. No clink of dishes. No shuffle of feet.
It was as if the entire floor had been hollowed out in advance.
He paused, took another drag, then walked toward his door.
A chill climbed his spine like icy water soaking into bone.
The air was too still. Too heavy.
Normally at this hour, the young couple next door would be making noodles, and the TV at the far end of the hall would be loud enough to leak through the walls.
Now, it was like someone had pressed "mute" on the whole building.
Something in him tightened—a low, dangerous hum in his chest.
He crushed the cigarette under his heel, the ember hissing faintly.
Then, instead of pulling out his keys, he kept walking.
He didn't know that, across from his apartment, in the shadow behind a closed door, a pair of eyes was watching his every move through the peephole.
Inside, breaths were held quiet, weapons already in hand—
Waiting.
The moment he reached his door, one man's palm rested lightly on the handle.
That touch was the signal.
Once it turned, the rest would burst out, the trap snapping shut.
Someone already had a zip-tie ready.
Another's fingers were curled tight around a baton.
The man at the handle whispered, "He's here."
"Ready to move," the black-clad one beside him mouthed, signaling to the others to brace.
The first man suddenly frowned and raised a hand, signaling the others to hold.
"What is it?" someone beside him whispered.
"He didn't open the door."
"What's he doing?"
"He bent down to pick up a flyer."
"Don't relax—he's probably playing a trick."
"Wait… he's leaving."
"Did he spot us?"
"I'm not sure it's Maverick. He's wearing a cap; I can't see his face clearly."
Maverick tugged at the brim of his cap but didn't unlock the door.
Instead, his fingers brushed the edge of the flyer, eyes fixed on it as though decoding a hidden message between the printed lines.
He glanced toward the surveillance camera newly installed at the far end of the corridor, its lens faintly reflecting his shadow.
Curiosity tugged at him, and without breaking stride, he headed down the hall to take a closer look.
"He's walking past."
"So… maybe he's not Maverick?"
"I still can't confirm."
"Don't drop your guard. Keep your eyes on him."
Just then, a door at the end of the hall creaked open.
An elderly woman shuffled out, a garbage bag dangling from her hand.
When she looked up and saw him, her face lit with a warm smile.
"Oh, Maverick, you're back? The weather's getting colder—remember to wear more layers."
Maverick stopped, the corners of his lips lifting slightly.
"Thanks, Aunt Su. Did you end up buying those health supplements?"
"I did, I did. And I'm telling you, you should buy some too—keep you from falling apart when you're my age!"
The black-clad men froze at the sudden, casual exchange, pupils tightening like a camera lens snapping into focus.
"It's him! That's him!" a low voice said, trembling with barely contained excitement.
"Get ready. Once she's gone, we move."
Maverick strolled up to the door opposite Aunt Su's and knocked.
That was when he felt it—
A rush of air behind him.
The atmosphere tightened in an instant.
The door at the far end slammed open with a deafening bang.
Black-clad figures exploded into the corridor like arrows loosed from a bow.
Blinding beams from military-grade flashlights cut through the dark, so sharp and white that even the dust in the air seemed suspended in time.
Heavy boots thundered against the floor, shouts mixing with the rustle of fabric, the sounds crashing over him like waves against rock.
Maverick was slammed to the ground, his knee hitting the concrete with a jarring thud.
Cold steel clamped around his wrists, the metal leeching away his warmth in an instant.
"Stay down!"
"We've got him!"
Maverick didn't struggle. Didn't even flinch.
A faint, wry smile played at his lips.
"You want to catch me? Go ahead."
Whether it was surrender or something else entirely, no one could tell.