CHAPTER 3:-
[PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS ONGOING AT THE RESIDENCE OF LATE DR. RICHARD HEMSWORTH…]
A dark, rain-soaked afternoon draped the city in gloom as Detective Silvers stepped out of a taxi and opened his umbrella.
He was dressed in a long black trench coat, a matching beret perched neatly atop his head. With practiced ease, he flicked a lighter several times before a flame finally caught, igniting the large cigar that had become a near-permanent fixture between his lips.
He took a slow, calculated draw and exhaled with a hint of swagger—willingly sacrificing a lung or two for the sake of living up to the image of the old-school detectives he'd admired in movies as a kid.
The drizzle suddenly intensified, the rain shifting into a relentless downpour.
[Sighs heavily]
"Ugh… give me a break."
"I should've just stayed home. After all the effort I put into looking this good, today of all days the rain decides it wants my attention…"
He started down the pedestrian walkway, coat fluttering slightly with each step.
"Oh well… better wrap this up quick. Could really go for some hot coffee right now… or maybe when I get home. Yeah—now that sounds perfect."
The thought alone sent a faint, comforting tingle through him.
Several meters ahead stood a mid-rise residential building—the former home of the late Dr. Richard Hemsworth. As Silvers drew closer, he noticed a lone figure approaching from the opposite direction.
The man wore a black, double-breasted coat and a western-style hat tilted low, its brim concealing most of his face. He held an umbrella firmly against the harsh rain and moved with an unhurried, deliberate stride.
Something felt… off.
Silvers masked his suspicion and continued forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man's face as they passed. The distance between them closed steadily. The closer the stranger got, the heavier the air seemed to feel.
Then they crossed paths.
In that brief instant, Silvers stole a glance.
What he felt stopped him cold.
An overwhelming presence radiated from the man—oppressive, unnatural. A chill ran down Silvers' spine, his instincts screaming that his life was in danger. Curiously, the few pedestrians who had passed the stranger moments earlier showed no sign of unease. None of them felt it… but Silvers did.
He kept walking, forcing himself not to react.
A second later, both men stopped.
They stood back-to-back, facing opposite directions. The tension between them was suffocating. From the stranger poured an almost tangible bloodlust—so intense it made Silvers' breath hitch.
The rain began to ease.
Then a voice spoke.
"The fire service is on its way."
Silvers froze.
"Probably a fire somewhere… too bad," the voice continued calmly. "And it was a fine coat, too…"
It was the stranger.
Silvers' hand moved on instinct. He spun around, pulling the handgun from beneath his coat, raising it to aim—
"Tell me… who are—"
His words caught in his throat.
"…you?"
The man was gone.
No footsteps. No lingering presence. No trace that anyone had ever been there.
To the passers-by, it looked like nothing more than a madman standing in the rain—gun drawn, pointing at empty air.
"Hey! Hey! Excuse me!"
A voice shouted from across the street.
"Are you sure you're doing alright over there?! You look like you've just seen a ghost!"
Silvers didn't turn. His gun was still trained on empty air.
"Oh yeah?" he shouted back. "And what makes you say that?!"
The passer-by—now clearly annoyed—gestured wildly.
"Because you just pulled out a gun for no apparent reason and pointed it at nothing! Look around! There's no one there!"
She paused, then added sharply, "And if you're one of those lunatics waving firearms around and messing up the streets again, I'm calling the police. Got it?!"
Silvers clenched his jaw. Annoyed—but determined to sound calm.
"Or maybe," he snapped back, "if you shaved off half those eyelashes you ladies are so fond of, then maybe—just maybe—you'd have seen the man who was standing right here a second ago."
He jabbed a finger at the empty space beside him.
"Geez."
The woman crossed her arms.
"My. You seem to have quite the mouth on you," she replied coolly. "Especially for someone whose eyes apparently went out of commission moments ago."
Silvers opened his mouth—then stopped.
"…Wait. What am I even doing?"
He sighed deeply and slid the handgun back into his coat.
"I think we got off on the wrong foot," he said, regaining his composure. "Name's Silvers. And you are?"
She eyed him for a moment.
"Skye," she answered flatly.
"Skye, huh?" Silvers nodded. "Cool name. Now listen, I admit—it was stupid of me to pull a gun in public like that. And I'm sure you only went out of your way to snap me back to reality because you were hoping I'd ask you out on a date."
He smirked.
"But unfortunately, I'm married. Hope you can forgive me."
With that, he turned and walked off—wearing a smile that practically screamed mind your business.
Behind him, Skye froze.
She'd been nodding along… right up until the last part.
"W—wait—what?! I didn't— I'm not— it's just— I—ugh!"
She clenched her fists, flustered despite herself.
"Just don't let me catch you pulling a gun around here again or you'll regret it! Got it?!"
"Got it," Silvers replied casually, lifting a hand in a lazy wave without looking back.
"That insufferable little—" Skye muttered under her breath.
Silvers continued on, muttering to himself.
"What is happening today… First a mysterious man vanishes into thin air and no one notices. Now everyone thinks I'm crazy."
He scoffed.
"And what was up with that woman? Trying so hard to hit on me. I mean, I am irresistible, but that was just desperate."
"I was NOT hitting on you, you psych-ward escapee!"
Her voice blasted his eardrums.
Silvers nearly jumped.
"…She heard that?" he muttered. "From all the way over there? I barely said it out loud. Crazy people these days…"
He shook his head and refocused as the residential building loomed closer.
"I don't know why," he murmured under his breath, careful this time, "but something tells me we'll meet again… Skye."
And with that, Detective Silvers disappeared into the rain-soaked entrance—his investigation far from over.
[…INSIDE THE SECOND-FLOOR APARTMENT…]
The door shut behind him with a soft click.
Silvers scanned the room.
Then frowned.
"…What the hell is this?"
Paper littered the floor like fallen leaves—sheets upon sheets covered in dense handwriting. Thick textbooks on archaeology lay open and overturned. Ink stains bloomed across the carpet like dark bruises.
He walked toward the bedroom.
Or what should have been a bedroom.
"This looks more like a battlefield than an office," he muttered. "And somehow… less organized than both."
He kicked aside a stack of papers.
"Sheets everywhere. Weird textbooks. Spilled ink—everywhere."
He grimaced. "You know what? I take that back. This doesn't even look like an office."
He sighed.
"How am I supposed to work in these conditions, huh, Dr. Richard? I'm busting my ass trying to bring your murderers to justice and this is the thanks I get?"
He gestured around the room.
"Unbelievable. 'Renowned archaeologist,' my—"
Squish.
Silvers froze.
He slowly looked down.
Fungus-infested leftover takeout noodles clung to the sole of his shoe.
"Faaaaaaaaa—"
He hopped back instinctively.
"…And I just got this pair of shoes."
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Everything about this place irritates me. I'd better finish up before—"
He stopped.
Something caught his eye.
"…Hold on."
He crouched and picked up a sheet of paper.
"…Latin?"
His brow furrowed.
"These are handwritten…"
He grabbed more pages, scanning them quickly.
"What kind of research makes a man translate his work into Latin instead of a modern language?" he muttered. "That doesn't make any sense."
He flipped through the pages.
"Unless…"
He paused.
"…he was trying to hide something."
Silvers' expression darkened.
"The reports said he was transporting a parcel—ancient papyrus or manuscripts—to the National Museum. He was tasked with translating them first. Took him months."
He glanced around the apartment.
"…That explains the mess."
Then scowled.
"But it still doesn't excuse it."
He examined one page closely.
"Even for Latin… this is cryptic. So cryptic that translating it into a modern language wouldn't help much."
A realization hit him.
"Only he could understand this."
Silvers straightened.
"But something's off. He didn't work alone—there had to be a third party."
He paced slowly.
"He translates the manuscripts. Writes them in coded Latin. Then he's killed, and the originals are stolen."
His eyes narrowed.
"All of that happened after the translation was finished."
A beat.
"Someone knew about that parcel in advance."
He clenched his jaw.
"…Or maybe the police and the media lied."
He looked around again—really looked.
"Dr. Richard Hemsworth was a world-renowned archaeologist. Every major discovery he made hit the headlines—sometimes before he even set foot on a site."
His voice dropped.
"But this manuscript?"
Nothing.
"No press. No statements. No leaks."
His eyes widened slightly.
"The public only learned about it after his death."
A slow, chilling realization crept in.
"…Unless he was in on it."
Silvers exhaled sharply.
"He kept it secret. Worked with others behind the scenes."
He glanced at the papers again.
"That's why the translations were cryptic. They weren't just for him—they were meant for collaborators."
His fists clenched.
"So was his death a betrayal?"
He shook his head.
"And if so… what were they really after? Money?"
A pause.
"…Or something else?"
He sighed.
"Too many questions."
His gaze shifted.
A desk stood against the wall—stacked high with documents and books.
"…That must be his personal work desk."
He approached it.
"Records of his previous works," he muttered. "Guess I'll give him this—he wasn't a slacker."
Then he noticed it.
A small, obscure keyhole hidden beneath the desk's surface.
"…That looks important."
He began searching.
"Now where would someone like Dr. Richard hide a key… Somewhere no one would ever—"
Clatter.
A key dropped from a book he'd shaken on his very first try.
Silvers stared at it.
Then sighed deeply.
"…Why am I not surprised."
He picked it up.
"Renowned archaeologist, my ass. You know what? That one's on me—I expected too much."
He unlocked the compartment.
Inside lay a worn leather journal.
"…It's a journal?"
His eyes widened.
"…Dr. Richard's journal."
A slow smile crept across his face.
"I just hit the jackpot."
He flipped through the pages quickly.
Then stopped.
"What… is this?"
His blood ran cold.
"…How is this even possible?"
His hands trembled as he read the final page.
[THE LAST PAGE READ:]
If you are reading this journal, then I am already dead—likely in an alley somewhere.
I imagine a certain detective is racking his brain, cursing the state of my living room. Forgive the mess.
I chose when and where I would die.
My death is a catalyst—to a cause greater than humanity. One that will birth the resurrection of a force that challenges the heavens.
The Instruments of the Godfather.
Nations will fall—for he commands it.
The mortal exalted by gods, who has tethered this reality to his strings of fate.
In the grand design, we are all puppets—dancing to the tune of the puppet master.
All according to…
THE ORDER OF EXODUS.
My death marks the first chapter.
You must have noticed the tattoos on my left arm…
Detective Silvers.
Silvers staggered back.
His mind reeled.
"…No."
His grip tightened around the journal.
"…This was never a murder."
And for the first time since the case began—
He realized he was already part of the plan.
"This… this can't be possible…"
Silvers' voice trembled.
"This journal was written months ago—long before his death."
He flipped back a few pages, checking dates again.
"And yet it predicts everything. My involvement. The alley. Even my name."
His breath grew shallow.
"We never even met… so how could he—"
His eyes drifted to the lower right corner of the final page.
Caput Primum.
"…The First Chapter," he murmured.
The phrase clicked instantly—the tattoo on Dr. Richard's left wrist.
A mark.
A title.
A beginning.
Silvers swallowed.
"…What is happening?"
He gathered himself and began rounding up the evidence—the journal, the loose sheets filled with cryptic Latin—intent on taking them back for deeper analysis.
But then—
He froze.
There was more writing.
Faint. Almost like an afterthought.
He squinted.
"…Wait."
He leaned closer and read the final line.
Oh—and one more thing.
The fire service is on its way.
Probably there's a fire somewhere…
Too bad.
And it was a fine coat too.
The blood drained from Silvers' face.
His body went rigid.
That sentence—
He had heard it before.
A sudden flashback struck him like lightning.
Rain.
A dark coat.
A faceless man beneath a tilted hat.
"The fire service is on its way…"
His heart slammed against his ribs.
"…No."
This wasn't a message.
It was a warning.
And then—he heard it.
A sound he'd ignored before.
Tick…
His eyes widened.
Tick…
He slowly turned his head toward the living room.
"…No—no, no, no—"
The ticking grew louder.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Silvers didn't think.
He didn't plan.
He moved.
Dropping everything, he sprinted toward the window and hurled himself through it—
—
The explosion tore through the second floor.
A violent shockwave shattered walls, windows, and lives in a single breath. The building roared as fire swallowed the apartment, debris raining down in all directions.
Silvers hit the ground hard.
Pain exploded through his back.
His coat—his favorite coat—was shredded by the blast, the force knocking the air clean out of his lungs. He lay there gasping, vision swimming, ribs screaming in protest.
But he was alive.
Sirens followed soon after.
Fire engines.
Ambulances.
Chaos.
Within minutes, firefighters were battling the flames as medics rushed to tend to the injured. Silvers was lifted carefully onto a stretcher, every movement sending fresh waves of pain through his body.
He stared up at the darkening sky.
"…I really thought today couldn't get any worse," he muttered weakly.
A pained breath escaped him.
"…I take it back."
He glanced down at what remained of his ruined outfit.
"…It got much worse."
The ambulance doors slammed shut.
As it pulled away, Detective Silvers had one certainty burned into his mind:
Dr. Richard Hemsworth hadn't predicted the future.
He had set it in motion.
And whatever The Order of Exodus was—
It had already claimed its first chapter.