Peter and Namie stepped off the Dortmund metro, the industrial city's gray skyline looming ahead. Before exiting, Namie squeezed his hand. "Everything will be fine, right?"
Peter forced a smile. "I think so."
They emerged into bustling streets—Dortmund's mix of steel factories, beer halls, and yellow Wall Street signs. First stop: renting a discreet investigation safehouse. Peter dialed his uncle as they walked.
"Hey uncle, everything okay? Just wanted to say I'm heading into tough work today."
His uncle's voice crackled warmly. "Hey Peter. I'm working FBI stateside, but me, your aunt, and cousins return to Germany in 5 days. Don't worry about us—everything will be fine."
"Thanks uncle. Love you. Bye." Peter hung up, the call grounding him.
Namie watched him closely. "Still worried about your uncle since William blew up his house?"
"Yeah, but he's FBI in the States now. Back in 5 days. I'm sleeping—it's late. Good night."
"Good night," Namie replied softly.
Peter collapsed into the safehouse bedroom. Moments later, Namie slipped in beside him, curling against his side. They slept, spiritual detectives vulnerable amidst mafia territory.
Meanwhile, Bernard's house...
Bernard stared at the Schwarz Motorrad contract, streetlights casting shadows across its fine print. Something felt wrong. Julia's eagerness. The perfect timing. But exhaustion won—he slept uneasily.
Schwarz Motorrad HQ, midnight...
Julia Alois paced her executive office, fury boiling. "DO IT NOW!" she screamed, kicking a metal bucket across marble floors. "Get the salt INSIDE the bullet casings!
Meanwhile, Bernard's house - early morning...
Bernard thrashed in sweat-soaked sheets, trapped in nightmare. His parents loomed over him, faces twisted in disgust. "You're a failure. A disappointment."
He bolted awake, heart hammering, breath ragged. The room spun. Memories flooded back—his father's booming voice: "Spiritual detective? Madness! Go to university. Normal job. Normal LIFE."
Portugal's expectations crushed him. Engineering degree. Corporate ladder. Marriage. Sons carrying the family name. Not demon hunting. Not Earth 2. Not this.
Bernard stumbled to the bathroom mirror, gripping the sink. "Why am I so bad?" he whispered, touching his forehead like it held the answer.
Morning light pierced Dortmund's safehouse curtains. Peter woke first, Seifros sparks dormant but heavy in his veins. No breakfast—Namie understood. They dressed silently in agency spiritual detective uniforms—black tactical gear etched with protective sigils, pistols holstered at hips.
German detectives waited outside in unmarked sedans. Peter and Namie slid into the back of the lead car, city streets blurring past steel mills and yellow Wall Street signs.
"Since your Spiritual Detective Agency arrived," the detective in the passenger seat said, "Germany's better. Fewer possessions. Cults scattered. People sleep easier."
Peter stared out the window, mafia warehouse looming closer. "Did we really make a difference?" he wondered silently.
Namie broke the tension. "Even with William Brosnan locked up by FBI, spiritual crimes persist. They say there's an alien in Brazil—Italian immigrant descent. Killed a Vargas government cop. Urban legend. Vanished without trace."
Peter's eyes darkened. "Worst part—he murdered a Vargas-era policeman. Legend. No leads. No body. Gone."
The unmarked sedan rolled to a stop before a derelict warehouse ringed by chain-link and rust. Dortmund police waited—hardened investigators who'd tracked the mafia for months. Peter and Namie geared up, spiritual senses prickling the air thick with violence.
Peter knelt by the entrance, lupa sweeping the cracked concrete. Dried blood splatters. Drag marks. Torture residue. "They worked over someone inside. Mafia informant."
Namie traced a strange sigil etched in blood nearby. "This mark... woman involved with a mafioso."
"Only one way to confirm," Peter said grimly. They breached.
Inside: horror. A woman hung from rafters, rope tight around her neck. Police muttered "suicide"—but Peter saw truth. Bruises mismatched hanging patterns. Defensive wounds. Murder staged.
Crack! A mafia thug burst from shadows, pistol raised. "FREEZE!"
He never saw Peter's speed. Years of demon hunting honed reflexes snapped—perfect right hook to the jaw. Thug crumpled unconscious.
"Now we get answers," Peter growled as police cuffed the limp body for transport.
He stared at warehouse rafters, blood still dripping. "We need to find this mafia's boss."
Dortmund Police Station - Interrogation Room
Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Peter, Namie, and the German detective faced Thomas, the mafia thug—cuffed to the table, split lip bleeding, eyes darting like trapped prey.
"What is this? Asian woman, German guy, weird redhead? Madness!" Thomas spat.
Peter leaned forward, ice-cold. "Who's your boss?"
Thomas smirked, pulling a crumpled letter from his pocket with bound hands: "The Portuguese seeks truth, but I love to lie. I prefer finding empty things and calling them worthless to society. — Black Mask"
"Who's Black Mask? Where does he work?" Peter demanded.
"Black Mask? How should I know his second job?" Thomas mocked.
The detective slammed the table. "Let's make it easy, Thomas. Police know you tortured your wife because she crossed you. Playing dumb like always, you stupid ox."
Namie's voice cut like glass. "She turned you in? Your scheme with the boss?"
"But police found this location from your wife's tip," the detective pressed. "Better tell us—any cops in the mafia?"
"Who's the cop?" Peter added.
"You're insane!" Thomas laughed nervously.
"That's why you killed your wife?" Namie pressed coldly.
"I killed my wife—who cares?" Thomas shrugged.
"She worked for you, and you're the usual dumbass, right?" Peter shot back.
"But she saw who you really are and snitched," the detective growled, grabbing Thomas by the collar. "Tell us who the cop is, or it's 100 years in prison—or we ship you to the States for the death penalty."
Thomas broke. "Jerome William."
Peter and Namie exchanged looks. Dortmund's police station hid a traitor. They headed for Jerome William—off-duty, unaware the hunters closed in.
Meanwhile, the world plunged into chaos across Germany.
A police officer entangled with the mafia. A woman murdered by her husband. The Black Mask's taunting letter. Germany grew madder by the hour—headlines screaming on every screen, newspapers selling like hot bread, churches overflowing with spiritual fear.
Peter Schmidt and Namie walked Dortmund's streets, eyes sharp, hunting the trail of Jerome William. Who was the Black Mask? Why did Jerome betray the police?
Only in the next chapters.