By the next afternoon, Ian found himself outside Smitty's dorm—his fingers wrapped around the worn leather strap of a borrowed duffel, the katana hidden inside beneath a hoodie. He hesitated outside the door for a long breath before knocking twice.
The door swung open to reveal a room that smelled of pizza, incense, and something unwashed. Piles of clothes clung to furniture like ivy, and an empty instant noodle cup sat atop a dusty windowsill like a shrine to procrastination.
Smitty didn't look up from his game. "Door's open, floor's yours."
A small college dorm, more like a lived-in storage unit than a bedroom. Clothing formed mounds like snowdrifts across the floor, competing with empty pizza boxes and soda cans. The milk crate coffee table balanced between chaos and collapse.
IAN and SMITTY sat on a threadbare couch. The hum of a video game buzzed in the background. Smitty's eyes were glued to the screen as his thumbs mashed buttons.
Smitty scratched at his chin and looked around. "If a health inspector walked in right now, this place would be quarantined as a Level 3 biohazard."
Ian smirked. "Honestly, I'm more worried about that sock moving on its own."
"That's Carl. Don't anger him. He remembers faces," Smitty said with a completely straight face, then burst into laughter at Ian's expression.
Ian pulled a folded stack of old papers from his jacket pocket. He brushed aside the pizza box from the milk crate and spread the pages flat.
"This table is held together by hope and pepperoni grease."
"That's not true," Smitty said, patting the crate lovingly. "Also duct tape. A lot of duct tape."
There was a brief silence, broken only by a sudden thump from the closet.
"Please tell me that was a broom falling over," Ian said, not turning his head.
"No promises."
"Man, you really should try cleaning this place up," Ian added. "I think I saw something move."
"Well sorry," Smitty replied, not looking up. "Not all of us have the option of living at home."
"That's cold."
Smitty winced. "Sorry, dude. Not thinking. I guess I still can't believe that happened. The pot might've killed my last two brain cells."
Ian gave a faint smile. "No prob. I get it. I can't believe it myself—and I was there."
Ian's voice stayed level, but his hands betrayed him. One gripped the armrest too tightly, knuckles pale. Every quiet moment felt like it might split open and spill what he wasn't ready to say.
Smitty paused the game. The screen froze on a sword-wielding avatar mid-leap.
"So, what did the police say?"
Ian exhaled. "They said it looked like a robbery gone bad. Main guy broke in through the upstairs window. Li-Anne walked in, startled him."
"What about the second person?"
"They think she was a lookout. Came in to help after Chan and I showed up."
"You sound doubtful."
"These crooks weren't your run-of-the-mill thugs."
"What do you mean?"
"My uncle wasn't easy to beat—even surprised. And this guy took him down in a fair fight. That doesn't happen."
Smitty leaned forward. "But you said he was ambushed."
"Yeah, and even then he should've held his own. I've been a black belt for years. Never beat Chan until the day he died—and even then, I think he let me win. And the girl? She moved like a ghost."
"Okay, so the thugs had skills. What does that prove?"
"They're not from around here."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I know every kwoon and dojo in a hundred-mile radius. Someone with that level of training would've crossed my path long before now. You don't get that good in your basement."
Smitty looked down at the papers. "So what are we going to do?"
"We?"
"Yeah. You said your uncle wanted you to go to Vancouver. Meet this Master Wei guy. Police said you're not a suspect, but the house is still under investigation, right? So… are we going?"
Ian hesitated. "No. We're not going anywhere. The fall semester starts next week. I've spent three years working my ass off to stay on the Dean's list. I'm not going to blow it now."
Smitty leaned back, arms behind his head. "Look, if Frosh Week was so important, they wouldn't schedule it the same week as Dragon Con, Burning Man, and your personal apocalypse."
"Academic apocalypse," Ian corrected.
"Tomato, tomato. Still involves suffering and occasional fire drills."
Smitty sighed. "Ian, sometimes you remind me of a freshly pressed shirt—smart, functional, but a little too stiff. Come on, goody-goody. It's Frosh Week. You're not going to miss anything important. And it was Chan's dying wish. Are you really going to ignore the last request of the man who raised you?"
Ian stared at the sword across the crate.
Smitty reached for the duffel instinctively. Ian's hand shot out, stopping him short.
"Don't," he said, sharper than he meant. "It's... not just a sword."
Smitty looked at him for a second—really looked. "You don't have to do this alone, man. You've got me."
Ian didn't answer right away. His fingers brushed the duffel's canvas, feeling the outline of the blade.
Protect the blade. Find the map. He'll come for you next.
Chan's voice echoed like it had been burned into him.
"Okay," he said softly. "I should go."
"Great," Smitty said, already grinning. "So what's in it for me?"
Ian raised a brow. "That was fast. Why do you want to come?"
"Because I'm your best friend. I'm here for moral support. Also… I may explore the local horticultural community. B.C. Gold, eh?"
Ian chuckled. "You're a rock."
"Yes I am. And this rock is ready to roll."
Smitty unpaused the game. On-screen, his warrior avatar sprinted toward a digital dojo.
"As the game loaded back up," Smitty muttered, "So what you're saying is: we're about to go full Crouching Tiger, Hidden Midterms."
Ian rolled his eyes. "If you quote Kung Fu Panda at me during a swordfight, I'm leaving you behind."
"No promises," Smitty said, grinning.
Ian watched for a moment, then turned his eyes to the katana.
The journey had already begun.
By the next afternoon, Ian found himself outside Smitty's dorm—his fingers wrapped around the worn leather strap of a borrowed duffel, the katana hidden beneath a hoodie. He hesitated outside the door for a long breath before knocking twice.
There was already something pinned there.
A note—taped crookedly at chest height. Notebook paper. Thin. Torn edges. Written in red marker that had bled into the fibers like veins.
"Turn back."
Ian froze, his breath catching in his throat. He looked up and down the hallway. No footsteps. No noise. The only sound was the low, electric hum of the overhead light, pulsing like a heartbeat that wasn't his.
He peeled the note from the door, crumpling it without taking his eyes off the corridor. A strange, bitter scent clung to the paper—like burnt copper and rust.
He shoved it into his jacket pocket and knocked twice, forcing his expression neutral.
The door swung open to reveal a room that smelled of pizza, incense, and something unwashed. Piles of clothes clung to furniture like ivy. An empty noodle cup sat solemnly on the windowsill like a paper Buddha presiding over the chaos.
Smitty didn't look up from his game. "Door's open. Floor's yours."
"You get a lot of threatening notes around here?" Ian asked, brushing past the doorway.
Smitty paused, his thumbs stilling on the controller. "Uh... threatening in what way? Like, 'clean this room or we're calling the authorities,' or more like 'flee, mortal, the void stirs'?"
Ian tossed the crumpled paper onto the crate they called a coffee table.
Smitty peered down, winced, and sat forward. "Yikes. Red pen always means serious business."
"It wasn't pen."
Smitty blinked, looked again, and then straightened like someone trying not to show how unsettled they were. "Okay. First of all, ew. Second, we need to talk about you attracting the wrong kind of attention. Like, maybe you need to unfollow some ancient death cults on social media."
Ian dropped his duffel with a thud and sat down. The couch emitted a puff of dust that might have once been pizza crust. He stared at the floor.
Smitty waited a moment, then muted the TV. "So what now? You here to lay low? Or are we entering the part of the semester where you show up talking in riddles and dodging ninja darts?"
Ian didn't answer right away. His hand crept to his jacket pocket and brushed the corner of the folded note. He could still feel the warmth of it, as if the message had been written moments before he arrived.
Finally, he said, "Chan's killers weren't just burglars. You knew that."
Smitty nodded slowly. "You said one of them fought like he'd trained for decades."
"Yeah. And the other moved like she didn't need to."
"And now someone's leaving notes written in blood on your door."
Ian looked up. "This isn't over. Whoever they are... they weren't done when they left. This is just the intermission."
Smitty squinted. "You're doing the thing again."
"What thing?"
"The brooding thing. The serious face. It's like watching a superhero reboot unfold in real time."
Ian actually smiled—briefly.
Smitty leaned back, satisfied. "There it is. The Ian I know. Morally conflicted. Uncomfortably fit. One wrong meditation away from leveling a small building."
Ian chuckled, just for a moment. Then he leaned forward, elbows on knees. "I saw something else. After... After it happened."
Smitty sobered. "What kind of something?"
"His desk. There was this drawer he never let me near. I opened it. There were letters. Photos. Some... weird diagrams. Symbols I don't recognize. And notes about someone named Wei. Chan wanted me to find him. Said he'd explain everything."
"And you think that's who left the note?"
"I don't know. But I think whoever it was—they wanted me to see it. Like they're watching. Testing me."
Smitty frowned. "Alright. Okay. So... what's the next move, then? Are we boarding a train to secret kung fu Hogwarts? Or are we gonna stare at mildly threatening stationery until it reveals its secrets?"
Ian glanced at the duffel again but didn't reach for it. "Not yet. I need to figure this out on my own terms."
Smitty nodded. "Cool. You figure things out, I'll guard the fridge in case the mold gains sentience."
Another knock at the door.
Both of them froze.
Not loud. Not rushed. Just two calm, spaced knocks. Exactly like before.
Ian stood again. "That better not be another cursed arts-and-crafts project."
He opened the door.
Empty hallway.
But this time, something new.
Pinned at eye level—same place as before—was a small envelope. Not taped. Nailed. A tiny metal tack pressed right through the center, holding it against the wood like a museum exhibit.
Ian plucked it free.
Inside: a single photograph.
Sepia-toned. Slightly warped at the corners from age.
The image showed three figures. One in heavy robes, one in a traditional gi, and the third...
Ian's throat tightened.
The third was Chan.
But not old Chan. Not the quiet man who grew herbs on the balcony and quoted Laozi between Netflix episodes. This Chan looked fierce. Alert. Younger, maybe by thirty years—but still unmistakable.
Scribbled on the back, in uneven ink:
"You have 48 hours. Or others will die."
Smitty peered over Ian's shoulder.
His jaw worked silently for a moment, then he said, "Okay. Gotta admit. This is... kind of epic."
"I'm not trying to be epic," Ian muttered.
"Yeah, well," Smitty said, grabbing his jacket, "You're kinda nailing it anyway."
Ian looked up. "Where are you going?"
"To the vending machine. If we're solving post-mortem riddles and fending off ancient assassins, I'm going to need snacks. Probably jerky."
Ian said nothing, still holding the photo.
"I'll be right back," Smitty added, suddenly serious.
He paused in the doorway.
"Ian... whatever this is. I got your back. Even if this dorm becomes ground zero for the next martial arts apocalypse."
Ian looked at him. "Thanks."
Smitty grinned. "Don't mention it. Really. I'd prefer plausible deniability."
He disappeared down the hall.
Ian sat back down, staring at the photo. The duffel lay next to him, heavy with more than just the katana. Heavy with choices he hadn't made. Paths not yet taken.
He turned the photograph over again. Something had smudged on the corner. Ink?
No.
His fingers came away red.
A new message had appeared beneath the original.
"We're closer than you think."
Behind him, the TV clicked back on—by itself.
And on the screen?
Static.
Just static.