(Orin is looking for more clues within valdora)
Friday, 28th October 1949
I bolted through the crowd, pushing past street vendors—fruit scattered: apples, oranges, plums. I grabbed an apple and kept going. Behind me, the men cursed. They didn't know my name. That was something.
Were there cameras during the incident? They would've caught Joacheim too. What if they only turned on after he left? I was brief. No—I was brief.
The crowd was sluggish. I threaded through cracks, muttering apologies for every shove. I pushed past a woman holding a baby.
"Sorry!"
My lungs stung. They were gaining.
There was an intersection up ahead—I remembered an alley near it. My throat burned now, harsh and raw. Move. Just keep moving.
There it was—my chance. I looked left, then right. Cars screamed by in both directions. Even if I made it across, they'd just keep coming. I needed a miracle.
I looked around. I made sure to steal a few pages from Ilya's book.
Who needs a miracle when I can make them? Miracles are superficial, fantasy's. The miracles lie within the making.
"Massa," I murmured, breaking into a run just as a truck thundered by behind me.
Light warped—splintered through the air like it had hit a dozen mirrors and scattered across the world. Then it vanished into the background.
I slipped into the alleyway, careful not to brush against anyone. It was still crowded, after all. I made the air molecules denser, clustered them until light bent around me. It wasn't perfect—but it didn't have to be.
Good enough.
"I've been traveling for years."
I jumped, spinning around.
"Met many people. Known many more… Including you. Though this is my first time meeting you."
A man stood calmly in the alley, smiling. No—not starting to smile. He had been smiling the whole time.
"But none quite like you."
"Who the hell are you?" I asked, tense.
"You hated the dark," he said. "You used to curl up when the rats came. I'd swat them away."
I straightened, reaching back toward my belt.
The gun. Where's the gun? I didn't drop it—I didn't feel myself drop it.
"Revolvers," he said idly, spinning the gun around his finger. "They're only for show. Handguns are better. But revolvers... revolvers are cooler. I remember when I was younger I would do fishing and pigeon shooting with my father. He always insisted I use a proper rifle suited for the job yet I never did. Always used a revolver."
Then his eyes wandered upward, cloudy with memory. "Odd. You wouldn't think it'd be this cold this time of year. I hate the snow. It reminds me of something. A time."
I couldn't move. His words, his voice—there was a rhythm to it. Like he was reciting something old.
He looked me in the eyes, then slid a revolver across the ground toward me.
I didn't move. The fear wasn't new. It was remembered—the same fear when the old man died.
I crouched, slowly, reaching for it.
Click.
He was already standing at a distance, gun raised, aimed straight at my head.
"You ought to leave while you still can. Orin."
I froze. "Who are you? Joacheim?"
"Joacheim…" He pondered
His gaze drifted upward. "Menrva. I'm investigating the case. In about five, maybe six minutes, my partner will arrive. When he does, he'll arrest you. But if you leave now... I'll say you got away."
"Beyond me, there is another. A good man-who does evil acts, but please bear in mind he is a good man. You will know when he has found you. I had met him prior to this."
"When he does find you. You must not kill him. Though you will feel the urge to. That gun isn't a sign of revenge, but a sign of remembrance and justice. You have 7 bullets, remember each bullet-for it has a name written into it."
I stared. He lowered the gun. I tilted my head, picked up the revolver, slid it back into my belt.
"Why is he looking for me?"
"You were there weren't you. When Joacheim killed that old man-those people."
I nodded.
Then I ran.
I didn't look back.
Who was he? The man like an angel carrying an everlasting word. Though his smile- it was fake. Superficial.