The morning sun fell cold on Elias's skin. He hadn't slept.
After another sleepless night and a storm of questions, he decided to follow the name "Abdullah" — the name the old man called him yesterday.
Elias digs through town records and finds an old address linked to someone named Abdullah.
He walked through narrow streets with unfamiliar houses until he reached a small, weathered home in an older part of town. The nameplate on the gate read "Hafeez & Nargis Abdullah". His heart skipped.
He knocked.
A frail old man opened the door. The moment he saw Elias, the old man's lips trembled.
> "Nargis! Nargis! He's here… Our son has come back…"
A weak woman rushed out, tears streaming from her eyes. She touched Elias's face, sobbing.
> "Where were you, Abdullah? For three years, we waited… three long years!"
Elias stood still, throat dry.
> "I… I'm sorry. I'm not your son. My name is Elias."
Silence fell. But the old couple refused to believe him.
> "You even sound like him," the man said. "He disappeared in April, without a word. And since then… nothing. No letter. No call. Nothing."
April. Elias froze.
The fourth month.
Fourth again.
---
After a heavy silence, they invited him inside. The living room smelled of dust and forgotten time. The woman showed Elias old photographs.
And there he saw it.
A young man — nearly identical to him. Same eyes. Same posture.
His chest tightened.
He left shortly after. He didn't even know what he was thinking anymore.
Later that day, Elias stepped into a mosque. The imam noticed him sitting alone and came over softly.
> "You've been carrying something for days, haven't you?"
Elias told the mosque's imam everything that had happened to him so far.
After listening to Elias, the imam stayed silent for a moment. Then he leaned closer and spoke in a low, serious tone:
> "There's something I heard many years ago. Not a myth — real, but hidden. A group of people — educated, powerful — who believe in chaos. They don't worship Satan with rituals like in movies. No. They believe that by rejecting all morality and conscience, they come closer to ultimate control. They do what no one else can... including murder. Cold, calculated, symbolic. Every death is a message. Every fourth day... a date they use".
Elias asked if such people still exist. The imam replied:
> "They don't wear signs. They're teachers, traders, government men, even religious-looking. But you won't know — unless you're marked. And once you are..."
He paused.
"They never forget."
Elias leaves the mosque with a strange chill in his spine — the fourth day, the compact mirror, the warning letter from Rina… it all starts feeling connected.
---