Rotterdam. Day 1.
The skies remained overcast, and the air hung heavy with moisture. Shin stepped out of the metro station wearing cheap sunglasses, white wireless earbuds, a beanie that reached his ears, and a plain gray coat two sizes too big. A stick of gum moved slowly between his teeth. The wind pushed back against his jacket as if annoyed by the disguise.
He didn't mind. The disguise wasn't for stealth—it was for invisibility. The kind earned not by blending in, but by standing out just enough to be ignored.
People notice threats. They ignore clowns.
He leaned on a handrail across from the museum and waited.
Milo emerged from his apartment three blocks south just before noon. This time, he looked energized and confident, nothing like the tensed man Shin had followed the day before. He looked like someone on a mission, and with a practiced casualness, he crossed into the plaza near the museum's annex entrance.
He didn't look both ways when he crossed the street. There was no hesitation before he turned down the alley. He walked with a distinctive confidence, as if the entire city belonged to him.
Shin followed from a distance, adjusting his pace with each red light. He didn't need to follow directly—he already knew where Milo was heading.
He hadn't taken anything the day before. So if he truly wanted to prove himself as he claimed, he would need to target the mirror soon enough.
Milo circled the museum's east wing, his hands in pockets, scanning the place casually.
Shin didn't just observe Milo. He observed the wind around him, the way it flowed unchallenged over the cloak Milo wore.
Incredible.
Even though he knew it was not some artificial effect or a physical trick. It felt magical and unnatural beyond any reason, as if the world could only watch yet dared not touch it. Shin was confident this was an artifact—real and unearned.
As Shin followed Milo, he mentally cataloged every move:
Left turn, slower. Avoids direct eye contact with workers. Fake phone checks near security camera angles. Right knee slightly stiff—slows when pivoting.
He moved ahead, slipping behind a tram stop shelter, and tilted his head to catch the wind patterns.
He was checking for human patrols, he realized. Does he plan to make his retreat through here?
From Milo's perspective, the street felt like an opportunity. He needed to plan his escape route, and this place seemed perfect. He passed a few tourists, counted the window sensors with a casual glance, and verified that nothing could leave a picture of him later.
Barely any cameras and not many people. An ideal place, Milo thought. He entered the museum through the side hall with a composed face.
Shin was just behind him.
The coat was damp from the rain, and his sunglasses awkwardly caught the yellow hallway lights. A few visitors looked at him—not alarmed, but puzzled.
A museum staffer glanced twice, then shrugged. On the western side of the hall, a girl tugged at her mother's coat.
"Mom," she whispered, staring at Shin, "is he a spy?"
"Shh. No, honey, don't look—"
Shin kept chewing his gum, his eyes unmoved behind reflective lenses.
He didn't spare a thought for the people around him; they were nothing but background noise, set dressing. His only target was moving—and so must he.
He moved without pausing—past the old Dutch relics, the textile displays in the corridor, those glass vaults showing some ceremonial coins—he simply didn't care. There was only one thing that mattered now: the path that Milo followed.
There. Ahead.
Milo had slipped into the far-right wing near the private archives and restricted holdings. It wasn't a straight route—he doubled back once, glancing behind, and faked disinterest as a small group of tourists walked by.
Shin moved with the crowd, letting the hum of schoolchildren and tour murmurs muffle his presence. His earbuds weren't playing anything; they just muted the expectation that he'd speak.
From a nearby bench, he pretended to read the visitor map. In his peripheral vision, Milo checked the glass pane of a display—not to admire it, but to catch the reflection of the corridor behind him.
He doesn't trust his timing yet, Shin noted. But he's not uncertain, either—just testing his rhythm. Milo seemed to take some notes in a small notebook, which Shin couldn't fully see. He didn't know what he had written, but he determined that Milo's objective must be close.
Shin watched him stop near a narrow wall console beside a sculpture display. Behind that wall was the old security access—probably disconnected years ago, but never removed.
Hmmm? Interesting. Could it be...?
By 1:00 p.m., Milo completed his loop. He paused at a vending machine, bought a water bottle, and walked the long way home, avoiding the main avenue. He didn't once look back.
Shin lingered a little longer, walking past the spot where Milo had stood and breathing gently. The air still carried tension, motion, and planning. He turned and left without a word.
He didn't follow Milo all the way back. There was no need. He leaned against a wall near the tram station, watching as Milo vanished across the plaza.
As expected, he's planning to steal it soon, Shin remarked. Yesterday was the route planning. Now he's building up the main plan—testing comfort zones like a climber walking the route before his ascent.
Day 2.
Shin ditched the glasses and swapped the coat for a plain black hoodie. This time, there was no gum, only plain clothing and a scarf—just enough to make him faceless.
Milo came out at the same time, but his route was tighter now—more focused. He walked the southern edge of the museum but stopped every few minutes to tie a shoe, check a text, or linger near delivery zones. He held a small phone in his hand, probably recording.
He was timing the doors.
Shin stayed farther back today. He used mirrored windows and tram shadows to track movement without line of sight.
Milo ducked into a side street near a gallery entrance and came out on the other side three minutes later—testing for blind spots. Shin noted the time. Then the angle of the cameras. Then the weather.
The rain threatened again, just like it had the night before. He could feel it rising—not the storm itself, but the pressure that comes before. Milo was almost ready, and Shin was already ahead.
Shin shifted under an awning, letting the wind roll along the rooftops. Milo was ready, or at least close enough. Now, he was waiting for the right moment.
That evening, Shin sat in a narrow rental flat near the outer district, his back facing the wall. On his knees rested a small notebook—its pages filled with loops, timing notations, entry routes.
He tapped the paper once. Then twice.
Everything's in motion.
He reached into his coat and drew out the flute. It was smooth and responded to his touch. He turned it slowly in his hand, feeling the weightless hum of divine power just beneath the surface. It wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be, for there must be a silence before the storm arrives.
And now we wait.
Rotterdam. Day 3. Night.
The wind carried no scent tonight—only tension.
Milo crouched near the maintenance wing of the museum, his heart steady, his breath calm. The badge clipped inside his coat buzzed faintly against his chest. He hadn't tested it since the first run—he didn't want to risk burning it early.
But now? Now it was time.
He'd waited two days. Traced the patrol loops of each shift and logged every single blind spot in the cameras. He was ready.
The west hallway would be completely unmonitored in the window between 1:33 and 1:41.
That was all he needed.
He slipped inside. A door, then a quiet corridor. Another badge swipe.
Then came the glass—clean, reinforced, and tied to the case with a motion-synced alarm. He pulled the panel cover and overrode the sensor delay—not permanently, just enough to buy him twenty seconds. That was all he needed.
He shaped his hand like a pistol and aimed it at the glass. The point glinted in the dim overhead light. His mouth was dry.
Let's see them stop me now.
A crack. Then a pop. The glass fractured with a slight hiss. An alert sounded from somewhere deep in the building—but Milo didn't flinch.
He already knew how long it would take for security to respond. He'd make it out by then. Back out the utility hall, then two turns east, then straight to the tram shelter. He could disappear within three minutes.
His fingers gripped the object. It was small and silver, its dark wooden frame traced with delicate carved lines. It felt warm in his hands. So this was the rumored mirror dubbed 'The Mirror of Kongo'? Everything was going his way—as it should be. And to think this little thing could be sold for over a million. But now, it was all his.
He turned to run.
And paused.
There—across the courtyard—someone was watching.
No. Two people. No—one had vanished. The other ducked behind a tram post.
He twisted, took the side exit, and picked up the speed. He could lose them. He knew the city like the back of his hand. He had already prepared five escape paths.
But as he ran, he felt it.
Eyes. Behind glass. On balconies. Reflections in puddles.
Every corner, every window—someone. Or was there? He was no longer sure. But he couldn't afford to make mistakes. He cut across an alley and saw a shadow step away. Not chasing. Just— waiting.
He ran faster, but the alleys no longer made sense. The turn he needed wasn't there. The crosswalk he'd mapped—gone. Or maybe he missed it. His breath grew sharper, his lungs couldn't keep up.
He ducked left again and found himself in a delivery lot, but another figure turned—coat, glasses, phone.
Milo pivoted and sprinted through the back entrance of a souvenir shop, past two startled workers. Someone shouted, but he didn't hear the words. He crashed through the side door into a side street and emerged—
—right back at the museum gates.
He staggered to a halt, breath ragged.
How?!
He turned in place, spinning like a compass without north. Rain poured harder, soaking his shoes and making his heart pound like a drum. No alarms. No chasers.
Just silence.
And then—
Footsteps
He spun—A figure stepped forward from beneath the arch—coat soaked, hair stuck to his forehead, the wind curling around his shoulders as if greeting an old friend.
His steps were strange. His feet made noise but left no footprints in the mud.
It was as if he walked in the air rather than on the ground.
Milo's eyes went wide. He backed away, clutching the mirror close to his chest. "Who… who are you?"
"What do you want from me?"
The figure didn't answer. It took another step forward.
Milo squinted—and recognition snapped into place. "Wait… you... You're that man who followed me that night!"
The figure moved closer, and for a moment, the streetlamp revealed his face.
Milo's voice cracked when he saw the face of the figure before him.
"No… you… I remember you. You were also in the tower."
"But how—you… didn't you die?!"
Shin didn't blink. The rain didn't reach him—the weather seemed to curve around him—like the wind refused to let it near.
"You took something that belongs to me," he said calmly.
"And I came to retrieve it."
His lips touched the flute lightly, and Milo's mind clouded instantly. The sound was soft and pure. Not quite music, but something between a vibration and the whisper of a blizzard.
The wind around Milo twisted. His limbs tensed. His thoughts frayed.
He tried to open his mouth, but to no avail. His voice disappeared before it could even leave his mouth. He blinked—and Shin was gone.
He looked behind him, stunned. His brain was trying hard to remember what he was doing.
Wasn't he just about to steal the mirror?
How did he get here?
But as his brain refused to remember why he was at the gate, already holding the mirror—
The cops arrived.
Two patrol cars, late but still on script. They found Milo standing just outside the museum, soaked to the bone, and staring at the shiny mirror in his hands. One officer stepped out, tilted his head. "Hey, you! Raise your hands and come here. Slowly."
Milo blinked at them. Then looked down. His hands were still cradling the air. He was sure he had forgotten something important.
"Raise your hands now, sir. We don't want this to get messy."
Milo snapped back to reality, still confused.
"No… I mean… I didn't steal it. Not yet!"
The officer frowned.
"Not yet? Look, pal, aren't you holding it?"
"No… I mean… I planned to. But I didn't do it. You don't understand," Milo stuttered.
Another officer stepped closer.
"Sir, have you been drinking tonight?"
"The cloak—" Milo gasped. "Where is it? Where the hell is my cloak?!"
The officer blinked.
"Your cloak? Is that really what matters right now? It's not even cold!"
"Fool! You don't get it—it wasn't just a cloak. It was divine!"
His voice fell to a whisper.
"I… I was chosen."
A long pause.
"Uh-huh," the first officer muttered, glancing at his partner.
"Alright, get the cuffs. This guy's lost it."
"No! I was chosen," Milo tried to argue, but it was futile—his hands were cuffed, and he was pushed toward the car. He wanted to protest, to fight back. To run. But just as he looked up, he froze.
Something was watching from across the street. A shadow? A silhouette? Whatever it was, Milo could swear that he saw a black figure standing on the rooftop. Milo was not sure, but it looked like... it was playing a flute?
The car door shut before him.
Elsewhere, standing on the rooftop's edge, Shin watched as the final act of his plan unfolded beneath him. The artifact—Milo's cloak—fluttered beside him, still cold as if untouched.
He raised the flute again. And this time, he played a real melody—smooth, eerie, and laced with excitement.
A song carried not by breath—but by the silence of the waiting wind.