The conversation died there, left behind in the compartment as they stepped onto the platform. Outside the station, the rain grew heavier, pelting the glass with steady insistence. The lights flickered for a moment — a ripple of dimness passing through the carriage, before the hum of the system steadied again.
They started toward the exit gates. The sound of dripping water filled the arched ceiling, blending with the soft clatter of distant footsteps.
Marcus rubbed his arms. "This place… gives me the creeps. It's too quiet."
Hans only nodded, his gaze sweeping across the station. The peeling advertisements, the rust-stained walls, the flickering lamps that refused to stay lit. "Feels like the kind of town that remembers things better left forgotten."
Marcus chuckled uneasily. "You and your damn poetry."
They stepped through the main gate, where two officers were waiting. One older, weathered but steady; the other young and stiff in posture.
"Investigators Linnaeus and Marcus of the IBS?" the older one asked, offering a quick salute. "Captain Roussant, Saint-Aldric precinct. This is Officer Miel."
Hans returned the gesture, flashing his badge. "Captain."
The badge gleamed under the dim light — a compass rose with a simple, stylized globe at its center. The four cardinal points were bold and clear, encircled by an unbroken chain. Above it, the words International Bureau of Stability.
Roussant cleared his throat. "We've secured the perimeter. The victims were found inside the residence near the southern edge of town. We-"
Hans raised a hand lightly. "Let's continue this in the car. No need to debrief in the open."
The Captain hesitated, then nodded. "Of course. This way."
They crossed the empty square outside the station, their boots echoing on wet cobblestone. A black IBS sedan idled near the curb, its engine humming softly. A sleek machine that didn't belong in a place like this.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of damp leather. Marcus slid into the back beside Hans. "Didn't expect the Bureau to hand out wheels like this."
Hans shut the door. "Never a good sign when the Bureau starts pouring assets into a case."
Marcus snorted. "I was just coming to that part."
Roussant started the car. "Four bodies. One family. The Delacourts. We received the report last night. Neighbors complained about a stench, so they called it in. The scene's… strange. No forced entry, no sign of struggle, and…" He hesitated. "The miasma started to fill the house."
Hans frowned. "Any witnesses?" He spoke while Marcus busied himself admiring the car's interior.
"None," Roussant said. "But there was a recording device. A Thaumaturgic model. It's damaged, but we sent it to a starchitect for restoration. Should have it by tomorrow."
Hans nodded. "Anything else?"
Roussant sighed. "That's all we know for now. The dispatch officers couldn't stay inside for long. The air was thick. Almost choking. But they managed to retrieve the device before pulling out."
"Makes sense," Hans said quietly.
Marcus scoffed. "And here I thought you people already did the legwork. What are you doing, sightseeing?"
The two officers stayed silent, though Officer Miel's jaw tightened. Marcus leaned back with a smirk. "So we've got four corpses, no witnesses, and a broken magic camera. What kind of freakshow are we stepping into?" He turned toward Hans.
"See, Hans? Now we're stuck doing the dirty work."
Hans looked at him, calm as ever. "What's got you so worked up?"
Marcus frowned. "They're dumping the mess on us, that's what."
Hans shook his head. "Perhaps read the report next time, Marcus. I mean it."
"There's nothing in that report worth remembering," Marcus said sharply. "They proved it by not doing their job."
Hans exhaled softly. "Just say you didn't finish reading it. The miasma is thick and lethal for normal men. You expected them to stay longer?"
Marcus fell silent, and faint smirks crossed the officers' faces.
Hans turned his attention to the window. The town of Saint-Aldric passed by — narrow streets, shuttered shops, a horizon that seemed to sink under its own silence. A cold knot tightened in his gut, faint and distant, like a memory struggling to surface.
Marcus drummed his fingers against the glass. "You notice how these small towns always smell the same? Rain, rust, and bad memories."
Hans didn't look at him. "Smells like time standing still."
Marcus chuckled. "You ever get tired of sounding like a damn preacher?"
"I'd rather sound like one than become what you sound like," Hans replied, tone dry but calm.
Roussant tried to hide a smirk from the driver's seat.
Marcus leaned forward. "Careful, Captain. He bites when you laugh at his sermons."
Hans ignored him, watching the streets slip by. The lamps outside burned pale through the mist. A stray cat darted across an alley, and somewhere, a church bell tolled once. Distant and hollow.
Marcus stretched his legs. "So, no witnesses at all? Not even a drunk wandering by who saw something he shouldn't?"
Roussant shook his head. "Saint-Aldric goes quiet after dusk. Always has. People here keep to themselves."
"Convenient," Marcus muttered. "And the recording device. You trust that starchitect to get it working?"
"Only one stationed in the region," Roussant said. "If anyone can extract something from it, it's her. Though she's… eccentric."
Marcus snorted. "They all are. Too much exposure to their own inventions."
Hans finally spoke, voice thoughtful. "Even if they repair the recording, we might not like what we see."
Marcus raised a brow. "That supposed to mean something?"
Hans's gaze stayed on the window. "Just a feeling."
The car fell silent. The wipers creaked back and forth, a slow metronome of unease.
They turned toward the southern district. Ahead, faint blue lights flickered through the fog. The first barricades came into view. Uniformed officers standing under flickering lamps, faces pale and tired.
"That's it up ahead," Roussant said quietly. "The Delacourt residence."
Hans straightened slightly. "Hm."
The car rolled to a stop beside a pair of patrol vehicles. Their emergency lights spun lazily, dyeing the mist in soft shades of red and blue. The fog here was thicker — heavy, almost alive.
Marcus leaned forward, squinting through the windshield. "Well, that's lovely. Looks like the house's breathing out its sins."
Hans didn't reply. He stepped out, coat catching the faint chill that hung in the air. The ground was slick beneath his boots.
"We'll get going to the station, inform of your arrival at the scene." Roussant said through the open window. Hans nodded.
"Stay safe." The car pulled away, exiting the gate of the residence. The pair approached a cluster of uniformed officers. One of them, a man in his forties with heavy eyes — straightened as they approached.
"You must be from headquarters? My unit's the one dispatched. Name's—"
"IBS," Hans interrupted, showing his badge. "Investigator Linnaeus. This is Marcus."
The officer blinked. "IBS? Well, fuck me."
Marcus gave a casual salute. "Evening, Sergeant. Miasma looks charming tonight."
The man, Sergeant Bastrava, according to his tag — didn't laugh. "You could say so. Started rollin' in maybe half an hour ago. Gets thicker every damn minute. My men can't stay by the porch too long, say their heads start to spin."
Marcus swept his flashlight toward the property. The beam caught fragments, the outline of a modest house with peeling paint, a porch with uneven steps, and a yard half-swallowed by creeping grass. An old tricycle lay rusted near the fence.
"Family had kids," Marcus noted.
"Two," Bastrava said quietly. "A girl and a boy. Haven't seen either since last night. Neighbors say they kept to themselves. The father worked shifts down at the port. The mother, she ran a small tailoring business from home."
Hans took brief notes in his small ledger. "No prior records? No disturbances, no registered pacts under their name?"
None," Bastrava muttered. "They weren't that type, non. Kept their heads down, paid their dues."
Marcus hummed. "They never are." His light swept the upper windows. "Place looks clean for a working family. Quiet street, trimmed yard. Doesn't scream 'ritual gone wrong.'"
Bastrava shook his head. "We thought the same, at first. Then the black miasma came. It's thicker near the door. You'll see soon enough."
Hans stepped forward. The closer they got, the quieter everything became. Even the distant hum of the city seemed to fade.
At the porch steps, Hans paused, his eyes narrowing at the dark doorway. He raised a hand. "Stay close. I'll put up a ward."
Bastrava frowned. "A ward, you say? Hmph. You think it's that kind of contamination?"
"It's standard when there's residual miasma," Hans said. "It's usually a byproduct of a pact not properly sealed."
Uneasy glances passed among the younger officers. One whispered, "Failed pact? But they weren't practitioners…"
Marcus grinned. "That's why it's thicker and lethal. People play with things they don't understand. Same story, different week."
Hans ignored him, extending his hand. He murmured softly, the words precise. Almost mathematical. The air shimmered faintly; a small sigil flared gold, then dissolved. A gentle warmth pulsed outward, pushing back the clinging chill of the miasma for a moment.
Bastrava blinked, rubbing his palms as if he felt the echo. "What was that?"
"Protection ward," Hans said simply. "It'll hold against exposure."
"So we can go back in now?" one of the officers asked.
Hans nodded. "You're safe as long as you stay within the radius."
Marcus rolled his shoulders, stepping ahead with a grin. "See? Told you — the man's good. IBS still trains 'em proper."
"Didn't think investigators still used blessings," another officer muttered, half awe, half disbelief.
"A minor blessing," Hans clarified. "Nothing worth mentioning."
"Most don't bother," Marcus said. "But Hans here's old-fashioned. Likes his wards clean and his conscience cleaner."
Hans gave him a sidelong look. "Are you done?"
"Not yet."
Bastrava sighed and motioned his men forward. "Alright, you heard him. Stay close, no wanderin' off. We make this quick, oui?"