CHAPTER 4:-
A week had passed since the explosion at the residence of the late Dr. Richard—an incident that quickly made local headlines. The detective, however, had been confined to a hospital bed for nearly two weeks, spending his days recuperating from his injuries. As a result, the meeting he had been scheduled to attend—with the Leader of the Foundation Alliance—was indefinitely postponed.
Five days after his admission, one of his superiors from the Investigations Department carved time out of an otherwise relentless work schedule to visit him in his private hospital ward.
Mr. Reagan Armai.
—or, as the detective preferred to call him, "Reags."
A gentleman in his early thirties, Reagan was graceful in both speech and demeanor—a smooth talker, always composed. Fully absorbed in his work, he never compromised when it came to duty. In every way imaginable, he was the detective's polar opposite.
Where the detective dodged work at every opportunity—usually unsuccessfully—Reagan embraced it.
And on top of that, he never missed a chance to tease him.
[OUTSIDE THE DETECTIVE'S PRIVATE WARD]
The door opens.
Footsteps echo softly as someone approaches the hospital bed, where the detective lies, lost in thought.
"I heard about the explosion at Dr. Richard's place," a familiar voice said.
"And I also heard you were admitted here, so I spared the time to come check up on you."
The footsteps stopped beside the bed.
"So," the man continued,"how are you feeling… Detective Silvers?"
— Mr. Reagan Armai
The detective's eyes widened.
"Somebody—quick! Call a doctor!" he shouted in mock panic.
"I think I'm starting to see ghosts."
Reagan stared at him.
"It's been ages since we last saw each other," he said slowly, "and that is your first reaction?"
"And after all the trouble I went through just to be here—just to see how you're holding up—you couldn't even pretend to be happy to see me?"
He sighed dramatically.
"Ouch."
The detective squinted at him.
"Wait… so you're telling me Reagan the Workaholic, Machine 2.0," he said, tapping his chin thoughtfully,
"decided—on his own—to skip a full day of work just to visit little old Detective Silvers in the hospital?"
He leaned back against the pillow.
"Hmmm… yeah, that fall really must've messed me up. I probably hit my head harder than I thought."
Reagan pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Would you give it a rest?" he said.
"I came because I heard you were in a major accident. An explosion. A fall. The whole deal."
He looked the detective over from head to toe.
"But honestly," he added, "from where I'm standing, you seem to be doing better than me."
He tilted his head slightly.
"For someone who survived an explosion and fell from the second floor of a residential building…"
A pause.
"I can't help but wonder."
Reagan narrowed his eyes, studying him with open suspicion.
"Whaaaaaa—!!" the detective exclaimed dramatically.
"You mean meee!? Are you seriously suggesting that I—a detective of my calibre—am deliberately keeping myself hospitalized just to avoid potential work from the Investigations Department!? Is that what you're saying!?"
He pointed at himself in disbelief.
"So you think I'd stoop so low as to fa—"
"Yes," Reagan cut in flatly.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, you would stoop that low."
The detective froze.
He slowly turned his head toward Reagan and wore the most exaggerated, fake-shocked expression imaginable.
"…Fair enough."
He sighed and waved a dismissive hand.
"But cut me some slack, would you? I was this close to dying, you know. And thanks to the doctor, I'm actually feeling a whole lot better now. So no—I wasn't trying to dodge work this time around."
"That's good to hear," Reagan replied calmly.
"And speaking of the doctor—I spoke with him earlier before coming in to see you."
The detective stiffened slightly.
"He says your recovery from the injuries you sustained from the fall and the explosion was nothing short of a miracle," Reagan continued.
"The fractured ribs you suffered healed abnormally fast—far quicker than what's considered medically possible. In all his years of practice, he claims he's never seen anything like it."
"Is that so!?" the detective said, laughing.
"Well, I guess I'm just that tough to kill."
"The doctor also mentioned," Reagan added,
watching him closely,
"that given your recovery, you could actually be discharged today."
"Oh—wow, really?" the detective replied quickly.
"That's… nice, I guess. But, uh—you see—"
"But somebody," Reagan interrupted,
"had the doctor write a recommendation for a two-month leave of absence in their medical report."
A pause.
"And I wonder who that could've been."
"Two months should be more than enough time to recover from the trauma of nearly being blown to bits!" the detective argued.
"C'mon, Reagan—have some conscience."
Reagan let out a deep, exhausted sigh.
"What am I going to do with you…?" he muttered, rubbing his temples.
The mood shifted.
"Hey… Reags."
"…Yeah?" Reagan replied, already knowing where this was going.
"This is about Dr. Richard's case, isn't it?"
"…Yeah," Silvers admitted.
"I've got a really bad feeling about all of this. Nothing about it makes sense."
"Really?" Reagan asked, curiosity piqued.
"How so?"
"Before the explosion happened," Silvers began,
"I encountered a mysterious man on my way there. He had this… indescribable presence about him."
He paused.
"He mentioned something about a fire—said the fire service was already on its way—then vanished."
Reagan's expression tightened slightly.
"And not long after that, the explosion happened. Right on the second floor," Silvers continued.
"That's not a coincidence."
He swallowed.
"What's even stranger was the journal I found—it belonged to Dr. Richard. On the very last page, there was a message… directed to me."
He looked straight at Reagan.
"It was the exact same message the man said to me. Verbatim."
Reagan said nothing.
"The journal itself was old—written back when Dr. Richard was still alive," Silvers added.
"And I'm certain it wasn't tampered with. I would've known."
A quiet moment passed.
"…I can't explain it," Silvers finally said.
"But something really bad is going to happen in this country. Soon. My gut's never been this loud before."
Reagan exhaled slowly.
"You've never struck me as the superstitious type," he said.
"You're usually one of the most logically grounded people I know—and yet this case has you rattled."
He crossed his arms.
"From where I'm standing, this is still a straightforward homicide. Dr. Richard was likely robbed, killed by thugs, and his parcel stolen."
A pause.
"No use overthinking it."
"But the money in his wallet—and every other valuable he had on him—was still intact," the detective pressed, his tone firm.
"So how do you explain that!? And what about the explosion at his residence? Surely that can't be a coincidence."
"…Right," Reagan admitted after a pause.
"But no matter how you look at it, it's still a homicide. Your job—and mine—is to bring whoever's responsible to justice."
He straightened.
"And we do have a lead on the suspects responsible for Dr. Richard's murder."
The detective's face immediately lit up.
"Now that's what I'm talking about!" he said, energized.
"So—tell me."
Reagan reached into his pocket and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper.
He unfolded it carefully and handed it over.
"It's a still image captured from a security camera," Reagan explained.
"Taken as the suspects fled the scene. They appear to be a group of six. As you can see, their identities aren't clear—but we're working nonstop to gather any intel we can on them."
The detective studied the image closely.
"They look like teenagers," he muttered.
"That's already strange."
He squinted, his expression sharpening.
"If this security camera was able to capture them this clearly while exiting the alley, then it must've been mounted relatively close. Close enough to have a clean angle."
Reagan tilted his head.
"And what are you getting at?"
"I had officers thoroughly inspect the entire area that night," the detective replied.
"We checked every building for security cameras—anything that might've captured the incident or potential suspects."
He tapped the photo.
"Most of the cameras we found were mounted far away. None of them had a clear angle on the alley. Nothing useful."
He looked up at Reagan.
"But this image suggests the camera was positioned perfectly—at an angle and distance ideal enough to capture the suspects as they exited."
A beat.
"And I know for a fact that the officers in charge of that search would never miss a camera sitting somewhere that obvious."
Reagan's brow furrowed.
"…I'm guessing you're about to ask where we got this."
"I am," the detective said, unease creeping into his voice.
"Where did this lead come from?"
Reagan hesitated.
"This image was sent to us anonymously," he admitted.
"The sender claimed they wanted to assist the department in bringing Dr. Richard's killers to justice."
The detective stiffened.
"Wait," he said slowly.
"You're telling me this came from an anonymous source?"
He looked back down at the image.
"Wasn't it an anonymous caller who tipped the police off about a robbery in that alley?"
"And when officers arrived, it turned out to be both a robbery and a homicide—the victim being Dr. Rich—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
"…Hold on."
He stared at the image again.
Then his eyes widened.
"Hey, Reags," he said quietly.
"Come take a look at this."
Reagan leaned in.
"Look at the timestamp," the detective said, pointing to a corner of the image.
"…9:55 p.m.," Reagan read aloud.
"Exactly," the detective replied.
"Now compare that to the police arrival time—approximately 10:00 p.m."
He looked up, voice low.
"That's a five-minute gap between when the suspects exited the alley and when the police arrived."
Reagan's eyes narrowed.
"You're right," he said slowly.
"That would suggest they fled the moment they heard police sirens approaching…"
He paused.
"…But that would mean—"
His voice trailed off as the implication finally hit him.
"…..Exactly what you're thinking," the detective said, his voice low and deliberate.
"The anonymous call came before the robbery—and before the homicide ever took place."
Reagan's expression darkened.
"It may sound like a stretch," the detective continued, "but I believe the police were alerted to a robbery in advance—before it ever happened. A robbery that supposedly would've taken us over half an hour to respond to."
He tapped the still image again.
"If it really was just a robbery that escalated into a homicide—especially in a notorious alley like that—wouldn't it be in the suspects' best interest to grab what they came for and disappear immediately?"
Silence hung in the room.
"The police took over thirty minutes to arrive after the anonymous call," the detective went on.
"That's more than enough time for the suspects to have vanished completely."
He looked up, eyes sharp.
"But the evidence tells us they fled barely five minutes before the police arrived."
A pause.
[Inner Monologue — Detective Silvers]
Was everything planned from the very beginning…? By the anonymous caller, perhaps?
For something like this to work, it would require absurdly precise timing—planning for multiple variables and uncertainties.
Just like the explosion at Dr. Richard's residence… perfectly timed. Timed well enough to let me read the final page of that journal before everything went up in flames.
The timing was too perfect. Borderline impossible.
This isn't coincidence. And if it isn't… then what exactly is their end goal?
"So you think all of this was orchestrated from the start?" Reagan asked carefully.
"I do," the detective replied without hesitation.
"It's the only explanation that accounts for everything."
Reagan leaned back slightly, arms folded.
"Could the mafia be involved?" he asked.
"I mean… they practically control this city. Maybe even the country."
The detective shook his head.
"You mean the Red Valley Syndicate—the Iron Altar?"
"I doubt it."
He exhaled.
"We understand how they operate. And more importantly—there's nothing in this for them. The government already turns a blind eye to most of their activities. They hold too much power."
He looked Reagan dead in the eye.
"Why would they go through the trouble of executing something this intricate just to kill Dr. Richard and steal a few texts? If they wanted him gone, they'd have done it cleanly and publicly."
Reagan nodded slowly.
"I see your point… Still, it's the mafia. We can't completely rule them out."
"Agreed," the detective said.
"But my instincts say this isn't their style."
He shifted slightly on the bed.
"Tell me—did you try tracing the anonymous call?"
Reagan nodded.
"We did. We couldn't pinpoint the exact location, but we narrowed it down to a specific area not too far from the alley."
"Why didn't that lead anywhere?" the detective asked.
"It's a large area," Reagan replied.
"And the caller never contacted us again."
The detective fell silent for a moment.
Then—
"Do you remember anything about that area?" he asked quietly.
"Landmarks. Buildings. Streets. Anything at all."
Reagan hesitated.
"…There was something," he said slowly.
The detective's eyes sharpened instantly.
"What?"
Reagan leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"... Well yes I do remember some buildings like The Federal Depositary, there's also the popular national park, hmm let's see.... There's the Villion Hotel, a few clinics and I think there used to be a well known Foster home around that area aswell."
"It's a pretty large area, I really don't think we can find anything on the anonymous caller, we tried several times already."
"…Detective Silvers… huh? …Silvers!!?"
No response.
"…Hey, Silvers—are you even listening?"
[Silvers remained motionless, his eyes
locked onto the still image in his hands.]
"Hey, Reags," the detective finally said, his voice distant,
"remember when I said the suspects looked like a bunch of teenagers?"
"Yes, I remember," Reagan replied. "Why?"
"Well," Silvers continued slowly,
"since they're our prime suspects, let's assume—for a moment—that they have no parents. Where would kids like that most likely end up?"
Reagan frowned.
"Hm… the streets? …No. That doesn't quite fit. Maybe a place where children without parents are raised—like an orphanage or—"
Silvers nodded once.
"…a foster home."
Reagan's eyes widened slightly as the realization settled in.
"But how does that connect to the anonymous caller?" he asked.
"It doesn't," Silvers admitted.
"But it might be our only real shot at finding those six. From my end, it's just a theory—nothing more."
Reagan groaned, dragging his hands down his face.
"So let me get this straight," he said in frustration.
"You came up with this on the fly, based on a string of 'what ifs,' and now you want the investigations department to inspect a foster home purely on speculation?"
Silvers met his gaze calmly.
"Do you have a better lead on where six unidentified teenage suspects might be hiding?" he asked.
"If not, then checking the foster home shouldn't be a problem."
He paused, then added casually—
"Especially since I'll be off duty for the next two months."
Reagan stared at him.
"I'll leave it to you and the department,"
Silvers continued.
"And if it turns out to be a dead end, at least we'll have ruled something out."
Reagan sighed deeply.
"…Your lingering doubts, you mean."
Silvers smiled faintly.
"I suppose I can spare a day from my very busy schedule to look into the foster home,"
Reagan finally said.
He glanced at his watch.
"…It's getting late. Guess we talked longer than I expected."
"Oh, right," Silvers replied.
"You only came to say hi. Funny how that works—we haven't talked this long in ages."
"Yeah," Reagan said with a small smile.
"Hard to do when you're slaving away to keep your career afloat. Heard that quote from a really lazy fellow."
"And that lazy fellow just happens to be one of the top detectives around," Silvers shot back.
"Ain't that ironic?"
"Oh please," Reagan scoffed. "Quit flattering yourself."
He turned toward the door.
"I'll be heading out. Take care of yourself—don't be reckless. And for once, don't be lazy."
He paused.
"Did your wife visit you?"
"Oh, she did," Silvers said with a chuckle.
"Gave me an earful after the explosion. Honestly, I couldn't tell which was more dangerous—her or the blast."
Reagan raised an eyebrow.
"But she's graceful, reserved," Silvers continued warmly,
"and… she's the epitome of beauty in my world. Words can't describe how much I—"
"Ahem."
[Reagan coughed loudly.]
"…Right," Silvers said quickly, laughing nervously.
"Sorry. Rambling again."
"It's fine," Reagan said.
"I'm glad to hear it. Take care."
He opened the door.
"Hey, Reags," Silvers added quietly.
"…Thanks for coming. I really appreciate it."
Reagan paused.
"…Of course," he said without turning around.
"That's what friends are for."
Then—
"Oh, almost forgot," Reagan added.
"I rescheduled your meeting with the leader of the Foundation Alliance. Two months from now. Prepare yourself."
Silvers froze.
"W–w–wait—hold on! The doctor's report says I sho—"
[The door slammed shut.]
Silvers stared at it in disbelief.
"…I can't believe he did that," he muttered.
"And we just had a heart-warming moment."
[He sighed, then slowly looked back down at the still image in his hands.]
The six shadowed figures stared back at him.
Teenagers
A foster home.
An anonymous caller who knew exactly when to move.
The mysterious man I met that day.
"…If I'm right," Silvers murmured,
"then whatever this is… it started long before Dr. Richard died."
[The room fell silent.]