Vaelor woke before dawn. His gaze drifted to the wall clock.
5:30 A.M.
Without hesitation, he reached out and shook Perun's shoulder.
Perun groaned, his consciousness floating somewhere between dreams and irritation.
"What are you doing… at midnight?"
Vaelor looked at him calmly, almost coldly.
"It's already 5:30. Did you forget what we decided last night?"
Perun muttered something unintelligible. A vague fragment of memory surfaced, then sank again. He turned his face to the wall, attempting to reclaim sleep.
Vaelor shook him harder.
Minutes later, the two of them stood outside the apartment.
The road lay silent beneath the waning darkness, as though the city itself had yet to awaken. Streetlights flickered weakly, their yellow glow stretching long, distorted shadows across the empty asphalt.
Perun yawned, his eyes unfocused.
Vaelor pointed ahead. "We start here. Run until the advertisement board. Then return."
Perun squinted. "I can't even see it. Where is it?"
"No need to see," Vaelor replied evenly. "Just follow me."
They ran.
Time passed unnoticed.
When Perun finally stopped, he bent forward, breathing heavily—then froze. "I… finished it," he said in disbelief. "Not even one percent tired."
Vaelor nodded once. "Good. Now ten more rounds."
Perun straightened slowly. "What? Ten?"
He laughed weakly. "That's impossible for me."
Vaelor crossed his arms, his voice flat. "For now, I'm your teacher."
By the fifth round, Perun collapsed.
His legs felt like stone. His lungs burned as if filled with fire. Vaelor, meanwhile, completed all ten without any visible change in rhythm, his breathing steady, his expression unchanged.
"You don't need to run anymore," Vaelor said. "Push-ups."
Perun dropped to the ground. "How many?"
"As many as you can."
"One… two… three…"
His arms trembled violently. He fell flat against the cold pavement.
"Crunches," Vaelor said, unfazed. "I'll hold your legs."
Perun tried to sit up. Failed. "I think…" he gasped, "I have to go now."
Vaelor looked down at him. "Aren't you trying to become stronger?"
"Yes," Perun replied firmly. "With full conviction. But… from tomorrow."
He stood up unsteadily and headed home.
Vaelor finished the remainder of his training alone.
The day passed in silence.
They watched old movies on television, letting hours drift by. Vaelor taught Perun several boxing techniques from a worn book, adjusting his stance, correcting angles with quiet patience.
That evening, Perun returned to his former workplace and informed the owner of his resignation. The man paid the remaining wages without protest, as though he had already expected this ending.
Two days passed.
Then the landline rang.
Perun picked it up immediately. "Hello, Mr. Elane."
"Yes, Perun," came the reply. "I've found work for both of you. You'll start tomorrow at nine in the morning. Salary—three dollars and fifty cents per week."
Perun listened carefully.
"You'll be assigned to Alpha Angel," Elane continued. "And your cousin—to Eagle Eye."
The names stirred faint unease.
"May I have the addresses?" Perun asked.
"Alpha Angel—East Norus, Maiden Street, B7. Eagle Eye—Southwest Norus, Crystal Mansion, G5."
Perun wrote everything down.
That night passed swiftly.
In the morning, they dressed in fresh white shirts and black trousers. Perun adjusted Vaelor's collar with care.
"Don't get it dirty," he warned. "And please don't tear it."
They ate breakfast together, locked the apartment, and left.
At the crossroads, they parted ways.
Vaelor arrived at Eagle Eye.
It was a restaurant.
Confusion crept in. He approached the reception counter.
A blond-haired boy stood there, wearing a yellow-and-blue checkered shirt. A badge pinned to his chest read: Lemon.
Vaelor thought briefly—he resembles his name.
"Hello," Vaelor said. "Mr. Elane sent me."
The boy glanced around, then lowered his voice.
"Go there."
He nodded toward a door marked Store Room.
Vaelor followed, unease tightening in his chest.
The room inside was dusty, cluttered with rusted furniture and forgotten tools. The receptionist subtly gestured again—further in.
Vaelor noticed it then.
A door blended seamlessly into the wall. No handle. Almost invisible. Beside it, a small circular button.
He pressed it. The wall slid open.
A man stood beyond it, wearing a dark yellow deerstalker cap and a brown vest. His eyes were red—unnaturally sharp.
"Come in."
The door sealed shut behind them.
They walked through a narrow corridor lined with red carpet. Dim lights glowed faintly at the corners, barely enough to push back the darkness.
"This path is long," Vaelor muttered.
The man only stared at him.
They entered a room marked Headquarters.
Inside, a man in his late thirties sat behind a desk. Sharp glasses reflected the light, concealing his eyes. Two others rose immediately upon noticing him.
"Yes, sir," they said, and left.
"I'm Vaelor," he said. "Mr. Elane sent me."
The man studied him carefully.
"Another privileged one…"
"I'm Augustin," he said at last. "Head officer here. We investigate matters the law cannot."
Vaelor nodded.
"Truman."
The red-eyed man stepped forward.
"Prepare his identification. Give him an advance and give him the contract. Then show him the case."
Minutes later, Vaelor exited with Truman. His details were recorded—age, twenty-two. An envelope was pressed into his hand and a contract ,Vaelor signed it.
"Seven dollars."
They took a taxi.
The city passed by in silence.
They stopped before a modest two-story house wedged between others. Its paint was faded, its walls cracked. From the outside, it looked harmless.
Yet the air around it felt… heavy.
Inside, the hall told a different story.
Dark red stains were embedded into the floor, dried and uneven, like shadows refusing to fade. Some marks were smeared—dragged. At the center, white chalk outlined a human body, precise.
Vaelor swallowed.
"For now," Truman said quietly, "observe. Don't touch anything. Remember everything."
Vaelor's eyes moved—overturned chair, shattered glass, the lingering metallic scent in the air.
"This case," Truman continued, "concerns a serial killer."
Vaelor turned sharply.
"He was murdered."
The words settled slowly. A serial killer—
not arrested. not executed. Killed.
A chill crept up Vaelor's spine as the truth revealed itself:
In this city, even monsters could become victims.