A cold, analytical part of Noir's mind, usually dominant, was now paralyzed by sheer, unadulterated fear. This wasn't a problem to be solved with logic. This was existence itself, unraveling. He was trapped, not just in Alder's body, but in a world that was hurtling towards an unknown cataclysm. The thought of fighting, of even understanding, felt utterly futile in the face of such cosmic dread.
His eyes darted from Elias's empty diary to Alder's, then to the chaotic stacks of books on the desk. Every object in the room now seemed to hum with a hidden, ominous significance. Every book was a potential clue, every shadow a potential threat. He had desperately wanted answers, and now he had them, far more terrifying than he could have imagined.
The silence of the room, once a comfort, was now oppressive, stretching taut, filled with unspoken horrors. He could almost feel the presence Alder had mentioned, pressing in, an invisible, patient hunter. He was alone, utterly and completely, with this newfound, horrifying knowledge.
...
The midday sun cast long, thin shadows across the room. Outside, the distant clang of machinery and the faint shouts of street vendors signaled that it was noon. Noir knew Grace would be returning shortly from the university. He had to pull himself together.
He couldn't afford to be consumed by panic. Not now. Not when another person who knew Alder was about to walk through that door. He had to appear normal, collected, as if he hadn't just glimpsed the terrifying truth about their shared reality.
He quickly placed Elias's diary back on the side table, tucking it carefully beneath the other books, trying to make it seem undisturbed. Then, with trembling hands, he closed Alder's diary and slid it back into its hidden spot on the desk. He stood, forcing his legs to obey, to move away from the source of his terror.
He walked to the window, gazing out at the familiar street, trying to anchor himself in the mundane. People moved about, horse-drawn carriages rattled past, life continued, utterly oblivious to the "setup" Elias had described. How could they not see it?
He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady his racing heart. He needed to think, to find a plan. But first, he needed to put on Alder's face, to act the part. Grace would be here any minute.
...
The sudden, sharp rap echoed through the quiet room, a sound that sliced through Noir's chaotic thoughts like a knife.
Knock, knock, knock.
It was firm, insistent, accompanied by a voice, deep and resonant.
"Alder Wilson? Open up, please!"
Noir froze, his breath catching in his throat. He had just begun to compose himself, to don Alder's mask, and now this. He instinctively moved to the window, pulling aside a corner of the curtain.
Below, on the cobblestone street, stood four figures. All wore identical black suits and long trench coats, the hems falling slightly above their knees. Their postures were rigid, professional, an air of quiet authority radiating from them even at this distance. Their faces were grim, their expressions unreadable beneath the brims of their hats.
Not an ordinary visit. Every instinct screamed danger. He glanced at the diary, still lying on the desk, its horrifying revelations fresh in his mind. Elias… gone. We're all doomed. Had they come for him? Was this the "it" that was "coming for everyone connected"?
He took a shaky breath, forcing himself to move. He couldn't hide. He couldn't pretend not to be home. Alder Wilson had just been called, and Alder Wilson would answer. He walked to the heavy oak door, his hand clammy on the cold metal handle.
"Who is it?" Noir asked, his voice sounding steadier than he felt, though a slight tremor still betrayed him.
"Police investigation," the voice from outside replied, the words clipped and formal. "Regarding Elias Thorne. Open the door, Mr. Wilson."
Police. The word was a heavy stone in his gut. They were here about Elias.
He unlatched the door and pulled it open, stepping back slightly to allow them entry. The four men filed in, their boots making soft, deliberate thuds on the wooden floor. The lead officer, a tall man with a stern face and keen, intelligent eyes, removed his hat.
"Alder Wilson?" he asked, his voice surprisingly calm, though his gaze was piercing.
Noir swallowed, trying to steady his nerves. "Yes. That's me."
The officer gestured to the room. "May we come in? This concerns Elias Thorne."
"Of course," Noir managed, stepping further back. The four men entered, filling the space with their imposing presence. Two remained by the door, while the lead officer and another, younger man with a more aggressive set to his jaw, stepped further into the room.
"Mr. Wilson," the lead officer began, his voice low, "it's about Elias. He... he was found deceased this morning."
Noir felt a jolt, a physical confirmation of the diary's grim pronouncements. "Deceased?" he repeated, feigning shock, though a cold certainty already gripped him. So, Elias truly was gone.
"Yes," the officer continued, his gaze unwavering. "His body was discovered at his residence. The circumstances are... unusual. The attending physician confirmed suicidal death. He... hit his forehead repeatedly against a wall until he succumbed to his injuries."
Noir felt a wave of nausea. The sheer brutality of it. Not just gone, but that… that was how he went? He instinctively reached up, touching his own forehead, a phantom ache echoing Elias's final, desperate act. He tried to mimic a look of profound distress, though genuine horror was already etched on his face.
"We understand you were Elias Thorne's closest friend," the second officer interjected, his voice sharper, his eyes narrowed on Noir. "And that you were with him on the evening of the 4th of November."
Noir's mind raced. The 4th. The day of the "luck-increasing ritual." The day Alder wrote his final entry. He had to say something, but what? The truth was impossible. A lie was risky. He grasped for the most plausible denial, something that fit the chaotic nature of Alder's last diary entry.
"The 4th?" Noir stammered, forcing a look of strained confusion. "I… I don't remember." He shook his head slowly, a carefully constructed bewilderment on his face. "In fact, I… I don't remember anything clearly from the 2nd to the 4th of November. It's like… a blank. As if I simply… lost my memory of that particular period of time." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "It's all a blur. I feel… unwell, since then."
The second officer scoffed, stepping forward, his jaw tight. "Lost your memory, Mr. Wilson? Really? Your closest friend dies in such a... specific manner, and you just happen to have a convenient amnesia about the very days leading up to it?" His voice rose, tinged with anger. "Don't lie to us, Mr. Wilson. We know you were together. Tell us what really happened!"
"That's enough, Officer Rhys," the lead officer said, a quiet authority in his voice that immediately halted his subordinate. He turned back to Noir, his expression softening, though his eyes remained sharp. "If that's the case, Mr. Wilson, then it can't be helped." He paused, his gaze thoughtful. "We understand this must be a shock. However, due to the peculiar nature of Mr. Thorne's death, we will still require your cooperation for further investigation." He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a small, official-looking card. "We'll need you to come down to the police department once our expert arrives. She's currently out of the city, but she should be here in about three days." He handed the card to Noir. "We'll send a summons. Please be ready."
With a final, scrutinizing glance, the lead officer nodded to his men. "Let's go."
The four men turned and silently filed out, their footsteps receding down the corridor, then the stairs. Noir stood by the open door, watching their dark, imposing forms disappear from view. The door clicked shut, leaving him alone once more in the oppressive silence of the room.
His hands clenched into fists, then unclenched. Three days. An expert. A summons. The words echoed in his head, cold and clinical. They hadn't believed him, not truly. The second officer's anger, the main officer's calculated acceptance. They were testing him. Pushing him. And they would come back.
He thought of Elias's last words. This world… a setup. It will happen again. Was Elias's death just another part of this grim play? And Alder's "amnesia"—was that a cover, a genuine symptom, or a convenient story for a police inquiry? Noir hadn't been lying when he said he didn't remember; he simply wasn't Alder.
A sudden, desperate thought, fueled by pure, unadulterated fear, seized him. He flung open the door, rushing out onto the small landing. He could hear the distinct sound of a carriage pulling away from the front of the house. He dashed down the stairs, his feet pounding on the wooden steps, and burst out onto the street just as the black carriage began to roll down the cobblestones.
"Wait!" Noir yelled, his voice raw, unthinking. He ran a few steps into the street, waving his arms. "You will protect me, right?!"
The carriage slowed, then paused briefly. He could see the dark, unreadable silhouettes of the officers through the window. For a moment, he thought one of them, perhaps the lead officer, looked back. But there was no answer. No nod, no word, no gesture of reassurance.
Then, with a creak of wheels and a gentle clatter of hooves, the carriage picked up speed, turning the corner and vanishing from sight, leaving Noir standing alone in the middle of the street, under the indifferent midday sun, with only the terrifying silence for company.