THE ROAD TO BELLVIEW The rain had just begun to drizzle — not enough to soak the windshield, but enough to make the wipers sigh in frustration every few seconds. Eli sat slouched in the passenger seat, staring out into the mist. The rhythmic hum of Zane’s car engine was the only thing keeping the silence from becoming unbearable. “Remind me again,” Eli muttered, “why are we driving through fog at whatever-hour-this-is?” Zane smirked, eyes steady on the wet road ahead. “Because fog hides things, Eli. And things hidden are usually interesting.” “Right. Interesting. Like pneumonia,” Eli grumbled. Zane chuckled softly, the corner of his mouth lifting. He didn’t say more — he never did. That was one of the most infuriating things about him: his silence spoke louder than most people’s lectures. The car turned a bend. Through the curtain of rain and smoke, faint flashes of red and blue light pulsed against the dark sky. Eli leaned forward. “Uh-oh. Looks like trouble.” Zane slo...

THE DISCOVERY The clock on Platform 9 stopped at 9:45 PM. The second hand trembled for a moment — and then froze completely, as if time itself hesitated to witness what lay a few feet away. A thin mist floated through the station, weaving between rusted benches and cold steel pillars. Under the dim yellow light of an old lantern, the lifeless body of Edward Clarke , a high-profile defense lawyer, rested awkwardly near the edge of the tracks. His coat was half-burned, his wristwatch broken, its glass cracked right through the center — showing 9:44 PM. Two policemen stood stiffly beside the corpse. The station master kept repeating his statement — trembling, sweating, voice shaking: “He arrived alone… bought a ticket… next thing I knew, he was lying there. The train never even came.” Inspector Hale, broad-shouldered and impatient, scribbled notes on a pad. He looked toward the flickering clock tower above the platform — a crooked relic from another century. “CCTV shows nothing unusua...