The temperature in the room seemed to drop again. Fletcher and Vernon's faces darkened in unison, their irritation barely concealed.

Someone tried to smooth things over, whispering urgently to him, "Don't mind him. This is Skye—the new Director of the Enforcement Bureau. Transferred here a couple months ago. He's… a bit eccentric. We'll get him out of your way right now."

But before the man could finish, Skye's eyes suddenly widened in mock surprise. He walked straight up to Fletcher, hand outstretched, all fake enthusiasm.

"Well, Commander Fletcher! I've heard so much about you."

The awkwardness in the room turned palpable. Skye grabbed Fletcher's hand and shook it hard, like they were old friends. Fletcher's face darkened further. He pulled his hand back quickly, wiped it twice on his coat, and said flatly, "Alright, you don't belong here. Move along."

Skye only grinned wider. "Can't do that. See, I happen to agree—what just happened here goes against procedure."

His tone was easy, conversational. But his words landed like cold water in a burning room.

Unlike Walter's fiery righteousness, Skye's defiance came with a smile and a shrug. To the officials watching, that was somehow even more dangerous.

"Oh, for God's sake," someone muttered under their breath. Walter wasn't enough trouble—now this newly transferred bureaucrat had decided to join the fray too.

"Skye…" Walter said, looking at him in disbelief. They'd met a few times in passing. Skye had always struck him as lazy, unpolished—a man who spent more time loitering in bars than sitting behind a desk. He'd never imagined he'd see him standing up to men like Vernon and Fletcher.

"Don't get worked up," Skye said cheerfully. "Just thinking out loud. This whole situation's already under a microscope. Commander Fletcher himself is here in person—means plenty of higher-ups are watching closely. My take? That kid Axel's definitely guilty. His story's full of holes."

That last line made Fletcher and Vernon relax a little. Vernon even allowed himself a faint, approving smirk.

"But," Skye continued, lowering his voice just a little, "since the facts are so 'clear,' why rush? Why give anyone a reason to say we handled this wrong? For all we know, someone's watching us right now."

The shift in his tone was subtle, but it sent a chill crawling up Fletcher's neck.

He looked at Skye more carefully now. Axel was a Whisper Syndicate member—and the Syndicate hadn't said a word yet. Was Skye hinting that they were watching?

Skye clucked his tongue and smiled faintly. "So, gentlemen, why not wait a little longer? Commander Fletcher? Mr. Vernon? What do you say?"

Fletcher glanced at Vernon. Vernon, frowning, pulled out his phone and checked for messages. A moment later, he nodded. "Fine. The Undead Guide's almost here anyway."

He didn't believe a word of Axel's confession. To him, the boy was just stalling, waiting for someone from the Syndicate to swoop in and save him.

Fletcher nodded in agreement. "Good. Then let's step outside for some air."

As the two men exited the interrogation area, they nearly bumped into another arriving figure—Preston, rushing down the hall. Fletcher straightened instinctively. Though Preston's rank was technically lower, his family name carried real weight.

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"Commander Fletcher," Preston said with a calm smile, "let's wait for the results together."

Fletcher's expression softened. After hearing Preston's tone, he was suddenly very glad he'd listened to Skye.

As the crowd thinned out, Walter stood motionless, sweat chilling his back. He felt a light tap on his arm. Skye had sidled up next to him, still smiling.

"Brother," he said quietly, "learn from this one."

Walter looked at him with a complicated expression and offered his hand. "You… you were trying to warn Fletcher, weren't you?"

Skye frowned slightly. "What else?"

Walter left, deep in thought. Skye remained, standing alone by the observation glass, watching Axel sit silently beneath the interrogation lights.

"Brother," he murmured under his breath, "that's all I can do for you."

.......

Outside, under the fluorescent lights of the corridor, Fletcher and Vernon walked side by side.

Vernon's face was dark with barely contained rage. "Fletcher, why are you wasting time humoring these idiots?"

Fletcher sighed quietly. He understood. Vernon was a grieving father, barely keeping his emotions in check. But Fletcher had his own calculus to consider—his career, his alliances, his survival.

"Vernon," he said lightly, "why rush? Once his guilt is confirmed, the boy's yours. No one will stop you then."

Vernon's jaw unclenched slightly.

At that moment, another voice called out. "Commander Fletcher!"

They turned to see Preston approaching again—this time with a stranger beside him. The man wore a plain green military jacket, the kind farmers wore in winter. His face was weathered but kind, his eyes sharp despite the awkward smile he wore.

"Who's this?" Fletcher asked, puzzled. He'd never seen the man before—certainly not among the usual political faces of the North.

Preston gestured respectfully. "Commander, this is Mr. Charles—representative of the Whisper Syndicate."

The words dropped like a stone.

"Whisper Syndicate?" Vernon's expression froze. He gave Charles a wary, instinctive glance.

Charles simply smiled, polite and mild, as he sat down. "Don't mind me," he said. "I'm just here to observe. No need for formalities."

Fletcher and Vernon exchanged a look, both men uneasy now. Without another word, they quietly left the hall.

"The Whisper Syndicate sent someone?!" Vernon barked, slamming a fist against the doorframe. "They think they can just waltz in and bail this kid out?"

Fletcher struck a match, the flare lighting up the tension in his face. He took a long drag, exhaled slowly, and shook his head.

"Doubt it," he said. "If they really wanted to bail him out, they wouldn't have sent this guy. But since he's here… we play it by the book."

Vernon ground his teeth, but eventually nodded. "Fine."

Moments later, headlights cut through the dusk. A black SUV rolled to a stop by the curb, and Vernon's eyes brightened. "My man's here."

The driver's door opened. A man in his forties stepped out—impeccably dressed in a brown suit, a black cane in hand, and a polished, almost aristocratic air. This was Irving, a Level 5 Undead Guide—the most powerful of his kind Vernon could reach through his family's connections.

Word spread fast. Preston, Walter, and the others quickly filed out of the station, piling into police cars to head for the scene. Charles followed quietly behind, so inconspicuous that most of the officers barely noticed him.

But inside a small hotel a hundred meters away, three figures froze at the window the moment they spotted him. Dust-covered, exhausted, they'd been watching the station for hours.

"Mr. Charles?!" Wesley hissed. "What the hell's he doing here?!"

They were supposed to move tonight, but seeing Charles climb into the police convoy made all three stop cold. Even if Xander himself had ambushed them, they wouldn't have looked that shocked.

Vince leaned back against the wall, relief flickering in his tired eyes. "Looks like we don't need to lift a finger. Let's wait and see how this plays out."

Rosaline hesitated, arms crossed. Then she nodded. Wesley scratched the back of his bald head. "Isn't he about to retire?"

By the time evening settled over Shiverstone, the city was wrapped in a light snowfall. The cold was constant here—thin flakes drifting through red-tinged clouds as the last of the sun disappeared behind the hills.

A convoy of vehicles pulled up beside a half-collapsed wooden cabin marked off with yellow tape. Though the structure still stood, most of it had been torn apart in the earlier fight. The corpse had already been removed. Irving, elegant and composed, stepped lightly through the wreckage until he reached the spot where Vaughn had died.

Preston approached with a younger man in tow, no older than his mid-thirties.

"Are we ready to start the soul search?" Irving asked, his tone clipped. "I'm pressed for time. I've got a flight tonight." His eyes flicked toward Vernon, sharp and questioning.

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