Chapter 9
979words
Then noise.
Car horns. Crowd chatter. Cool morning air laced with greasy breakfast smells.
Owen's eyes snapped open.
He stood at his neighborhood entrance, morning sun dazzling his eyes. A few elderly walkers shot him curious glances.
Was he back?
He checked himself. Clothes intact, not a scratch. But the bone-deep exhaustion and cold felt terrifyingly real.
He reached for his pocket.
Phone still there. Time: 6:15 AM.
He'd left home around 11:50 PM. After everything at the funeral home, only six hours had passed here? Time distortion?
He checked for missed calls from his parents, when a new message appeared:
[Yesterday's wage settlement: Points +10 (Task: No.077). Current points: 20/100.]
[Cognitive Contamination Risk: Mild (please monitor your mental state).]
[Note: 'Faded photograph' has been stored in the employee locker.]
[Next work notification will be sent at 23:45 tonight. Please arrive on time.]
The message came from a blank number.
Owen's knuckles whitened around his phone. Not a dream. All real.
He dragged himself home on leaden legs. Parents still asleep. He slipped into his room, locked the door, and collapsed onto his bed.
Body exhausted, mind racing. The woman's liberated smile. The boy's clear gaze before vanishing. The Night Patroller's crushing presence. The gray bear's malice. The blinding tunnel light and shattering door… Images flooded his mind.
He forced himself to focus. To organize his thoughts.
First, the 'faded photograph' reward. With a thought, it materialized in his hand.
Oak Haven Park, beneath the old oak tree.
The woman was Client 044. Who was the man with the blurred face? What lay beneath that oak? A clue?
Next, cognitive contamination. 'Mild,' but concerning. His violations: apologizing to Client 044 (communication), speaking to Client 077 (communication). Both broke Rule Four. Results: heightened sensitivity to abnormal auras and… that malevolent gray bear?
Finally, the big questions: What is the funeral home? What are Night Patrollers? What is 'The Garden'? Why was he bound to this system? What really happened in his accident?
He searched for 'Oak Haven Park.'
Twilight City did have an old 'West Oak Haven Park,' known for ancient oak trees. Remote location, outdated facilities—rarely visited nowadays.
Had the couple in the photo dated there?
He'd go there. Maybe find clues about Client 044, unravel part of the mystery.
That afternoon, he made an excuse about needing fresh air and cabbed to West Oak Haven Park.
The park was desolate. Rusty playground equipment. Weed-choked paths. The massive oaks stood out immediately.
He compared the photo with his surroundings. There—the thickest oak with gnarled branches. This was the spot.
What lay beneath?
He searched carefully. Tangled roots. Piles of dead leaves. He kicked aside the thick leaf cover.
Near the trunk's base, in a depression—something buried under leaves.
He crouched and dug with his hands.
A small, rusty tin box.
His heart skipped! Something real!
He pried it open. No ring or letter inside. Just a folded, yellowed newspaper clipping.
He unfolded it.
Dated five years ago.
The headline hit him like lightning:
[Tragedy! Fatal car accident at Oak Haven Park! One dead, one critically injured!]
The grainy photo showed the mangled wreckage. The report read:
'…Around 11 PM last night, a serious car accident occurred near West Oak Haven Park. A private vehicle lost control and crashed into a tree, causing severe damage. The male driver, Mr. Grant (name withheld), died at the scene. The female passenger, Vivian Miller, suffered critical injuries and remained unconscious when transported to Memorial Hospital… Suspected cause: driver fatigue…'
Vivian Miller!
Owen stared at the name! Client 044! The woman in the mirror!
The driver died instantly! His surname was Grant?!
Was the blurry-faced man in the photo… him?!
Ice shot through Owen's veins! A five-year-old accident? The dead driver named Grant? How did this connect to his own crash a month ago?!
He flipped the clipping over.
A line in red pen—elegant yet desperate—caught his eye:
[Grant, I'm sorry… I found the ring… I should have said yes sooner… I'm coming… wait for me…]
The handwriting matched the photo's back! Written by Vivian Miller!
'Grant…' Owen whispered. The dead driver?
Vivian, critically injured… what happened next? Did she recover? Then… suicide? Was her regret 'I'm sorry, I was late' because she delayed accepting his proposal, only for death to separate them?
Her last wish—finding the ring, completing the ritual she'd postponed, speaking the apology she never could?
Owen's chest tightened. The tragedy of Client 044…
But why did the dead man share his surname? Coincidence?
Trembling, he searched 'Vivian Miller,' 'Oak Haven Park accident,' 'Grant death.'
Results were sparse. Five-year-old news, buried deep.
But one old forum post caught his eye:
[Anyone remember that Oak Haven crash five years back? Heard the driver was subbing for someone else?]
Subbing for someone?
Owen's pupils contracted! He clicked through, finding just one sentence:
[My buddy in traffic division mentioned when drunk that the driver wasn't the car's owner, but some relative or friend? Can't recall exactly.]
Relative? Friend?
Owen felt dizzy. A vague yet terrifying thought surfaced in his mind.
His car accident a month ago... was it really an accident?
His binding to this bizarre funeral home system... was it really a coincidence?
That deceased "XX Grant"... what connection did they have to him?
"Ding dong."
His phone notification sound rang.
A new message from an unknown number:
[Intern Owen Grant, please report for duty before 23:55 tonight.]
[New task has been issued.]
[Note: This client is numbered 013, involving 'The Garden' contamination. Please strictly adhere to Rule Eight of the protocol.]
Owen stared at his phone screen, then looked at the yellowed newspaper clipping and photograph in his hand. A chill completely enveloped him.
Client 013... involving "The Garden"?
That source of sickly sweet floral scent, the contamination source even the Night Patrollers feared?
A deeper darkness was waiting ahead.
