Chapter 57: Taylor’s House
Francis was a fool. Or maybe he was just desperate. Honestly, in this part of town, there isn't much of a difference.
The building was a rotting carcass. We climbed the stairs, the wood groaning under our boots like a dying monster. I could feel the cold hum of the bond prickling against my skin, a sharp contrast to the humid, stagnant heat of the hallway.
We reached the door. I didn't have to knock. An old man was already standing there, holding a plastic bag of trash. He looked at us with watery eyes, blinking slowly.
"Are you here for Taylor?" he asked. His voice was thin, like tattered lace.
"We’re friends of Francis," I said. It was a lie, but it was the kind of lie that opened doors.
He invited us in. The apartment was small and smelled of dust and old soup. It was a normal, poor household, but the details were wrong. There were reminders taped to every surface. Drink water. Check the stove. Phone numbers were scrawled on the wallpaper in jagged, black ink.
The light switches were labeled with masking tape. So were the cupboards. Boxes. Plates. It was a house trying to remember itself.
Hana stopped in front of a small table. I moved beside her. There were photos. One showed a girl with a bright, wide smile. Taylor. Next to it was a frame with Francis.
I leaned in. This wasn't the brother Yujin remembered. This Francis was covered in tattoos, his jaw set in a hard, arrogant line. It was the version of him that had already sold his soul to the shipyard.
"That's my daughter," the old man said, shuffling behind us. "And her ex-boyfriend. He was a good lad. Provided for us."
"Where is she now?" I asked. I kept my voice soft.
The old man’s face shadowed. "Disappeared. A year ago. A dungeon opened right in the middle of this room. Before the place became this run down. She hasn't been seen since. The Association says she’s dead. Most likely."
I looked at Hana. She looked like she wanted to break something.
I realized the tragedy then. Every month, for a year, Francis had been juicing himself on monster dope and bleeding in illegal holes just to send money to Taylor. He was sending cash to a dead girl. The bank was sitting on a mountain of money while her father lived in a rotting cage, forgetting to drink water.
The bank didn't know she was dead. Or maybe they just didn't care as long as the deposits kept coming.
"I haven't seen the young man either," the old man muttered. "She used to act strange while they were together. Before she disappeared, her skin was turning blue. She looked sicker every day. But at least they were all happy. They had each other."
Blue skin.
It was the same signature. The aether. The monster dust was a slow poison that had claimed the girl before it ever touched the boy.
"I'm sorry," I said. I felt a heavy, cold lump in my throat.
The old man blinked. He looked at me, then at Hana, as if seeing us for the first time. A polite, vacant smile spread across his face.
"Oh my," he said. "Guests? How would you like some tea?"
I froze. He had just invited us in. He had just told us the whole story.
"We just—" Hana started.
"Look at this," the man said, pointing to the mantle. "This is my daughter. Taylor. And her boyfriend. They’re such a lovely couple."
Dementia.
He was stuck in a loop of a life that didn't exist anymore. Honestly, it was a mercy. If he remembered the truth, he probably wouldn't survive the afternoon.
"We have to go," I whispered.
Hana didn't argue. We backed out of the apartment, the old man’s offer of tea echoing in the cramped hallway. We stopped by the door, my eyes catching the list of phone numbers one last time.
Taylor’s number. And Francis’s.
I pulled out a burner phone as we reached the street. The shipyard district was noisy, a mess of clanking metal and shouting, but I didn't hear any of it. My focus was entirely on the screen.
I typed out a message to Francis’s number. I pitched it as Taylor.
[Elara: Hey, been a while. When are you coming to take that medicine from work you left here? Love, Taylor.]
I hit send. My heart did a slow, heavy thrum. The thermal resonance flared, a cold prickle against my thumb.
We waited. Ten seconds. Twenty.
Hana leaned in, her breath a cool mist in the humid air. "You think they’re monitoring the phone?"
"If Arslan is as smart as Gloria thinks, he has a ghost running the comms," I said.
The phone buzzed.
A message popped up on the screen.
"Got them," Hana said.
Her voice was a low, predatory growl. Her shadow flickered on the pavement, sharpening into a lethal edge.
"Let's go," I said.