War. Such a devastating thing.
Screams of agony. Gunshots. The screech of war machines. Aircraft roaring overhead. Bombs dropping like iron rain. You don't forget sounds like that—not even when you're far away from the battlefield.
I got dragged into it when I was sixteen.
Eight years. Eight years until the war finally ended. But the scars? They're still here. Some on my skin. Most, in places bandages don't reach.
So the moment the war spat me back out, I promised myself something less suicidal. Something soft. A quiet life. Maybe even a little vacation.
That's how I ended up here—Virelith, the trade city on the edge of the Veilsea. Salt in the air, music in the streets, and absolutely no screaming. The food's good. The people are friendly, in that "nosy but harmless" way. And the strawberry cheesecake in front of me?
Perfect. Creamy, sweet, a hint of lemon. Tastes like peace.
I was sitting in Café Bellavento, a cozy, overly popular little place known for its pastries and noisy charm. And of course, just as I finally relaxed into my chair like a man who survived eight years of explosions—
The talkative idiot across from me had to ruin it.
Marcus.
Round face. Orange hair. Green eyes that sparkled with too much curiosity. Wearing the dark green uniform of the Virelith City Police. His badge crooked. His smile wider than it should be.
He was about to drag me into something stupid.
> "Come on, Thomas! It's just a quick trip to Ferrosen Island—you know, the next one over?"
He waved a hand like that made it sound closer.
> "It only takes four hours to get there. Four to come back. Easy."
"Why would I go with you? "
The irritation was practically pouring off me. I just wanted to eat my cake in peace.
> "I can't go alone," he added, shrugging. "The other officer got a day off. You're the only one I trust with this."
> "No," I muttered, scooping up another bite of cheesecake. "I'm busy."
He raised a brow.
> "Busy doing what?"
> "Eating."
Delicious. Creamy. Glorious.
> "I'll give you a Crown an hour."
I paused.
> "Three Gimmers," I said, mouth full of strawberry silk.
Marcus winced.
> "That's too much! Two Gimmers and five cogs."
I licked the spoon thoughtfully.
Now we're talking.
I pushed the empty plate aside like it had betrayed me, and leaned back with the sigh of a man who had just fought a noble battle. My eyes, like a love-struck fool, drifted back to the dessert menu.
"Should I order another one?" I mumbled to myself, already halfway in love with the idea.
I was already getting paid to travel. Might as well earn a slice more. For morale. For justice. For... tax write-offs?
Then it arrived. The cheesecake. It gleamed like treasure in a sunbeam. I eyed it the way a pirate eyes a chest full of cursed rubies.
"Why do you want me to come?" I asked Marcus, trying to sound serious. But let's be honest—I was just hoping for a dramatic enough reason to eat more cake.
Marcus leaned in like we were planning to rob the crown jewels.
"I need to go north of Bleak Pine Forest," he whispered. "There's a rumour about a mysterious white entity."
I blinked. "Like a tax inspector?"
He didn't laugh. He was deadly serious.
"It floats in the air and... get this... steals Thistlecrumbs."
I paused, fork halfway to my mouth.
"Thistle...crumbs?"
Marcus nodded like a man revealing forbidden lore. "Crunchy, lightly spiced honey candy. Handmade by the good villagers of Brindlebrook. Secret family recipe passed down by the founder, Old Ma Thistle, who once slapped a bear."
I crossed my fingers dramatically in front of my eyes like a cartoon sorcerer and whispered, "Thistlecrumbs..."
"Exactly!" he said, slamming the table like he just won bingo.
I sighed the sigh of someone who'd seen too much, stabbing the cheesecake like it owed me money.
"I'm a private detective," I muttered. "I handle missing cats, cheating spouses, and socks that vanish from laundry rooms. Not ghost stories about sugar-snatching marshmallows."
Marcus opened his mouth, but I cut in. "And now I have to babysit my old war buddy because he's scared of a glowing gumdrop with sticky fingers?"
I lowered my voice dramatically, fork trembling in the cheesecake.
> "How did this man survive the battlefield? Should I burn him to a crisp? No. No, Thomas. This is not the battlefield. Think before you act. You're doing this for the money. Stick to the motto—'Cash first. Regret later.'"
Marcus tilted his head. "Did you say something?"
I looked at him with the calm, deadpan glare of a man one sprinkle away from madness.
> "Nope. Nothing at all. Except maybe that I'll personally deliver you to a mental hospital if you keep talking about your candy ghost."
He leaned in, eyes wide and haunted.
"You're telling me you're not even a little spooked by a floating white thing that moves through trees and steals village-made toffee?"
I rolled my eyes so hard I saw my past lives.
"You're afraid of a toffee thief, Marcus. A caramel bandit. A sugary little sneak. What's next? Haunted pudding?"
"I said I'm being serious!" he cried, arms flailing like he was signaling a lifeboat. "You think I want to go alone? My last partner bailed the second I mentioned it. Told me he had to visit his sick grandma."
"Okay, fair," I shrugged. "Grandmas are sacred."
Marcus leaned closer and hissed, "She died four years ago, Thomas. Four. Years."
I raised my hands like a monk calming a very loud temple goose. "Calm down, Marcus. People are staring. And I already look like a man about to cry into his cheesecake."
Marcus sat back, fixed his collar, and took a dramatic breath.
> "Fine. Sorry. Anyway... we're going to a metal hospital next."
I blinked.
"Wait. A what?"
"A metal hospital."
"You mean a mental hospital?"
"Yeah, yeah," he waved dismissively. "One of those places with wired-up windows, pillow-covered walls, and that faint smell of burnt soup and despair. Real cozy."
I narrowed my eyes. "I know what a mental hospital is, Marcus. Why are we going there?"
He stood up and threw a few coins on the table. "I'll tell you on the way. You agreed to help. Money's involved. You're in this, whether you like it or not."
"...Oh."
I hate hospitals. Mental hospitals are even worse. It's like a haunted house with paperwork.
I groaned, slumped back in my seat like a man defeated by dessert, logic, and friendship contracts written in cheesecake crumbs.
> "One more spoonful of cheesecake," I muttered, stabbing it with finality. "Then I commit arson. Emotionally. Or maybe just to Marcus's coat. We'll see how the day goes."
And with that, I took the bite like it was my last taste of sanity. Spoiler: It probably was.