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Chapter 1: The Devil at the Dinner Table

“Thank you, Uncle Marcus,” I whispered, bowing my head and mechanically picking up my fork.

My hands were trembling so violently under the table that I had to press my knees together to steady them. I stared at the roasted meat on my plate, my stomach churning with pure, absolute terror.

The man sitting across from me, pouring a glass of wine for my oblivious mother, was not a grieving widower looking for a new family. He was a high-level operative in a deadly criminal syndicate. He had intentionally seduced my mother to infiltrate our home. He was sleeping in my father’s bed, eating off my father’s plates, all while actively hunting him down.

“Oh, right. Aria,” Marcus said casually, taking a sip of his wine. His dark eyes flicked over the rim of the glass, locking onto me like a predator tracking a mouse. “Your father used to love drawing, didn’t he? I heard he left you a very special, hand-drawn painting before he passed.”

My fork slipped from my sweaty fingers. It hit the porcelain plate with a loud, sharp CLACK and fell to the hardwood floor.

My mother frowned, clearly annoyed by my clumsiness. “What kind of drawing, Marcus? It was just a childish, scribbled map full of nonsense. I told her to throw it away weeks ago.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. “Thrown it away? What a shame. I thought it was some kind of valuable family treasure.”

I bent under the table to pick up the dropped fork. My heart was screaming in my chest.

Just as I suspected, I thought, gripping the cold metal of the fork. They moved into this house entirely because of the map.

That night, I tossed and turned in my bed, completely unable to sleep. The shadows in my room felt like they were closing in on me. I stared at the ceiling, my mind racing through a million terrifying possibilities.

What was the heavy brass key in the metal box for? Where was the “usual place on the docks” mentioned in the recording?

I pulled the flashlight from under my pillow. I pulled my father’s note from my pocket.

Rule Number One: Do not trust anyone.

So, what was the second rule?

I jumped out of bed, quietly locked my bedroom door, and turned on my small desk lamp. I pulled out the taped-together map from under my mattress.

I examined every single symbol, every ink stroke, refusing to miss a single detail. In the bottom right corner of the paper, near the legend, there was a small moon. It was colored half blue and half red.

Before tonight, I had always thought my father just drew it with whatever pens he had lying around. But staring at it now, a memory violently clicked into place.

Blue and red. It was the exact color scheme of the emblem for the prestigious private high school my father had attended as a teenager. The school’s motto was translated as Excellence under the moon.

There was a clue hidden at his old high school.

I trembled with excitement and sheer terror. The school was a massive, sprawling campus. Where could the clue possibly be?

I looked back at the map. Next to the blue and red moon was a tiny, scribbled sequence of numbers: 0901.

September 1st. It was my birthday.

No, I thought, shaking my head. My father never used direct dates for his ciphers. It was a misdirection.

I suddenly remembered a story my father told me. He was a highly decorated, outstanding former student who had once donated a massive collection of rare books to the school’s historical archives. The school had organized a small ceremony for him in their Historical Memorial Room. Pictures of the donors hung on the velvet walls of that specific room.

Below my father’s picture was a small, engraved bronze plaque. The donation date engraved on the metal was 2009-01-13.

My father had deliberately embedded my birthday into the donation date plate years ago.

The next clue was inside the school’s memorial room.

Chapter 2: The Moon and the Memorial

The next morning, a Saturday, I told my mother I needed to go to the library to study for a massive history exam. I left the house early, keeping my head down, constantly checking over my shoulder to make sure Marcus wasn’t following me.

I took three different buses to avoid being tracked, finally arriving at the wrought-iron gates of my father’s old high school.

I slipped past the weekend security guards and sneaked into the heavy, oak-paneled Historical Memorial Room. The air inside smelled of floor wax and old paper.

I walked quickly down the line of framed portraits until I found my father’s photo hanging on the wall. He was much younger in the picture, standing tall in his crisp police uniform, his eyes resolute and shining with justice.

“Dad, I’m here,” I whispered softly to the empty room, touching the glass frame.

I crouched down and carefully examined the engraved brass plaque below the picture. It was secured tightly to the wall with four heavy screws. It looked completely unremarkable. I tapped it lightly with my knuckle. It sounded solid, not hollow. The clue wasn’t hidden behind the metal.

I stood back up and carefully examined the photograph itself.

In the picture, my father had his hand resting on his belt. But his index and middle fingers were raised slightly, forming a strange, unnatural symbol. It wasn’t a standard ‘V’ for victory. The angle was sharp, leaning to the right.

It looked exactly like the number seven.

I took a few steps back and looked around the large, silent room. Inside, various items from the school’s founding were displayed: silver trophies, vintage uniforms, and antique textbooks.

My gaze stopped at a long row of heavy glass display cases in the center of the room.

I walked down the aisle, counting the cases. One. Two. Three… Seven.

I stood in front of the seventh glass case. Inside were creative works donated by outstanding former students: architectural models, calligraphy scrolls, and a single, framed oil painting.

In the bottom right corner of the painting was a signature: Commander Cole.

It was my father’s painting. It depicted a dark, swirling starry sky. The brushstrokes were identical to the style of the strange, looping symbols on my hidden map. In the lower right corner of the canvas, a small, bright shooting star stretched a streak of white light directly toward the wooden edge of the frame.

My heart pounded like a war drum.

I looked around the room to ensure I was alone. I carefully reached behind the glass case, unlatched the hinges, and pulled the painting out.

I flipped the heavy wooden frame over. There, hidden perfectly against the backing paper, was a tiny slit cut with a razor blade.

I slid my trembling finger into the slit. I pulled out a folded, thick piece of parchment paper.

I opened it. It was an official, stamped bank deposit receipt for a highly secure underground vault. And written at the top of the receipt was a locker number that matched the heavy brass key I was carrying in my pocket.

I had found the vault location.

I quickly shoved the receipt into my jacket pocket and began to put the painting back into the display case.

Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the memorial room burst open.

I gasped in sheer terror. I dropped to the floor, scrambling frantically behind a large, freestanding exhibition board just as heavy footsteps entered the room.

I held my breath, pressing my hands over my mouth.

“Where is she?” a deep, furious voice hissed.

It was Marcus.

I peeked through a tiny gap between the exhibition boards. Marcus was pacing the room, his face twisted in lethal frustration. He walked straight up to my father’s picture. He mimicked my exact actions from five minutes ago. He tapped on the brass plate. He stared at the photograph.

Obviously, Marcus did not understand the visual cipher of the number seven. He lacked the context of our childhood games.

Marcus pulled out his cell phone, dialing a number angrily.

“Yes, she left the house this morning,” Marcus snarled into the phone. “I lost her at the bus station. She definitely knows something. The girl is actively hunting for the ledger.”

The voice on the other end of the line said something sharp. Marcus’s face darkened, his eyes turning cold and dead.

“Don’t worry,” Marcus promised, his voice a terrifying, lethal whisper. “I have a way to make her talk. A stupid kid like her can’t escape my grasp for long. I’ll break her if I have to.”

Marcus hung up the phone, cursed loudly, and stormed out of the memorial room.

I slumped down onto the cold floor behind the sign, my whole body shaking uncontrollably. He was actively hunting me. My own home was a prison guarded by an assassin.

I clutched the heavy brass key tightly in my sweaty palm.

Dad, I understand, I thought, my fear slowly hardening into pure, absolute steel. I won’t let them take what belongs to you. In this game of hide-and-seek, we will be the ultimate winners.

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