Alan found himself back at the hospital laying in a bed just two days after that harrowing experience with Sandra, the memories still fresh in his mind. The first aid he had managed to apply to himself had done its job well enough, staving off excessive blood loss and preventing infection. However, he knew that self-treatment could only go so far; he needed the expertise of a doctor to ensure a full recovery.

The former Lionheart student couldn’t help but replay the events that had led him here. The bone shard that had embedded itself in his shoulder during his fight with Sandra. When the doctor finally called him in, Alan steeled himself for what was to come.

The medical team was efficient and professional, but the procedure was more complicated than he had anticipated. Due to the shard’s deep embedding, the doctors had to make a slightly larger incision than they had initially planned.

The operation itself was a blur of sensations—sharp lights, the coolness of the surgical instruments, and the muffled voices of the medical staff as they worked diligently to remove the shard. Alan felt a momentary sting as the anesthetic took effect, and then everything faded into a comforting darkness.

When he finally regained consciousness, he found himself in a recovery room, the soft beeping of monitors grounding him back to reality. The doctors had successfully removed the bone shard from his shoulder, stitching him back up. He could feel the tightness of the bandages around his shoulder.

Beside Alan lay Jafar, his arm encased in a bulky cast, injuries he had sustained during their recent ordeal. The two of them were a battered pair, their bodies bearing the physical toll of the chaos they had endured. It was clear that both would be relying heavily on Sere’s remarkable healing magic to speed their recovery.

In front of them, Joe and Rell were engrossed in a group discussion. Joe’s brow was furrowed, his expression one of deep concentration as he listened to Rell, who gestured animatedly, his frustration and determination evident in every word. They were piecing together the chaotic puzzle, trying to make sense of the madness that had engulfed them all within the last few days.

Alan listened quietly, his shoulder throbbing with a dull, persistent ache. Despite the pain, he felt a strong sense of camaraderie with the group. They had been through hell together, and that shared experience had forged a bond that was unshakable. It was a small comfort amidst the weight of everything they had lost.

Joe: “Sandra has been taken to a highly secure prison,” he said, his voice heavy with resignation. “It’s designed specifically for cultists of the Nameless Gods. We won’t be seeing her again anytime soon.”

Rell nodded solemnly, his usual energy subdued as he absorbed the gravity of Joe’s words. The reality of their situation was sinking in, and it felt like a lead weight pressing down on all of them.

Rell: “And what about Hector?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “The security guard from the Archive that Sandra kidnapped?”

Joe’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he delivered the news.

Joe: “Unfortunately, the doctors have declared him brain dead. There’s nothing that can be done for him, even with the most advanced healing magic at our disposal.”

A heavy silence settled over the group. Alan felt a sharp pang of sorrow for Hector, a man who had simply been doing his job, caught in the crossfire of a battle he never asked to be part of. He had been an innocent bystander, a victim of circumstances far beyond his control, and now he was gone. The injustice of it burned in Alan’s chest, a bitter reminder of the cost of their fight.

Jafar: “Did she confess to anything?” the former Ember Gear student asked, his voice laced with curiosity and concern.

Joe: “A confession from a Rattle Bone cultist is essentially meaningless,” the detective replied, shaking his head. “They’re too unstable to provide any reliable information. I was told that when they dragged her off, she was still singing that rattle, tap, tap bullshit.”

Alan frowned, trying to wrap his mind around the implications.

Alan: “Are all Rattle Bone cultists like that?” he inquired, hoping for some clarity.

Joe: “Yeah… pretty much,” he confirmed, his tone grim. “The ones I’ve encountered were not as powerful as Sandra, but there’s definitely something off about them, something similar to what we saw in her.”

Jafar leaned forward, his brow furrowed in thought.

Jafar: “And they didn’t find any evidence that she was working with anyone else? No other Rattle Bone cultists?”

Rell: “No,” he interjected, his voice steady. “Rattle Bone cultists don’t operate like that. They’re solitary by nature and very rarely work together.”

Joe: “She was just a baby cultist,” Joe added, his expression serious. “On her way to fully joining that cult eventually.”

Alan’s mind raced with the implications.

Alan: “Doesn’t that mean someone was trying to convert her into their organization?”

Rell and Joe exchanged a glance, their eyebrows raised in surprise before turning back to Alan and Jafar.

Rell

: “If this were any other cult, sure,” he said, “but not for Rattle Bone. People don’t get recruited or indoctrinated into that cult; they willingly choose to become Rattle Bone cultists. It’s a decision driven by their own twisted desires.”

Alan felt a chill run down his spine at the thought. The idea that Sandra had willingly embraced such darkness was unsettling.

Alan: “So, she wasn’t coerced? She chose this path?”

Joe: “Exactly,” Joe replied, his voice thick with the gravity of the truth. “It’s a tale as old as it is tragic. Someone, driven by desperation or sheer recklessness, starts carving bones and offering them up to the nameless Rattle Bone god. It often begins innocently enough—animal bones, rituals performed in secret, a misguided search for power or meaning. But it never stays that way. Soon, they’re desecrating graves, and eventually, they cross the line into using the bones of the living. Sandra was still at the animal bone stage, which is why most of the undead we encountered were animals. The bone bag we confiscated from her was only made of cow leather instead of human skin, so it could only store cow bones. But given time…” He trailed off, the unspoken implication hanging heavy in the air.

Alan: “Why would anyone willingly do this?” the question came, tinged with disbelief. “What could they possibly gain from such madness?”

Rell: “Inspiration,” the enforcer cut in, his voice sharp and unyielding. “We dug into her past. Sandra had published a book once—a flop, by all accounts. She wanted to be a writer, to leave her mark, but no success. For her next project, she was desperate for something that would set her apart, something that would make her work unforgettable. Being in her position at the Archive, she had access to forbidden knowledge—stories about the Rattle Bone cult, rituals, and the power they promised. She must have thought it would give her the edge she needed. That’s where it began. That’s where she started to lose herself.”

Joe nodded grimly, his jaw tightening.

Joe: “And once you start down that path, there’s no easy way back. If we’re lucky, those who fall into the grip of the Rattle Bone cult succumb to their own madness and end their own lives—or, if we’re unlucky like with Sandra, they embrace the darkness fully. Necromancy, desecration, the unraveling of their own humanity. It’s a destruction of the self.”

Alan: "That seems like a lot for just carving some bones," Alan remarked, skepticism evident in his voice.

Rell: “It’s not merely about carving bones,” he replied, shaking his head. “There’s a much deeper mental transformation involved. The process varies significantly from person to person, and it remains relatively unknown how individuals spiral into the cult.”

Joe: “But bone carving is the most common path for people like Sandra. It’s often the entry point that leads them down a darker road.”

Alan: “I see… out of curiosity, what kind of book did she write?” he asked, genuinely intrigued.

Rell hesitated, clearing his throat awkwardly as he searched for the right words.

Rell: “Um, it was, well, of a sensual nature,” he said, clearly trying to soften the impact of the nature of Sandra’s work.

Joe: “It was smut,” Joe interjected bluntly, his tone matter-of-fact. He had no interest in sugarcoating the truth, especially when it came to something as serious as this. “Really bad smut, too. So poorly written that it’s more comical than anything else. Honestly, if she had marketed it as a comedy, she might have had better luck with it.”

Alan raised an eyebrow, a mix of surprise and amusement flickering across his face.

Alan: “Smut? I didn’t expect that. It’s hard to imagine someone like her writing something so...”

Joe: “Yeah, well, desperation can lead people to make some questionable choices,” he replied, crossing his arms. “She was looking for a way to stand out, and it seems she thought that was her ticket to success.”

Rell nodded, his expression thoughtful.

Rell: “It’s a shame, really. If she had channeled that energy into something more constructive, who knows what she could have achieved? Instead, she got caught up in the allure of the cult, thinking it would provide her with the inspiration she craved.”

Alan sighed.

Alan: “So, she was searching for validation in all the wrong places.”

Jafar: “Um, I don’t think she was writing that because she was desperate,” Jafar interjected, recalling the way Sandra had smiled as she scribbled in her notebook during their investigation. “I think she was genuinely into that kind of stuff.”

Joe chose not to engage with Jafar’s comment, shifting the conversation back to the pressing matters at hand.

Joe: “Anyways, the University leadership seems very pleased about capturing her,” he said, his tone serious. “And based on what Jafar told us about her, along with the other information we’ve gathered, it’s clear she was a key player in the whole Sorin undead incident. He wouldn’t have been able to pull off what he did without her assistance.”

Joe’s gaze shifted to Alan, and his expression softened, though the gravity in his voice remained.

Joe: “You should take some pride in this, Alan. You helped bring justice for your friend. That’s not nothing.”

Alan: “Yeah…” Alan murmured, his voice hollow, almost lost in the stillness of the room. He stared at the floor, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Despite the capture of the person who had orchestrated the ripping of his friend’s soul from his body, Alan felt no sense of closure. If anything, the victory felt hollow, a shallow echo of what he had hoped it would be. Cris was still gone. No amount of justice could undo that.

His mind wandered back to Cris—their childhood antics, the late nights spent talking about their dreams, the future they had imagined together. Cris had always been the optimist, the one who believed they could conquer anything. Now, all that remained was a gaping void, a silence where Cris’s laughter should have been.

Alan: “Justice doesn’t bring him back,” Alan said at last, his voice barely audible, trembling with the weight of his grief. “I thought… I thought catching Sandra would make me feel something. Relief, maybe. Vindication. But it just feels… empty. Like none of it matters.”

Jafar: “I get it, man,” Jafar said quietly. “It’s not just about justice. It’s about the person we lost. Cris was your friend, and no amount of revenge or retribution is going to fill that hole. But you can’t carry this alone. We’re here for you. We’ve got your back.”

Joe nodded, his expression resolute.

Joe: “Jafar’s right. This isn’t the end, Alan. We’ll find a way to honor Cris’s memory—to make sure his death wasn’t in vain. And we’ll make damn sure nothing like this happens to anyone else. You’re not alone in this.”

Alan looked at them, their faces filled with determination and unwavering support. For a moment, the weight on his chest felt just a little lighter. It wasn’t enough to fill the void Cris had left behind, but it was a start. And for now, that was all he could hold onto.

Alan: “So, what happens now?” Alan asked, his brow furrowed with concern. “Now that most of the people who helped Sorin with his experiments are either captured or dead, what’s going to become of the Sleuth-Hawks? What happens to us?”

Joe: “More… paperwork,” Joe groaned, his voice dripping with dread. His shoulders slumped back, while running a hand through his hair as if trying to physically ward off the mountain of bureaucratic tasks looming over him. “Mountains of it. Oceans. Endless, soul-crushing paperwork.”

Rell: “Unfortunately, yes. It doesn't help that there is apparently a backlog we’ll need to go through,” he chimed in, glaring at Joe as he did so. “There’s still a lot of administrative work that needs to be tackled, but from what I’ve heard, the heads of the university are quite pleased with the outcome of our investigation. They intend to keep the Sleuth-Hawks program operational and might even expand our collaboration with the police and other departments.”

Alan: “Really?” Alan’s eyes widened, a flicker of hope breaking through his weariness. “They’re going to keep us around?”

Rell: “Absolutely,” he confirmed, nodding earnestly. “They see the value in what we do, especially after the success of this case. We’ve proven ourselves. This isn’t the end—it’s just the beginning.”

Joe: “So, you’re stuck with me for now, kid,” Joe said, a playful grin spreading across his face as he leaned forward. “Hope you’re ready for more of my sparkling personality.”

Alan matched Joe’s grin, a hint of his usual levity returning.

Alan: “Guess I’ll have to put up with you a little longer. But seriously,” he added, his tone softening, “I’m glad we’re still in this together. We’ve been through a lot, and I wouldn’t want to do it with anyone else.”

Joe nodded, his grin fading into something more sincere.

Joe:“Same here, kid. Same here.”

Rell cleared his throat, breaking the moment.

Rell: “Well, that’s everything for now. We’ll let you two rest and recover,” he said, giving Alan and Jafar a curt nod before preparing to leave.

Joe was the first to leave, but before Rell could step out, Alan called out, his voice hesitant.

Alan: “Um, Rell.”

Rell paused, turning back to face Alan with an expression as unreadable as ever. The silence between them stretched, heavy with unspoken tension.

Alan swallowed hard, the knot of anxiety in his stomach tightening.

Alan: “I just want to say… I’m sorry for the things I said. I’m sorry for mistrusting you and accusing you of something you didn’t do,” he said, his voice sincere and tinged with regret. He searched Rell’s face for any sign of understanding, any hint that his apology had landed.

Rell’s response was immediate and icy.

Rell: “I see,” he said, his tone flat and devoid of warmth. Without another word, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.

Alan stared after him, stunned. He had expected… something. A nod, a sigh, even a flicker of acknowledgment. But Rell’s cold indifference cut deeper than any anger or frustration could have. It was as if Alan’s apology had been dismissed entirely, leaving him feeling exposed and foolish.

He wanted to call out to Rell, to plead for a chance to explain himself further, but Rell was already gone. Alan felt a wave of awkwardness wash over him. The rift that had been opened between them felt insurmountable, and he feared it wouldn’t be bridged anytime soon.

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

Alan had been discharged from the hospital and sent home, his injuries deemed manageable with rest and care. However, Jafar’s condition was more serious—his broken arm required additional attention, forcing him to stay an extra day under observation. The doctors wanted to ensure there were no complications before clearing him for discharge.

In his hospital room, Jafar lay on the bed, staring up at the sterile white ceiling tiles, boredom gnawing at him like a persistent itch. The rhythmic beeping of the machines around him felt like a monotonous soundtrack to his confinement, and he found himself counting the seconds as they ticked by.

With nothing to occupy his mind, he let his thoughts drift. He replayed the events that had led him here, the chaos of their last encounter with the undead, and the moments of fear and adrenaline that had surged through him. But now, in the quiet of the hospital room, those memories felt distant and surreal, like a dream he couldn’t quite grasp.

Jafar shifted slightly, trying to find a comfortable position, but the hospital bed was unforgiving. He glanced at the window, where the sunlight streamed in, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Outside, life continued as usual, while he felt trapped in this sterile bubble, cut off from the world.

He sighed, wishing for something—anything—to break the monotony. A book, a game, even a conversation with a nurse would be a welcome distraction. But the hours dragged on, and the only company he had was the occasional nurse who came in to check his vitals or administer medication.

As he lay in the hospital bed, his mind drifted back to the chaotic encounter with Sandra. The memory of their desperate struggle played out in fragments—her chilling laughter, the flicker of unnatural light in her eyes, the way her voice had dripped with malice as she taunted them. But amidst the chaos, something she had said lingered in his thoughts, gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. It had seemed insignificant at the time, lost in the heat of the moment, but now, in the quiet of the hospital room, it resurfaced with startling clarity. A strange phrase, a cryptic remark that didn’t quite fit. And then, like a puzzle piece snapping into place, something clicked in his mind. His breath caught as the implications began to unfold, a cold realization creeping over him.

Before he could delve deeper into his thoughts, the door to his hospital room swung open, interrupting his train of thought. The sound of footsteps echoed softly against the tiled floor, and he turned his head to see who had entered.

There, standing in the doorway with her long, emerald-green hair cascading over her shoulders and her pristine white enforcer uniform impeccably pressed, was Mitra herself. Her presence was commanding, her stoic expression giving nothing away as her sharp eyes scanned the room. She paused for a moment, taking in the empty bed where Alan had been, before her gaze settled on him.

Mitra: “Ah,” she said, her voice calm and measured, yet carrying an undercurrent of authority. “It seems I’ve missed Alan.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but there was a subtle edge to her words, as if she were already calculating her next move.

She stepped further into the room, her movements deliberate, and folded her arms across her chest.

Mitra: “I suppose I’ll have to catch up with him later.”

Jafar: “Why are you here?” Jafar asked, his voice a mix of curiosity and unease as he shifted uncomfortably in his hospital bed. His eyes tracked Mitra’s movements as she stepped further into the room, her presence commanding yet oddly reassuring.

Mitra tilted her head slightly, a playful smirk curling at the corners of her lips.

Mitra: “That’s a bit of a strange question, don’t you think?” she replied, her tone light but laced with a subtle edge. “I’ve spent a considerable amount of time training both you and Alan, and I intend to officially announce that I’m taking you two on as my disciples. It would be far more peculiar if I didn’t pay you a visit. I would have come sooner, but I was buried under a mountain of administrative tasks.” She paused, her gaze sharpening as she studied him. “You didn’t think I’d forget about you, did you?”

Jafar’s eyes widened, a spark of excitement cutting through his apprehension.

Jafar: “Oh, are you announcing that soon?” he asked, his voice rising with enthusiasm. “I’m already ready to accept, and I think Alan is too.” The idea of being formally recognized as Mitra’s disciple filled him with a sense of pride and purpose, a validation of all the effort and risks they’d taken.

Mitra nodded, her expression shifting to one of gravity.

Mitra: “That’s great to hear, but I need to have a conversation with Alan before I make any official declarations,” she said, her tone firm. “And once I do, prepare yourself for some intense training.” Her grin widened, an evil glint dancing in her eyes. “You thought our previous sessions were tough? You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Jafar’s heart sank at the thought. Memories of their past training sessions flooded his mind—Mitra’s relentless drills, the way she’d effortlessly countered his every move, the time she’d unleashed her magic on him, sending him sprawling to the ground with a force that had knocked the wind out of him. He shuddered involuntarily, the anticipation of more grueling sessions sending a chill down his spine. But as he wrestled with his dread, another thought crept into his mind—one that had been gnawing at him, a revelation about Sandra that he could no longer ignore.

Jafar: “Um, Mitra,” he began, his voice hesitant, the words feeling heavy on his tongue. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Mitra’s relaxed demeanor faded, replaced by a look of genuine interest. She crossed her arms and leaned slightly forward, her piercing gaze locking onto his.

Mitra: “Okay, I’m listening.”

Jafar took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he was about to reveal. His hands clenched the edge of the hospital blanket, his knuckles whitening as he gathered his thoughts.

Jafar: “There’s something I’ve… we’ve been lying about for some time...”