CHAPTER 293: RESIDUAL IMAGE

I stood slowly.

The legs of the chair let out a quiet scrape as I pushed it back, deliberate and unhurried. Across the table, Mary hadn’t moved. Her fists were still clenched, knuckles pale against the metal edge. She didn’t meet my eyes again—not this time.

I watched her for a moment longer. Just long enough to make sure the words I was about to say wouldn’t feel like a trap.

"You don’t have to decide anything right now," I said, voice low. "But I want you to think. About your life. Your choices. What you want it to look like after this."

Still no response.

But something in her jaw loosened.

"If you ever want to talk, or if you want help—real help—we can call in services. Counselors. Protection units. Even temporary relocation if it comes to that."

No acknowledgment.

But no rejection, either.

I gave her a nod, more for me than her, then stepped away from the table. The door let out a soft metallic click as I opened it and slipped into the observation hall.

The one-way mirror divided the world like a sheet of ice. I could see Mary perfectly from this side—still motionless, folded in on herself like a question mark without punctuation.

Behind me, the quiet hum of breath broke into a small storm.

"Jesus," someone murmured.

Grant turned toward me as I approached. He looked... not impressed, exactly. Just thoughtful. Alert. The kind of expression he wore when he was filing away variables faster than he could speak.

"That was one hell of a read," he said finally, arms crossed over his chest. "You didn’t break her. You dismantled her."

"Didn’t want to break her," I replied. "I just needed to know where the fracture lines already were."

A few of the other officers gave me nods—some approving, others uneasy. One guy, tall with a buzz cut and a C-Rank badge on his vest, looked like he wanted to say something but didn’t.

I beat him to it.

"We need to move carefully. She’s not the enemy here, not entirely. But if that man is still out there—whoever he is—we need to cut off his access."

Grant stepped in closer, lowering his voice.

"She’s still in touch with him."

"She has to be," I agreed. "She called him her father. That wasn’t metaphorical. It was... conditioned. That connection doesn’t break easily."

Grant nodded. "So what do you suggest? We question her biological parents?"

"Yeah. And search her home. If he ever made contact again, there’s a good chance it wasn’t digital. He’s not the type to leave traceable messages."

"He’s the type to leave Polaroids," Grant muttered darkly.

I turned to the rest of the room. "We’ll need a warrant. Quiet. Discreet. I don’t want neighbors interfering."

Buzzcut finally spoke. "You think he’s targeting more kids?"

"I think we’d be idiots to assume he’s not."

Another officer—a woman from patrol, probably in her late twenties—raised a hand slightly, not needing to wait for formalities. "Then we should hit the streets. Flyers. Rewards. A detailed sketch based what witnesses gave. If we can’t stop him directly, we can make him scared to show his face."

"Agreed," Grant said.

I nodded. "Put them up in D and C-Rank zones first. He’s careful, but money talks. Even a small reward could nudge someone to speak up, especially in places where ’looking the other way’ is a luxury."

Buzzcut smirked. "So... scare him into hiding?"

"No," I said. "Make him feel hunted."

The room fell quiet again.

Then I exhaled. "You handle the flyers. And get the request through legal for a quiet warrant on the Steward residence. I want you to treat the whole place like a live wire."

"You’re not joining?" Grant asked.

"Later," I said. "For now, I need rest. Plus it’s not like I have actual jurisdiction on these types of things."

His eyebrows rose, but he didn’t argue.

I gave one last glance at the girl behind the mirror.

Still silent.

Still cracked down the middle.

Then I turned and walked out.

The late afternoon sun had dipped behind the towers by the time I made it to the metro line. The paint on my coat had mostly dried into streaky patches—pale pink across deep black, like someone had spilled cotton candy over a funeral jacket. I caught a few looks on the ride home.

Not the usual ’Is that Reynard Vale?’ glances.

These were different.

Longer. Hesitant. A little amused, a little disturbed.

I chalked it up to the outfit.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

Mr. Dust didn’t usually take public transit, let alone dripping in crusted art supply like a haunted kindergarten teacher. But I didn’t feel like summoning a car. I didn’t want attention. Just the rhythm of movement and the anonymity of strangers.

The elevator up to my floor felt longer than usual.

Not in distance. In weight.

And when I stepped into the penthouse, the door barely had time to hiss closed behind me before I heard a sharp inhale.

Sienna stood in the hallway, frozen halfway between the kitchen and the front entrance, a spoon still in her hand. Her eyes were wide, her posture stiff like she’d just seen a ghost.

"What?" I asked.

She blinked. "You—your coat—"

Behind her, Camille’s voice floated out groggily from the lounge as if she just woke up.

"Can you guys be any louder? It’s 4pm for crying out loud."

Then a pause.

Followed by a groan as Camille padded into view, rubbing her eyes and stretching in an oversized black T-shirt and sleep shorts.

"What’s wrong with—?"

She stopped.

Dead in her tracks.

Then her entire face twisted into a slow-motion snarl of horror and disbelief.

Her voice went from groggy to shrill in half a breath.

"WHAT. DID. YOU. DO?!"

I blinked.

She pointed a trembling, accusatory finger at my chest.

"The coat... THE COAT."

I looked down.

Then back up.

And in that moment, everything clicked.

The stares.

The laughter I thought I imagined.

The way the dried paint flaked off in tiny dusty clouds as I moved.

"I..." I started.

"No. No. Don’t even speak." Camille stomped closer like a cat stalking a wounded gazelle. "Do you know how long it took me to texture the gradient on that panel? The stitching? The threading? You PROMISED not to ruin it!"

"I didn’t promise—"

"You SWORE," she insisted. "You made eye contact. There was eye contact and intent and now LOOK AT IT!"

Sienna had wisely backed out of range, spoon still in hand, eyes wide with barely-concealed amusement.

"I was assaulted," I offered.

Camille blinked.

"You got mugged by an art school dropout?"

"Technically it was a paint can," I muttered.

She made a strangled sound like a goose trying not to swear.

Then she crossed her arms and looked at me with the wrath of every designer whose ever seen their creation meet the wrong end of a toddler’s juice box.

"You’re cleaning that yourself. With your hands. And no skills."

"That seems like a waste of time," I said.

"Perfect," she replied, all sweetness and venom. "Because you’re wasting my coat."

Sienna coughed quietly into her hand, clearly trying not to laugh.

I sighed and began peeling off the jacket. "I’ll fix it."

Camille raised an eyebrow.

I winced.

"Okay. I’ll try to fix it."

She took the coat from me like it was a dying animal, cradled it like a fallen soldier, and marched away toward her workshop muttering things I chose not to interpret.

The front hall finally went still again.

Sienna looked at me.

"You good?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Just... long day."

Her eyes softened, and she gave a slight smile. "You look tired."

"I feel worse."

"Hungry?"

"Starving."

She turned back toward the kitchen. "Soup’s still hot. Come on."