The walls of the Varentia Central Precinct were glass, steel, and silence—too clean, too polished, like a place designed to erase not just dirt but memory. The fluorescent lighting buzzed faintly overhead, never flickering, never dimming. Its constancy grated at Dominic's nerves more than the interrogation itself. Everything about the room screamed artificial calm, a sterile cube of order wrapped tightly around something rotten.
Dominic sat still on the edge of a chair that felt more like an ornament than furniture. Its surface was molded polymer—cold and rigid beneath him—bolted to the floor as though afraid even the furniture might flee. His hands rested in his lap, fingers laced loosely, the skin taut across his knuckles. He kept his breath measured, spine straight, eyes forward. They wanted a show of emotion. He gave them silence.
The room had no windows, only a long mirrored panel on one wall, hazy under the stark light. The air vent above whispered a constant hum, broken only by the faint clicks of keys and the barely perceptible sound of breathing. The table between him and the two officers was a matte-gray slab—featureless. No file. No datapad. No recorders.
But Dominic knew they were recording. Every shift in posture, every blink, every pause.
He wasn't stupid.
They had brought him in just before dusk—quietly. No sirens. No cuffs. Just a black cruiser gliding to the estate gates and an officer who wouldn't meet his gaze. The kind of entrance reserved not for suspects, but liabilities. Outside, yellow drones hovered like oversized hornets, scanning and humming along the property perimeter. The Manon Estate had been sealed off before he could even scream.
They hadn't let him go back inside.
"Mr. Manon," said the older officer—Detective Valen, if Dominic recalled the flicker of badge ID correctly. Grey hair slicked back, posture too stiff to be casual, voice like sandpaper scraping against stone. "Do you recall what time you arrived at the estate this afternoon?"
Dominic nodded once. "Sixteen-oh-two. I checked the pod clock when I docked."
"And you were alone?"
"Yes."
"You didn't call anyone when you arrived?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Dominic's lips parted slightly. "Because I didn't know something was wrong yet."
Valen's partner—a younger woman named Pryce, with a severe bun and fingers that moved like spiders over her tablet—typed something silently.
"You're sure no one was supposed to be home?" she asked, voice cool.
"They usually are," Dominic replied. "My parents don't travel on weekends. Staff are scheduled until at least twenty-one."
"And yet no one responded when you arrived?"
"No."
Pryce's fingers paused in mid-air, briefly. Dominic caught the hesitation.
Valen leaned forward just slightly. "Dominic, when you entered the premises, you observed several irregularities—open doors, offline drones, abandoned meals. Did you, at any point, suspect foul play?"
The air in the room grew tighter.
Dominic studied the detective's face. There was no sympathy there. No urgency. Just neutrality honed into indifference.
"I didn't know what to suspect," Dominic said slowly. "It felt wrong. Everything did. I was afraid to find out why."
"But you kept going."
He met the detective's gaze. "Wouldn't you?"
Silence.
The hum of the vent grew louder, like a whisper too long to ignore.
Dominic turned his eyes to the mirrored panel. He imagined eyes behind it—watching. Dissecting. Trying to read his heartbeat through skin and silence.
They weren't questioning him to find the truth. They were shaping a story.
"Detective," he said at last, his voice low, calm. "Why am I here instead of the hospital?"
Valen's expression didn't shift.
"My family's dead, aren't they?" Dominic said. "Why haven't I been told that directly?"
A pause. Slight.
Pryce cleared her throat. "We're still confirming identities—"
"You're not denying it."
"Dominic—"
"Why no counselor? No family liaison? Why am I being questioned alone?"
"Protocol," Valen said flatly. "You're the only witness at the scene."
"But I didn't see anything."
"And that," Valen replied, "is precisely why we need to understand what you did see."
The mirrored panel flickered—barely. But Dominic noticed.
His pulse slowed. Not sped up—*slowed.*
He remembered the ash.
The pillow.
The word.
"RUN".
They hadn't asked about it. Hadn't mentioned it. As if it hadn't mattered.
But it did.
"Can I see the footage?" he asked.
Valen blinked. "What footage?"
"House Manon's internal surveillance. Every hall. Every wing. You know we had it."
Another glance exchanged.
"We're retrieving it," Pryce said. "Some data corruption. Possible power surge—"
Liar.
Dominic didn't flinch.
"Let me know when that clears up," he said, coldly. "I'll wait."
The interview ended not long after.
No charges. No condolences. Just a transport voucher, a "safety liaison," and an offer to rest at a secure facility.
He declined.
He had no next of kin.
House Manon was ash.
By the time he stepped outside, the sky was fading to bruised violet. Neon bled across the streets—vivid red and wet yellow reflections stretched on rain-slick pavement. The city pulsed like a wound too busy to heal.
People walked past.
Laughing. Talking. Living.
His family was gone—and the world didn't even blink.
He turned away.
He didn't activate the escort drone. Didn't call for transport. He walked, hunched in his coat, steps slow and steady.
He needed time. Time to think. To breathe. To remember what they might have missed.
Every detail replayed in his mind: the broken silence, the meal still warm, the drones still warm—shut down without struggle. The feather. The clawed message. The untouched exits. The sheer "neatness" of it all.
"Too neat."
The city smelled of metal and distant rain. Airborne drones buzzed high above, searching for crimes that would never touch the powerful. A hover-ad flickered nearby, displaying a luxury brand's winter line. Reality blurred.
He ducked into a shadowed alley.
Pulled out his tablet.
The news feeds were sanitized: "Incident at Highridge Estate—No Confirmed Casualties."
A few staged statements. Smiles hiding rot.
Dominic's fingers moved fast.
House Manon's synced memory bank. His own private logs. He accessed them—only to find them gone.
Deleted.
All but one.
Timestamp: 03:17 PM.
A silent ping.
Unreadable. Corrupted metadata. Except one line:
"Access error: Red-Level Override – Protocol: Ravenlock."
His blood ran cold.
He remembered what his father had said.
"If anything happens to me… and someone mentions Ravenlock—don't trust them."
He hadn't understood then.
He did now.
Dominic closed the tablet.
He wasn't ready to grieve. Not yet.
Grief needed truth.
He needed vengeance
And someone had stolen it.
He would get it back.
Even if he had to tear the silence apart himself.
[End of Chapter Three]