Weaving Assumption & Intentions

Raphael blinked. Once. Or twice. More than he could count. Seen -- barely -- through the curling fog. The office dimmed around him, corners dissolving into shadows, unwilling to witness the incoherence bloom, only to burn into charring realization.

George shifted on his seat, eyes narrowing, clues scattered between them -- a guest, a drift, unaware of his place in this world.

"You can't escape it," George said, voice unwavering, each word pulled at the strings of punishing causality. "I told you from the first time we met -- you shouldn't have taken her side."

His advice dripped with grim certainty, the papers on the table doused in revealing ink -- truths carved unto it, grating against his doubts, friction unbearable even for him.

Raphael leaned closer, hands at the edge of the desk.

Eyes scanning the article, each one a serrated blade.

Testimonies from eye witnesses, and bleeding victims aligning.

The evidence flowing through unstitched lips, and somewhere beneath the irrefutable rot -- the final wound opened.

"Your mother isn't who you think she is," George finally sliced the haze. "She's a widow. An heir to be soaked with the blood of her kin."

Silence.

Delicate deliberations thickened the air, fingers tapped on the table. Mentally assisting. George craved those fleeting thoughts behind Raphael's despondent gaze.

Raphael opened his mouth...

Buzz.

His phone rang.

Raphael answered it fast. George squinted at him, making him turn to the other side. A minute passed, Raphael listened to the caller. Not speaking once. Hunching to the rhythm of that person, fists tightening. George inhaled deeply, observing closely.

"I'll be right there," Raphael's voice broke, slithering cracks in each word unsaid.

Then he hung up.

He walked away without turning back.

---

George watched the door close, the scent of finality lingered -- heavy, suffocating, transparent -- justifying his next course of action.

He dialed the telephone. Tone beeped. Pressing the earpiece to his ear, George deliberated on the consequences he was going to unleash.

Static. Then breathe. Waiting.

"Track his next steps from here henceforth. Prepare all the divisions. I mean all of them, while we trail his next steps, we can't let this chance go," George commanded.

"What if you are wrong?"

George frowned, taken aback. Then smiled. Cruelty hidden behind sparkling teeth.

"My father failed. Died without a body to bury. I won't stray from his path though -- he proved the higher-ups wrong. That the entity we all fear -- isn't so untouchable."

A history buried, not forgotten -- pulled away from its depth, to remind what truly mattered.

"Ok. I hope we won't lose as many as last time."

The soft ruffling of papers prolonged in the silence -- returned to the file boxes, resting upon each other's unveiled secrets.

He kept walking, streetlamps buzzing -- an illusion of impatience. Dusk yet far, still unreachable, refusing to bleed with change.

Diving omens, crows fought against the stagnancy, landing on brick tiles. Watching out for the foggy reveal, that man's mind similar to their evoking purpose, witnessing the world unravel buried worth.

The scent of olden paper -- documents back at the precinct, probably gathered back to the dust -- lingered at the tip of his nose. Magnifying his inner fracture, shards of written data wreaked havoc in his mind, like a murmur that stings deeper, not only in memory, but soul.

'700,000 cases of kidnapping across borders... decades of silence, untraced. 10 million citizens addicted, 100 million globally fed by invincible networks in labs and forgotten jungles. 2,171 attempts at election manipulation. 5.6 million digital sieges. Over 10 million organs trafficked... traded... harvested.'

Raphael faltered. On the dusty roadside. Wet on the sides. Passing each house, double digits marking each of their doors. Closed. A decision still in making.

'This organization's roots stretch across trade routes. Religion. Governments. Name it.'

'Widows relish both chaos and order. That's the motto of the Preystor clan.'

Raphael turned, that open gate. Entering. Stepping on the staircase, facing that calling door.

Closing his eyes, knowing what's on the other side of this door, "Sorry, Humphrey. But I'm left with no choice. But to turn to you -- her."

He pressed. The doorbell rang. No going back.

---

Ring!

Ring!

Ring!

No one opened the door, to convince him that everything will be alright. His hands froze -- trembling to the echo of that woman's voice. The phone call. The warning.

"If you want answers, why don't you come?" Amalda's snarky voice nearly made him slip the phone -- the only lifeline he had in that dim office.

"Your friend can't wait any longer -- eyes bleeding with pain. Don't you want to know what the end result is?"

---

"Humphrey," his voice brittle with trepidation. Sparse light fractured the corridor in rays of foreseen abandonment -- a red carpet spilled into the darkness, a path of bleeding scrutiny.

His own shadow melting into the fog, melding unto it with each cautious step. Fallen photos littered his way, glass torn from purpose, shards further crashed underfoot. Inconsequential. Not like the untouched frames. They still cradled a family that saw better days -- a child that never felt broken joy, and parents who shielded him from demons untold.

Raphael reluctantly left behind this enviable past, eyes fixed on the agonizing future. He moved forward, where the carpet ended -- corners breaking into other rooms, whispering through sneaking winds -- curtains unfurling from invincible consequences.

At his left, the living room curled with an emptiness -- an ugliness. Chimney smoking from consumed coal, ashes settling to the cooling air.

At his right, he had already felt it -- the wrongness. It strangled his gut. He had avoided its impatient wave at first, those indiscreet candles morphing his shadow against the enlarging backdrop.

"So you came?" Amalda's voice tore the silence, hashing his doubts with sharpened intensity.

He turned to her -- not her. Not really. His eyes widened. Slowly. Deliberately. Toward the quiet audience sharing the same table as her, still holding onto forks and knives. But unmoving.

"What did you do?" Disbelief choked his trembling voice.