The night sky loomed over Ridgecliff like a blanket of secrets. Streetlights flickered dimly across the suburbs, painting long shadows over quiet roads. Robert unlocked the door to his modest home and stepped inside, quietly closing it behind him. The hallway was dim and still, the hum of the refrigerator in the next room the only sound welcoming him back.
"Robert?" his mother's voice called out from the kitchen.
"Yeah, Mom. I'm back."
"You're late. I kept your dinner in the oven. Sit down, I'll heat it up for you."
He smiled faintly, letting the warmth of her voice cut through the chill in his chest. "Thanks. I'll be right there."
A few minutes later, he sat at the dining table, steam rising from a plate of baked chicken, rice, and green beans. Across from him, his mother watched with concern written all over her face.
"You okay?" she asked gently, as she passed him a glass of water. "You look… off."
Robert hesitated, then forced a small chuckle. "Just tired. Long day."
She didn't press further. She never did when he spoke like that. He appreciated it, even if it meant hiding the truth.
The aroma of baked potatoes and roasted chicken filled the kitchen. He sat down at the table as she reheated his food. Despite the exhaustion in his limbs and the dull ache in his shoulder where he'd taken a hit earlier that day, he didn't say a word about what had happened.
He couldn't.
Mom worries too much. I can't tell her about the thugs. Or Flam. Or the strange fox woman who saved me. Not yet.
After dinner, Robert retreated to his room and closed the door gently behind him. He leaned against it, exhaling slowly. It had been a long day—and Brendon cutting the call still echoed in his mind.
"Something's off with him," Robert muttered.
He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at nothing, replaying the conversation.
Brendon had grown tense the moment Robert brought up the symbol. That man tied to a wheel, limbs twisted in pain. The same one they'd found during the Redfur case.
That case had been where it all began. Robert and Brendon hadn't known each other before then. He sat down on the edge of his bed and ran a hand through his hair. The events of the day swirled in his mind, but one thing stood out above all:
Brendon had shut him out.
Just like that.
No explanation. No warning.
Cut the call.
"Why?" Robert whispered to himself.
He recalled the conversation again, especially the part about the symbol. The one etched onto Flam's ring—the image of a man tied to a torture wheel. It was the same symbol they had found on a package during the Redfur Case, left behind by a suspect named Drago, that sadistic mafia boss tied to illegal drug trafficking.
That symbol had haunted them for months.
And now, Flam had it too.
"Why did Brendon get so tense when I mentioned it?" Robert murmured, his eyes narrowing. "He's been keeping that package ever since the case closed. Locked it in his apartment, wouldn't even let forensics analyze it."
The more he thought about it, the more questions sprouted.
Why did Brendon refuse to let him in?
Why was Mayor Guerio so insistent on giving the red envelope to Brendon, not him?
What was Flam's connection to all this?
Robert stood and began to pace. His mind churned with possibilities, theories, connections. Then suddenly—an idea sparked.
What if I just… go there myself?
His heart raced at the thought. Breaking into Brendon's apartment was… extreme. But this was Brendon. His best friend. If something was wrong, if he was in danger, Robert had to know.
---
A little past midnight, Robert stood outside Brendon's apartment building, dressed in black jeans and a windbreaker. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and crept through the dim-lit hallway of the upper floor. The building was old, quiet, the kind that kept secrets well.
With a soft click, the spare key turned in the lock.
He stepped inside and carefully closed the door behind him.
The place was… barren.
Not messy. Not chaotic. Just empty—in an eerie, sterile kind of way.
A worn bed, a single armchair, a cassette player, and a wooden desk by the wall. That was all.
No photos. No souvenirs. No bookshelves or plants. No signs of someone actually living here.
It felt more like a safe house than a home.
Robert moved slowly, cautious not to disturb anything. His eyes fell upon the desk—and sitting neatly atop it was the same package from a year ago.
Wrapped in aged paper, sealed with wax now dulled with time. And there, across the top, carved faintly but clearly:
The symbol.
A man, contorted and bound to a wheel. The same as Flam's ring. The same as the nightmare that had followed them from the Redfur case.
Robert crouched down to get a closer look, eyes narrowing.
"It's the same," he whispered. "Exactly the same."
But he didn't dare open it. If he did, Brendon would know he'd been here. And as far as Robert could tell, there wasn't anything inside that he'd be able to understand on his own.
He turned his attention to the desk drawer and gently pulled it open.
Inside lay a single, slim leather-bound journal.
Its cover was cracked and worn from use, the front marked simply:
"Therapy Log"
Robert raised an eyebrow.
A therapy log?
Curiosity tugged at his conscience, and after a moment of hesitation, he carefully opened the book and began to read the entries.
---
> Entry #1 — September 3rd
Therapist's name is Donna. She says I should write. Says it helps reframe memory and trauma. I told her I'm not much of a writer. But I've been having nightmares again. They've gotten worse since I saw that symbol again in Ridgecliff.
Maybe writing will help me sleep.
---
> Entry #2
It's been six months since I started these sessions. I still haven't told anyone in Ridgecliff about my past. They wouldn't understand.
London feels like another life. But every time I see that symbol, I remember.
My crew.
My betrayal.
The fire.
The screams.
---
> Entry #4
They call me traitor in my dreams.
Every night, I see them. Camelia, Drew, Blake and the one who shot me at my leg Felix … the ones I left behind.
I told myself I had no choice. That I was doing the right thing. But I still see their faces. Still hear them cursing my name but I wanted them... wanted us to be reformed.
That's why I think I ended up in jail.
---
> Entry #7
Then Drago showed up. Redfur Case. His package had a symbol the Crooked Man's symbol, but why? Why that crime lord is here? Texted me the wheel isn't just a symbol—it is a gate. A gate only the broken could open. For now I have blocked him.
I thought he was insane. But the nightmares got worse after that.
---
> Entry #10
Robert keeps asking questions. I can tell he's getting suspicious. Can't blame him.
We weren't friends before the Redfur case. But he's one of the few people I've come to trust. Which is why I have to keep him away from this.
This isn't just some normal mystery sigh anymore. It's tied to what I left behind. London. The crew. The fire.
If that symbol has resurfaced… I fear what's coming next.
---
Robert's hands tightened around the diary.
This wasn't about some cold case.
This was personal. Deeply so. Brendon wasn't just investigating—he was protecting something. Or maybe… someone.
He stared blankly at the last entry before gently placing the diary back in the drawer.
His thoughts raced. The symbol, the nightmares, the crew… London. Brendon had buried a part of himself long before coming to Ridgecliff. And now, it was clawing back to the surface.
And what the hell did Drago mean by "a gate only the broken could open"?
Robert stepped away from the desk and looked around the apartment one last time. The silence was unnerving. Like the place didn't breathe.
It was clear now—Brendon was hiding more than just trauma. He was hiding from a past that still hunted him. And Robert had walked right into its shadow.
As he slipped out of the apartment and locked the door behind him, a single question haunted his every step:
What is Brendon preparing for?