The investigator parks on her home street.
The rain has faded into nothing more than a damp sheen on the asphalt.
When she closes the car door, she sees the boy sitting on the steps of the house next door.
Harick.
She's spoken to him twice already.
He was the one who called emergency services that night.
He was the one who pulled Araque out from the wreckage.
Nothing more.
And he knows nothing beyond that.
He lifts his gaze as she walks past.
"Good evening."
His voice is normal. No tension.
She stops out of courtesy, not suspicion.
"Still awake?"
"Insomnia."
He gives a half-smile, awkward.
He's just a resident of the wrong neighborhood at the wrong time.
When they found Araque, Harick had superficial burns on his hands. He said he tried to move metal debris aside to pull the body out.
Forensics confirmed it: the marks matched.
He didn't lie.
He didn't hide anything.
He was just there.
"Are you better?" she asks, remembering his arm wrapped in bandages days ago.
"Yes. It was just heat."
A brief silence.
He hesitates before asking:
"The guy… did he survive?"
She thinks for half a second.
"Yes."
His shoulders relax—genuinely.
There's no calculation.
No game.
Just relief.
"That's good."
She studies his face.
There's no shadow of someone who knows more than he says.
Just someone who saw something brutal and doesn't understand what he saw.
Like most people in the city and the village.
Harick looks down at the wet ground.
"Was that a monster?"
An honest question.
She answers the way she always answers civilians:
"We're investigating."
He nods.
Accepts it.
Because in their world, that phrase means:
Maybe yes.
Maybe worse.
The investigator was already halfway to her own door when Harick calls out:
"Hey."
She stops.
Not out of suspicion.
Just because he doesn't usually start conversations.
He gets up from the step, a little awkward.
"You live next door?"
She glances at her house, then back at him.
"I do."
He scratches the back of his neck, clearly organizing his words.
"I didn't know where you lived… I mean, I don't pay attention to that."
She keeps a neutral expression.
He continues:
"I live at house number 19. Saint Patrick Street."
A short pause.
"Or… people call it Edna Street."
She recognizes the informal name. Old neighborhood. Almost no one uses the official street names.
"I know which one it is."
He nods, relieved he doesn't have to explain.
"It's the one with the slightly crooked green gate."
She vaguely remembers. She'd passed by during witness collection.
A comfortable silence for a few seconds.
He doesn't seem to be investigating.
Doesn't seem to be measuring her reaction.
He just wants to make it clear he didn't know where she lived.
Maybe out of politeness.
Maybe so he wouldn't seem strange.
"Alright," she replies.
He gives a half-smile.
"Good night then."
"Good night."
She goes inside.
The door closes.
Harick remains standing for a moment, staring at the empty street, like someone trying to get used to the idea that an investigative agent lives next door.
Then he goes into his own house.
House 19.
Crooked green gate.
Saint Patrick Street.
Or, as the neighborhood insists on calling it:
Edna Street.
Nothing conspiratorial.
Nothing calculated.
Just neighbors who discovered they are neighbors.
She already had the key in her hand when Alec calls:
"Hey… sorry."
She turns, patient.
He's clearly awkward now.
Not the tone of someone asking about an investigation.
The tone of someone who messed up.
"You really live there, right?" he points discreetly at her house.
"I do."
He takes a deep breath.
"So… it's kind of weird to ask this now, but…"
He looks at his yard, then at hers.
"My ball fell in there."
Silence.
She blinks once.
"Ball?"
"Yeah. Soccer. I was kicking it against the wall and… it went straight over."
He gestures with his hand, mimicking the trajectory.
"It fell in your yard. I think near the back."
Now it makes sense.
He didn't want to confirm her address out of curiosity.
He wanted to know if he could ask.
She looks at the dividing wall. Not very high, but high enough that someone shouldn't just jump over it unannounced.
"Why didn't you ring the bell?"
"I wasn't sure if it was really this house… and I thought you might be working."
She holds back a sigh.
After a whole day dealing with strategic survivors and gray areas, this is almost… mental rest.
"It's in the yard?"
"I think so. Unless it went further in."
She opens the gate.
"Wait here."
He stays on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets.
She walks down the narrow side corridor of the house and reaches the backyard.
The ball is there.
Wedged between two plant pots.
Wet from the drizzle.
She picks it up.
Returns.
Hands it to him over the low gate.
He holds it like something fragile.
"Thanks."
There's no subtext.
No code.
Just a boy who kicked too hard.
"Try not to aim the wrong way," she says.
He laughs lightly.
"I'll try."
He starts walking back home, then turns again:
"Sorry to bother you."
"You didn't."
He goes into house 19.
Crooked green gate.
The living room light turns on.
She goes into her own house.
Closes the door.
For a few seconds, the world of Shipsh seems… ordinary.
No monsters.
No invisible lines.
No survivors manipulating logic.
Just neighbors.
And a wet ball at the end of a long day.
The door was almost closed when—
THUD.
The ball comes back.
This time it doesn't hit the wall.
It hits her straight in the face.
Hard.
Fast.
She doesn't even have time to react.
The ball drops onto the porch floor.
Half a second of silence.
Then she yanks the door open and steps into the street.
"YOU BASTARD, DO YOU THINK THIS IS YOUR MOTHER'S HOUSE?!"
Her voice echoes down the wet street.
She stares directly at the green gate of house 19.
Ready to see Harick frozen.
But it's not him.
On the sidewalk, a few meters away, stands a man holding another identical ball.
Dark suit.
Impeccable posture.
Far too calm a gaze.
Her boss.
He holds the ball under his arm as if nothing happened.
She freezes.
Her blood still hot with irritation.
But her brain already connecting everything.
She steps back.
Her posture shifts completely.
"Sir…"
He inclines his head slightly.
"Good evening."
She takes a deep breath.
"I'm sorry."
Now her tone is controlled. Professional.
He looks at the ball near her door.
Then at his own hand.
"It was a miscalculation."
As if discussing a report.
She swallows.
"I didn't know you lived around here."
"I don't."
A minimal pause.
"I'm the neighbor's son."
She blinks.
That doesn't make immediate sense.
He continues calmly:
"I'm visiting."
The tone is neutral.
Impossible to tell if it's a joke.
The light in the neighboring house turns on.
An older man appears at the window, confused.
Her boss gives a small polite nod toward the window.
Then looks back at her.
"Emotional control is part of the job."
There's no reproach in his tone.
But there is record.
She feels the weight of it.
"Understood."
He picks up the ball from the ground and hands it to her.
Unhurried.
Expressionless.
"Tomorrow at eight."
She nods.
"Yes, sir."
He walks down the sidewalk.
Unhurried.
As if he merely tested something.
Alec opens the green gate a few seconds later, looking startled.
"It wasn't me!"
She looks at him.
Now fully composed.
"I know."
He looks toward the end of the street.
"Who was that guy?"
She hesitates.
Then answers simply:
"An adult who also can't aim."
Alec makes a face.
"He almost hit my window too."
She almost smiles again.
Almost.
"Go to sleep."
"Okay…"
He goes inside.
The street returns to silence.
She holds the ball for a few seconds before taking it inside.
One question lingers in the air:
Was it really a miscalculation?
Or a very specific way of confirming that she lives there?
Tomorrow at eight.
And now the case isn't just at the hospital.
It's one street away.