Miracleborn Saga

Henry walked up the stone steps of the Vanguard Station, each footstep slower than usual. He stopped just before the grand double doors and glanced down.

Jeena and Marsh were already paw-fighting on the edge of the walkway—Jeena delivering rapid slaps, Marsh responding with exaggerated tail swings. It was less of a battle and more of a circus act.

"Alright, you two stay here," Henry muttered, crouching beside them. "No biting civilians. No chasing ghosts. And no aura farming on the front lawn."

The kittens paused their scuffle just long enough to ignore him entirely.

With a tired sigh, Henry pushed open the doors and stepped inside.

---

The station's interior was as familiar as it was imposing: gothic arches, brass chandeliers, and old portraits of long-dead Vanguards watching with judgmental stares. Boots echoed faintly across polished floors. A few officers passed him by, some nodding, some too busy with their own stacks of parchment and urgent conversations.

And then—there he was.

Nelson Carter, leaning casually against the side of the dispatch desk, one hand nursing a mug of thick black coffee, the other resting on his heavy belt. Cloak slightly wrinkled, top hat tilted back, belly round like he'd just walked out of a bakery.

"Ford," Nelson grunted as he spotted him. "You look like a man who just found something heavier than a corpse."

Henry smirked faintly. "Something like that."

Nelson took a loud sip. "So? What brings you back in? You're on rest day. Most fresh recruits would still be drooling in bed or polishing their badge in front of a mirror."

"I want a case."

Nelson paused mid-sip.

"…You want what?"

Henry stood straighter. "I want a case. Something real. Not mop duty. Not paperwork. An investigation. Something I can chase."

Nelson let out a soft, amused whistle and stood up straight, towering again with that immovable, mountain-like presence.

"You're moving fast, Ford."

Henry didn't blink. "I don't like standing still."

Nelson studied him for a moment—then shrugged.

"Alright. I won't stop you. But I'm not the one who hands out open cases. You want something strange, something unsorted, maybe even off the books?"

Henry nodded.

"Then you'll need to talk to Officer Andrew Fritz."

Henry blinked. "The aura farmer?"

"Yeah," Nelson smirked. "The barefoot incense-sniffer with a birdcage office and a library of weird. He's strange—but if anyone's sitting on something unsolved, unholy, or unloved… it's him."

He handed Henry a folded paper.

"His floor. Room C-17. Knock twice, spin once, and maybe burn a candle before entering—just in case."

Henry took the paper, feeling the weight of something new pressing on his day.

"Thanks."

Nelson leaned back again, eyes drifting toward the door.

"And tell Fritz not to talk to the furniture this time. It's freaking out the interns."

....

Henry stood before the dark oak door labeled C-17. The brass numbers were slightly tarnished, and a faint trace of incense hung in the air. He knocked twice, just as Nelson said.

No response.

Then, from inside—

"Come in."

He pushed the door open.

The room was dim, lit mostly by the pale morning sunlight slipping through a narrow stained-glass window. Piles of papers were scattered like miniature ruins across the desk, shelves, and even the floor. The air was still but heavy, as if even sound moved slower here.

At the far end of the room, seated behind a warped mahogany desk, was Officer Andrew Fritz.

Tall, thin, sleeves rolled to the elbow, spectacles low on the bridge of his nose. He looked like a monk who'd spent too long in the war. His coat hung loosely, and his hands moved with clinical precision as he tried—unsuccessfully—to keep a tower of files from collapsing onto a tray of half-burned candles.

As the top stack began to tip, he caught it without looking. No frustration, no sigh. Just a steady, eerie calm.

His eyes lifted to Henry.

"You're the new blood. Ford, correct?"

"Yeah," Henry replied, stepping in.

Andrew nodded once, then gestured to a chair across from his desk. "Have a seat."

Henry did.

"Tea?"

"No, thank you."

Andrew didn't blink. "Rejecting an elder's offer is worse than drinking something politely and leaving it unfinished."

Henry's mouth twitched into a faint, reluctant smirk. "Then I apologize, but I'll risk the bad luck."

Andrew poured himself a cup without a word, steam rising between them.

They sat in silence for a moment. A distant clock ticked behind the walls.

"I want to take a case," Henry said, his voice more serious now.

Andrew didn't look up from his tea. "Most men who say that want glory, or blood. Which are you?"

"I want answers."

He leaned forward slightly. "It's about Zachery Culls. He died some days ago. They say suicide."

Andrew slowly set down the cup, finally locking eyes with him.

"I knew the name sounded familiar," he said. "Prada Military University. Top third percentile in physical aptitude. Failed theology and ethical aptitude twice. Unlikely to pursue suicide voluntarily."

"He was my mate," Henry added. "Rough around the edges. But he didn't break easy."

Andrew studied him in silence. No sympathy in his face, no faked concern. Just the quiet methodical observation of a man who had looked into too many graves.

"There are already two Inspectors handling the investigation," he finally said.

Henry's jaw tightened. "Then let me join them."

Andrew considered for a long moment.

"You understand, if you do, this isn't a personal favor. You follow evidence. Not memories. Not nostalgia. If the conclusion is suicide, you accept it."

"If it's the truth, I will," Henry replied.

Andrew gave the smallest nod.

"Then report to Room D-2. Inspector Mary Janet and Inspector Jeff Hardy are heading the case. They'll brief you on the details."

Henry stood. "Understood."

He turned to leave, but Andrew spoke again—calm, quiet, like smoke slipping through a crack.

"There's something strange about that case," he said. "Not the death. The aftermath. People stopped asking questions too quickly. As if they were told to."

Henry paused in the doorway, back straight.

Andrew didn't look up again.

"Good luck, Mr. Ford. And tread lightly. Some truths in Prada are better off buried."

....

Inside Room D-2, the atmosphere was warmer than most places in the Vanguard Station, despite the stained stone walls and steel filing cabinets. A round table dominated the center, covered with crumpled reports, city maps, faded photographs, and an untouched plate of spiced toast sticks resting beside a half-drunk pot of black tea.

Nelson Carter stood near the window, sleeves rolled up, his hulking form almost blocking the entire patch of daylight. He was speaking casually, gesturing with slow, deliberate movements—his usual mix of charm and grim experience. Across from him sat Jeff Hardy and Mary Janet, the two Inspectors assigned to the Culls case.

Jeff reclined slightly in his chair, legs crossed, coat unbuttoned. A loosely tied scarf hung from his collar, and a wooden toothpick twitched lazily in the corner of his mouth. There was always something half-smiling in his eyes, like he'd already solved the case but wasn't quite ready to share the punchline.

Mary, by contrast, sat upright. Clean notes. Clean coat. Hair pulled into a tight bun. She scanned papers as Nelson spoke, underlining certain names and circling location tags. A faint scowl tugged at her face, but it wasn't annoyance—it was her default setting.

"—and he wants in?" Mary said, not looking up.

"Kid saw something he didn't like," Nelson said. "And he's not asking for permission. He's walking in with or without it. Better on a leash than off."

Just then, the door creaked open.

Henry stepped in.

Clean coat. Steady eyes. The two kittens weren't with him—thankfully. Still, a faint scratch on his wrist betrayed their morning mischief.

Jeff looked over his shoulder and grinned. "Ah, the fresh blood."

Henry gave a firm nod. "Henry Ford. Reporting in."

Mary didn't smile. But she gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. "Inspector Janet."

"Jeff Hardy," said Jeff, offering his hand. "Don't let the name confuse you—I don't wrestle anymore."

Henry shook it.

"Nelson told us you've got history with the Culls boy," Jeff added.

"He was my roommate," Henry said. "I don't believe it was suicide."

"That makes two of us," Jeff replied, reaching casually toward the plate beside him. "Toast stick? Careful—it bites."

Henry took one.

He bit in.

A second passed.

Then the spice exploded across his tongue like a cannon going off in his skull.

"…What the hell's in this?!"

"Chili oil, garlic butter, and betrayal," Jeff said, unfazed, already chewing another. "Best served with doubt."

Mary rolled her eyes. "Stop feeding evidence to rookies."

"It's not evidence. It's breakfast."

Henry wiped his mouth, still stunned. "So… where's the case at?"

Mary sighed, finally setting her pen down.

"Not far. Suicide ruled by default. No body was seen by non-Vanguard eyes. Medical reports were sealed tight, and the university won't release dorm records without administrative clearance. The more we push, the more doors close."

Jeff leaned back. "It's like someone wants this to die quietly."

Henry's brows furrowed. "Could be internal?"

"Could be," Nelson muttered. "Or something worse."

Mary snapped her folder shut.

"We'll loop you in. Tomorrow, you start with Zach's dorm records and the medical examiner's report. Nelson will guide you through clearance. For now, go rest."

Henry nodded. "Understood."

Later, under the mellow afternoon sun, Henry walked down the quieter part of East Row, the two kittens flanking him again—Jeena trotting ahead, Marsh dragging a torn piece of leaf like a trophy.

The street was calm. Too calm for a city like Prada.

He reached home, unlocked the door, and let the kittens in first. He didn't follow right away.

Instead, he stood at the doorway, eyes lingering on the street.

This case wasn't just a search for truth.

It was a descent.

And Henry was already in it, deeper than he realized.

....

The door creaked open as Henry stepped into his home, the faint warmth of the afternoon sun trailing behind him.

The familiar scent of dried herbs, old wood, and faint soap lingered in the air.

He unstrapped his coat, hung it by the wall, kicked off his boots—routine, quiet, normal.

"Alright, we're home," he muttered to the kittens, who scurried in behind him.

Jeena darted to the corner of the room, while Marsh immediately began batting at a fallen quill near the bookshelf like it owed him money.

Henry turned toward the bed and stopped.

No Mimi.

She wasn't on the usual sunspot by the window.

Not under the bed.

Not curled on the pillow like she ruled the house.

Not in the woven basket beside the desk.

A chill crept down his spine. He walked quickly, checking under the couch, the pantry, behind the curtain, in the laundry drawer—nothing.

"Mimi?" he called. A little louder now.

No meow. No sound.

Silence.

He stepped back into the living room, brows tightening.

Then he saw Jeena.

The tiny kitten was sitting stiff on the hallway rug, completely still. Her fur slightly puffed, back hunched, eyes unnaturally wide. The pupils were dilated—two black moons swallowed in gold.

Her gaze wasn't on Henry.

It was fixed on nothing.

Just air. Empty space. Like something unseen had frozen her there.

Henry crouched beside her. "Jeena?"

No response.

He gently touched her head. She didn't blink. She didn't move. It was as if her body had shut down, locked in a state of raw, primal terror.

Henry swallowed hard.

What the hell happened in here…?

Behind him, he heard a faint thump.

He turned—

Marsh was happily chasing a dust bunny across the room, tail wagging like all was right in the world.

Two kittens. One haunted. One clueless.

And Mimi? Gone.

Henry stood, scanning the room once more.

No signs of a struggle. No broken objects. No claw marks. Nothing out of place—except Jeena's silence and that deep, gnawing absence in the air, like something had just left, or was still hiding, just out of reach.

He looked back to Jeena.

Her eyes hadn't moved.

And for the first time in weeks, a strange unease settled in Henry's chest—not the kind born from blood and bullets.

This was older.

Quieter.

And closer.