Chapter 1: Rejection on a Rainy Night

Rain fell like a gray curtain, slicing the streets of Bordeaux into jagged, broken fragments. I stood outside the rusted iron gates of the Garnier Old Manor, water streaming from the brim of my hat down into my collar. It was bone-chilling, like needles pricking at my skin. The medical records in my hand—the ones I was accused of forging—were soaked through, the paper wrinkled like stripped bark, the ink bleeding into illegible smears. This was the third rainstorm like this, and the third time I’d been blocked at the gates. Every time, I felt that cold iron gate mocking my helplessness.

"Sir, this area is restricted." The security guard pressed his umbrella toward my face, the water sliding off the canopy and stinging my cheek, a sharp, cold jolt of reality. There was no sympathy in his eyes, only the cold indifference of a man doing his job, as if I were nothing more than an insignificant punctuation mark. "Chairwoman Claire has given orders: no one gets close. Even a stray dog has to be registered first."

I forced a stiff smile, my voice raspy from the cold and the crushing weight of the moment. "I’m not here to get close. I’m here to take back what’s mine. That file... it’s twenty years of my life’s work, and the only proof of my innocence."

"No authorization, no entry." He waved a hand, his tone dismissive, like he was shooing away a stray cat. "Get moving. Don't make a scene. The news is already calling you a thief tomorrow."

I stepped back, mud splashing onto my shoes and soaking through my socks. My phone buzzed in my pocket; the screen flickered to life, then went dark. I pulled it out, my fingers stiff as I dialed Claire Laramont’s number. The ringing lasted ten seconds, each tone hammering against my nerves. It connected, followed immediately by a mechanical female voice: "The number you have dialed is out of service."

Out of service. In this digital age, that was more final than death. To be wiped from social networks, communication tools, and financial systems—it was like being erased from reality itself.

I stood in the rain, watching the manor’s towering chimneys vanish into the downpour. For the past twenty years, I had grown up in the shadow of this building. As Head Nurse, I had tended to the wounds and the pride of every patient here, mending countless broken families. Now, I was the one being discarded. Social death wasn't a metaphor; it was a physiological reaction happening right now: my heart contracting, my blood running cold, my senses blurring. Only the pain of the rain hitting my skin felt real, a reminder that I was still alive.

The rain eased slightly, and I turned toward the Old Bookstore on the corner. Madeleine Lacombe’s shop was still open, its dim, yellow light pulsing like a dying heart. Through the dusty windows, it cast a warm, antique temptation. I pushed the door open, and the smell of mold and aged paper rushed out to meet me—a scent that offered a sliver of comfort against the freezing reality outside.

Madeleine sat behind the counter, cradling a heavy parchment volume. Her glasses had slid to the tip of her nose, nearly obscuring her eyes. She saw me and didn't look surprised, merely letting out a sigh that carried a sense of fated exhaustion.

"Julian, you look like a funeral bell that’s just been drenched in rain." She handed me a dry towel, her tone flat, devoid of extra emotion. "Sit. Don't expect me to offer you sanctuary; I only offer information."

I took the towel, wiped the rain from my face, and sat down. The chair let out a creak that sounded jarringly loud in the quiet shop, as if breaking some delicate balance. "Claire’s line is disconnected. I can't reach anyone. Reya has been off the grid for three days, too. I know she wouldn't just vanish for no reason, but in this situation, silence is more dangerous than a cry for help."

Madeleine took off her glasses and wiped the lenses with the hem of her shirt, her movements slow and precise, as if cleaning a delicate instrument. "Being off the grid is a good thing. Reya is a coward, but she knows how to protect herself. She has access to the digital archives. If she cut contact herself, it means she’s scared. She’s waiting for an opening, or she’s protecting something that can't see the light of day."

"What kind of opening?"

"Waiting for you to disappear, or for you to find that fragment." She put her glasses back on, her gaze sharp as a knife. "The records you have are forgeries—every news station in Bordeaux is broadcasting that. But the forger missed one detail. The signature on the medical records was verified by a retired forensic examiner. That man retired ten years ago due to severe memory loss; how could he possibly maintain such stable, consistent muscle memory?"

I frowned, rain dripping from my hair onto the floor. "What are you saying?"

"I’m saying someone borrowed a dead man's hand." Madeleine pushed the parchment volume across the desk and tapped a page. "This is an internal memo from the Antiquarian Guild regarding the transfer of the Garnier Family’s collection. Look here: 2015. A batch of ancient books of unknown origin marked as 'pending restoration.' The restorer's name field is blank."

I stared at that blank line, my fingers drumming on the desk in a frantic rhythm, as if racing against my own anxiety. "Blank? That means those items never entered the official archives. They became shadows, drifting outside of surveillance."

"Exactly. They became ghosts. And in the world of ghosts, only two things have substance: money and maps." She lowered her voice, leaning in close to my ear. "Julian, do you know who took that Map Fragment?"

"I don't. I only know it was in my possession until last month. Back then, I thought it was just a regular antique, nothing special."

"It’s not in your possession anymore." Madeleine pulled a brown paper envelope from under the counter and pushed it toward me, her movements crisp and decisive. "This is information I intercepted from a black-market buyer. The fragment has been cut in two. One half is in Claire’s hands, and the other..."

She paused, a flicker of hesitation in her eyes.

"The other half is at the Monastery," I blurted out, my voice firmer than I expected.

Madeleine blinked, then wore a complex expression, as if she’d seen an unexpected variable. "How did you know?"

"Intuition." I gave a bitter laugh, the rain condensing into a fine mist in the air. "Or maybe memory. When I was a kid, I saw similar index markings in the underground library of that Monastery. Those marks weren't decorations; they were indices."

Madeleine fell silent for a moment. Outside, the sound of the rain grew clamorous again, drumming against the glass like a frantic beat. She stood up, pulled open a drawer, and took out a piece of paper folded into a neat square. The page was yellowed, the edges scorched as if it had survived some destructive purge.

"This is the other part of the map," she said. "Not a fragment—the background layer. You can only see the entrance to the Tomb Passage once you piece it together with the fragment. But I’m warning you: Claire has already sent people. She doesn't care about the law; she only cares about control. Once you step into that area, there’s no turning back."

I took the paper, my fingertips touching the rough fibers, feeling the dryness and stiffness lingering deep within the sheet. The price had arrived. I had lost my innocence, my trust, and now, even my last shred of security was about to shatter.

"Why help me?" I asked, looking her straight in the eye.

"Because I hate that Foundation Chairwoman, too." Madeleine sat back down and crossed her arms, her posture relaxed but guarded. "Last year, under the guise of cultural preservation, she seized thirty hectares of land around the Monastery. She wants to turn it into a private club, to turn history into a commodity. I watch from the sidelines, but I don't interfere. That’s my neutrality. But you can use this map to break her balance."

I walked out of the bookstore, and the rain had intensified. The street was empty, save for streetlights casting long, trembling beams of light into the puddles, like inverted shadows. I gripped the map background tightly; the rain soaked the paper, and the ink began to bleed. I had to find that entrance before it blurred into nothingness, or everything would be for naught.

My phone lit up again. It wasn't Claire, and it wasn't Reya.

It was an unknown number.

The text on the screen was only one line long. No signature, no fluff, like a cold needle pricking my vision:

"The Map Fragment is at the Monastery. Don't trust anyone."

I stared at the words, rain dripping from my chin onto my soaked shirt. My heart hammered against my ribs, a heavy, frantic rhythm. I knew this was a trap, but it was also an opportunity. The trap lay in the unknown sender and their hidden motives; the opportunity lay in the fact that it confirmed my hazy memory and pointed to the next coordinate.

I wiped the mist from the screen and called the number back.

Ring. Ring. In the long wait, I could hear my own breathing, ragged and fast.

It connected.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end was processed, the static of a voice changer harsh and grating, like sandpaper. "You finally picked up."

"Who are you?" I asked, keeping my voice as steady as I could, even though my palms were slick with cold sweat and the phone nearly slipped from my grip.

"Who I am doesn't matter. What matters is that Claire Laramont is lying." The person paused for a second. In the background, there was a faint sound of keyboard clicking, rhythmic and steady, like an archivist entering data—a regularity that made me feel uneasy. "She claims the Map Fragment was destroyed in a fire, but her insurance records show the fragment was moved out of Bordeaux three years ago."

I narrowed my eyes, the rain forming a blurred curtain before me. "Insurance records?"

"Yes. Through an offshore bank. Do you want to check? I can give you the leads, but it will cost you."

"What cost?"

"Give up your innocence. Admit that you wrote those records. Only when you truly become a 'criminal' will Claire ignore you, treat you as an insignificant pawn rather than a threat that needs to be cleared. She stays vigilant against real enemies, but she’ll only hold a 'waste of space' in contempt."

I gripped the phone, my knuckles white, nearly crushing the metal casing. Admit to forging the records? That meant facing criminal charges, the end of my career, perhaps even prison. It was a gamble to trade my freedom for the truth, a losing hand in a rigged game, but it was my only way out.

"Why?" I pressed, my voice trembling.

"Because the Tomb Passage in the map doesn't lead to gold or silver." The voice on the other end dropped, carrying a trace of imperceptible tremor—the sound of fear. "What’s buried there is evidence of a murder covered up twenty years ago. Claire Laramont’s mother was the victim. She didn't move the map to sell it; she moved it to destroy the evidence and ensure the wealth she inherited remained clean forever."

The rain suddenly grew louder, thunder rolling in the distance, vibrating in my chest. I stood on the street corner, soaked to the bone, the rain mixed with mud, freezing and deep.

"Evidence?" I rasped, my throat feeling as if it were stuffed with cotton. "What kind of evidence?"

"A surgical record. Almost identical to the one you have, but dated twenty years earlier. It proves Claire’s mother was 'disposed of' during an accident, and the person who handled it at the time..."

The caller didn't finish. The signal cut out, leaving only a mess of static noise, then absolute silence.

I dialed back, but there was only a busy signal, tone after tone, mocking my futility.

The phone screen went dark, reflecting my pale face. I stood in the rain, looking at the map background soaked through with water. The lines on it were faint, appearing and disappearing like an unhealed wound slowly seeping blood.

The price had been paid: my reputation, my freedom, my dignity as a Head Nurse.

The questions continued to spread: Who was the sender? Was it Pierre Girard? The sharp, persistent investigative journalist? Or was it Reya Vidal, the coward who held the keys to the archives?

I didn't know. I only knew that the rain had stopped.

The clouds tore open, and moonlight leaked through, shining on the iron gates of the Old Manor, casting a cold, silvery glow. The light was frigid and distant, as if from another world.

I pressed the map background tightly against my chest. The paper felt cold against my skin, but solid.

I turned and began to walk toward the Monastery.