Chapter 2: Shadows in the Clinic

Rain slithered across the slick asphalt of Shiquan Town, pooling into the rust-eaten storm drains that lined the streets. The silver coin rested in Lian Winters' inner breast pocket, its metallic chill seeping through the fabric until it felt like a shard of ice pressed directly against his ribs. He didn't turn to see what Ethan Vaughan had said, nor did he look back at that black, long-handled umbrella standing perfectly still in the downpour. His boots churned through the mud, each step a dull thud that measured just how deep the lies on this land ran. In his mind, the numbers of the inverted coordinates spun in dizzy circles. What was buried beneath the old parish was swelling like over-proof dough, a pressure building that made it hard to breathe.

The car cut through the streetlight zone, the dim yellow halos bleeding across the windshield. Lian fired up the engine; the wipers beat in a rhythmic arc, as if trying to scrub away any visual noise that wasn't essential. He needed a colder, sharper set of eyes. Doctor Hete Grey’s clinic sat just around the corner, housing the most detailed forensic records in Shiquan Town, and the half-volume of old ledgers that the old fox held tight in his hands.

The clinic’s shutters were pulled tight, leaving only a sliver of ghastly white light spilling from beneath the door. Lian killed the engine and stepped out, dragging the wet cold with him. He brushed the mud clots from his trousers and knocked on the heavy oak door.

The hinges groaned in a low moan before the door swung open. A pungent mix of formaldehyde, aged paper, and cheap coffee hit him in the face. Hete Grey stood at the far end of the hallway, a lit cigar dangling between his fingers, his gaze cutting like a surgeon’s scalpel.

“You’re covered in mud, Lian.” Hete’s voice was gravelly, textured by years of smoking. “Wipe your feet. I just replaced that carpet.”

Lian offered no excuse. He simply plucked the silver coin from his pocket and set it on the clinic’s front counter, next to the old electronic scale. The coin rolled twice on the white surface before coming to rest, gleaming with a cold, sharp light.

“Look at this.” Lian’s tone was flat, stating a fact as mundane as gravity.

Hete glanced at it, but his hands stayed still. He exhaled a puff of smoke from the unlit cigar, his eyes sweeping past Lian’s shoulder toward the entrance. Was Ethan’s man still out there? He was checking the perimeter.

“Where did you dig this up?” Hete finally spoke, his voice dropping a notch. “If it came from a grave, don’t expect me to wash it clean. Shiquan Town’s forensic files have been a mess lately, stirred up by those suit-wearing types. I’m not looking for trouble.”

Lian frowned. “It didn’t come from a grave. It’s a lead. Ethan Vaughan stopped me in the rain. He said I’d dug up a fresh grave. Hete, I need you to tell me if this coin’s timeline holds water.”

Hete finally reached out, pinching the coin between two fingers. His movements were agonizingly slow, as if handling a tumor that might detonate. He held the coin up to the task light, adjusting the angle so the beam pierced the silver surface.

“Look here.” Hete pointed to a hairline scratch on the rim. “A layman would see it as wear and tear, the mark of time, right?”

Lian leaned in, narrowing his eyes. The scratch was indeed faint, nearly invisible under the harsh light.

“It’s an industrial cut.” Hete lifted the coin higher, letting the shadow fall on the wall. “See the angle of the break. Wear is rounded; it’s caused by friction. This slice? The edge is sharp, the depth consistent. It was sliced by a high-speed rotary metal saw. Someone cut a whole coin open, then welded or pressed it back together.”

Lian’s heart skipped a beat. Artificial tampering?

“So,” Lian stared at the scratch, his voice tight, “this coin’s original date was altered. It should have been earlier, or later.”

“Not exactly.” Hete set the coin down with a sharp *clink*. “If the goal is to hide that it’s ‘early,’ you’d usually grind the date off. But if you’re hiding that it’s ‘late’—making a newer item look old—you keep the old casting patterns but tamper with the internal structure. This scratch is on an internal seam. That means someone opened it. Something might be hidden inside, or something was taken out.”

“Taken out?”

“Time.” Hete let out a cold laugh, laced with open mockery. “And the truth. In 1998, Shiquan Town had a batch of disappearances. The official record called it ‘accidents.’ But I know some of those bodies were never found. If this coin is linked to those missing people, the scratch was put there to make it look like it belonged to an earlier era, steering the 1998 investigation away from it.”

A chill crawled up Lian’s spine. 1998 was the last point on the timeline when Mason Winters was seen. The year his father vanished. Every lead pointed there, but the industrial traces on this coin had scrubbed them all clean.

“I need the 1998 files,” Lian said. “The town hospital and the parish archive have backups. But I know the parish started digitizing a decade ago; many paper originals might have been destroyed or moved. I need to get into the parish archive at midnight.”

Hete raised an eyebrow, pulling the cigar from his lips and tucking it into his chest pocket.

“You’re out of your mind? That place is now under Ethan Vaughan’s ‘Care Fund’ jurisdiction. Their security system… it’s not exactly high-tech, but that old-style infrared detection plus their patrol squads are tighter than you think.”

“I have a way in.” Lian pulled out his phone, displaying a black map with several red dots. “I’ve been doing artifact escort work at the shelter lately, and I got a look at their logistics line. They use an abandoned ventilation duct to haul in recovered old furniture. That duct connects straight to the archive’s basement.”

Hete was silent for a moment, his gaze lingering on Lian’s face, assessing the metal of this young man.

“You still carry the scent of Ethan’s presence,” Hete said abruptly. “Was he just outside? His car hasn’t left the block.”

Lian didn’t answer. He simply slid the coin back into his pocket.

“If something happens to you,” Hete continued, his tone turning practical and cold, “I suggest you pray Nora Vaughan doesn’t turn you in as a witness. She’s on edge at the shelter lately, suspecting someone is using the homeless as a front. If you go in, you’re putting yourself on the opposite side of her. No matter what you think in your head.”

“I know.” Lian tugged at his collar, hiding the rain marks on his neck. “I’m just chasing the secret inside that coin. Mason owes me. Ethan owes me. They both have to pay up.”

“Mason?” Hete chewed on the name, his jaw tight. “Your father was a stubborn old mule, but he was still a life. Don’t throw yourself away for him. The 1998 archive room has no cameras, just old mechanical safes. The keys are in Ethan’s private drawer; we can’t get them. But the code…”

“What code?”

“An old-style four-digit lock. Based on the last sighting dates of the missing, or some internal anniversary only the inside crowd knows. Hete, do you have any forensic records related to the 1998 batch?”

Hete sighed, rummaging in a drawer until he pulled out a yellowed manila folder. The edges of the paper were brittle, like dry bark.

“I kept a copy. I was the intern forensics guy then, handling the autopsies. Most of the bodies weren’t found, but the missing reports are complete.” Hete pointed to a specific page. “Look. March 14, 1998. The final report. The location was the riverbank near the old parish. Your father, Mason Winters, is listed among the missing. Time of death or disappearance is marked as ‘pending.’”

Lian stared at those words, his fingers curling into fists, nails digging into his palms. Mason Winters. That stubborn old man who had kept the history of the wolf pack secret. And he just vanished into a corner of a file.

“The code might be 1998314?” Lian ventured.

“Too obvious.” Hete shook his head. “Ethan is a smart man; he likes complex puzzles. Also, the archive room was restructured in 1999, and the original records were re-categorized. The code is more likely linked to the ‘Silver Bond.’ This coin is part of the key.”

“Silver Bond?” Lian asked.

Hete closed the folder, his eyes sharp. “Your father was a miner before he became a treasure hunter. Rumor has it he got involved in an underground trade, exchanging silver tokens for intelligence. Those tokens were called ‘Silver Bonds.’ The 1998 incident likely involved a batch of illegally excavated artifacts, and the Vaughan family were the operators back then. They washed the records clean and destroyed the physical items, but they left these Silver Bonds behind as leverage. This coin is one of them. It was left intentionally, waiting for someone to activate it.”

The coin in Lian’s pocket suddenly felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. It wasn’t just cold metal anymore; it was a sac filled with poison.

“Midnight.” Lian stood up, adjusting his cuffs. “I’ll check the ventilation duct. Hete, keep an eye on Ethan’s car. If he leaves before two, it means he hasn’t started yet. If he’s still there after two, it means he’s already inside the archive.”

“I’ll watch.” Hete lit the cigar, the flame illuminating the deep sockets of his eyes. “Remember, Lian. In old buildings like that, the most dangerous thing isn’t people. It’s the structures you think are ruins but are actually traps. The ventilation duct has weight limits. Don’t step in the wrong place.”

“I know.”

Lian pushed open the clinic door, the wet, cold air rushing in again, smelling of rain and rust. The rain had eased up, but the clouds still hung low, a sheet of lead capping Shiquan Town.

He got back in the car and locked the doors. The engine roared to life, tires hissing over the puddles. The GPS was set for the underground vent in the old parish, an entrance hidden beneath a tangle of vines.

The car wove through the rain. The windows fogged with water droplets, blurring the world outside. Lian watched his own reflection in the rearview mirror—tired, but his eyes clear. He thought of Nora Vaughan, the woman with the tough gaze at the shelter. She was his only moral anchor in this chaotic world. If she knew all of this, would she stand with him? Or would she step aside, letting justice land in some other, crueler form?

No matter how far his thoughts drifted, they couldn’t stop the car from bouncing. Lian pulled his focus back to the road. Every turn, every deceleration, was a rehearsal for what was coming. He couldn’t make a mistake. The secret in the coin, the truth of 1998, Mason’s fate—all these fragments were coming together. The last piece of the puzzle was in the safe in the parish archive.

Twelve o’clock sharp.

Lian parked the car two miles away at a abandoned gas station. He pulled on his waterproof gear, shouldered his tool bag, and vanished into the night.

The foundation of the old parish had long since collapsed, leaving only a field of broken walls and rubble. Rain had pooled in the craters of debris, shimmering with a ghostly light. Following his memory and the markers from previous scouting runs, Lian found the vent. A rusted padlock hung on the iron bars. He picked it with practiced ease, the movement precise and silent.

The moment he crawled into the pipe, the smell of decay hit his nose. The inner walls were slick and covered in moss. He kept his profile low, moving on hands and knees through the tight space. Every inch squeezed his lungs, but it also blocked the infrared sensors that might be out in the open.

A faint echo drifted from ahead—the sound of rain dripping into standing water. *Drip. Drip.* The rhythm was steady, like a countdown.

At the end of the pipe, an iron door led to the archive basement. Lian stopped, pressing his ear against the metal. A thin draft seeped through the gap, carrying the dry, stale smell of old paper. No footsteps. No breathing. Hete was right. The structure was the real danger.

He took out his hydraulic cutter and carefully sheared the door lock’s bolt. The metal snapped with a quiet *ping*, but in the silent basement, it sounded like thunder. Lian held his breath, waiting to make sure no alarm shrieked, before pushing the door open.

The heavy archive door closed slowly behind him, shutting out all the truth and lies together, locking them in behind that iron gate.