Chapter 2: Old Foes Reunite

The downpour eased into a misty drizzle, tapping against the glass in a soft, rhythmic patter.

The phone screen was still lit, Lily’s photo nailed Ethan’s attention with the force of a stake driven straight through the retina. The “No. 3” in the file name pulsed in the blue glow, ticking away like a silent countdown. He didn’t have hard proof that Bert Grey would move to scrub the archives within twenty-four hours, but experience told him that greedy men were the least patient ones on the planet.

Ethan set down the wolf head paperweight, the slick residue of copper patina still clinging to his fingertips. He needed to cool his head. He needed to channel that Grace Cole part of his brain, the part that dismantled chaos into actionable steps. He grabbed his car keys and yanked the door open. The cold rain instantly gushed down his collar, sending a shudder through him.

This wasn’t an adventure. It was damage control.

Copperhorn Town’s clinic hugged the corner of Main Street, its exterior painted a faded mint green that had seen better decades. The sign’s bulbs had burned out halfway, flickering uneasily in the dusk. Ethan pushed the door open; the hinge screamed with a dry, rattling cough, like an old man clearing his throat.

Behind the reception desk sat Grace Cole. At forty-five, she wore her white coat with the sleeves rolled up, revealing solid, capable forearms. She was reconciling inventory on a tablet, the screen’s light casting sharp shadows across her angular face.

Ethan bypassed the desk and headed straight for the consultation room, pulling a chair out and sitting down. No appointment. No explanation. He just pointed to the reddish bruise on his left forearm, skin scraped raw from his climb through the cemetery last night.

Grace looked up, her brow furrowing into a tight knot.

“Ethan Blake,” her voice was dry, laced with professional detachment. “You know this is a clinic, not a laundromat. You reek of dirt and rain. If that’s your usual state of existence, I suggest you take a shower before asking me to treat that wound.”

Ethan didn’t argue. He just rolled up his sleeve. A fine tear ran along the edge of the bruise, weeping fresh blood.

“Just a scrape,” Grace said. She stood up, pulling iodine and gauze from the drawer with the efficient, disassembling motion of a gun. “Don’t move. That cut is deeper than it looks; you’ll keep a scar. Given your current lifestyle, a scar would be a nice accessory. It proves you’ve been properly humbled by reality.”

“Bert’s watching me,” Ethan muttered, gritting his teeth against the stinging burn of the iodine. His tone was eerily calm, surprising even himself. “Lily found the signature, but Bert knows what we’re after. We need an alibi. Or at least, a leverage point that will make him hesitate.”

Grace’s hand froze, the iodine-soaked cotton swab suspended in the air.

“You’re playing dangerous games again,” she finally spoke, her voice as cold as a metal tray on a surgical table. “Last time Mason Woods dragged you off the judge’s bench, you told me you needed to clear your name. Now you’re betting your life on a collector’s psychological weaknesses. Ethan, you’re a social worker, not a protagonist in a detective novel. You can’t afford to lose.”

“I didn’t say I’m winning,” Ethan said, staring at the wrapping of the gauze. “I’m waiting for a window. Bert suffers from paranoid tendencies—I checked his file. He likes control. He hates the unknown. If I can convince him that the paperweight is haunted, he’ll shift his attention away from Lily.”

Grace sighed, tearing open a sterile dressing pack to secure the gauze.

“That’s always your style,” she said, typing into the medical record without looking up. “You treat every crisis like a chess game you can manipulate. But when a chess player makes a blunder, it’s the piece that dies. Are you sure you’ve calculated the next move? For instance, what if Bert burns the archive room tonight?”

Ethan didn’t answer. He looked out the window. The rain blurred the street across from the clinic; a black sedan was slowly pulling into the parking lot.

The window rolled down an inch, revealing a face so familiar it made Ethan’s teeth ache.

Mason Woods.

As Mason stepped out of the car, he deliberately adjusted the collar of his expertly tailored overcoat. As the sitting Group Grounds Judge, he was accustomed to maintaining a haughty elegance in Copperhorn Town. Even on a rainy night, his leather shoes were polished to a mirror shine.

He walked straight into the clinic without knocking.

“Dr. Grace,” Mason’s voice echoed through the lobby, carrying a polished, magnetic charisma. “Apologies for the intrusion. I heard Mr. Blake was receiving ‘special care’ here. I hope he isn’t causing trouble for your clinic.”

Grace set down her pen, her face a blank slate.

“He is my patient, Judge Mason,” Grace’s tone was flat. “In here, it’s just doctor and patient. Keep your gavel outside.”

Ethan stepped out of the consultation room, his left arm wrapped in thick bandages. He stood half a step behind Grace, a position that looked like he was guarding her, but effectively used her as a shield.

Mason’s gaze lingered on Ethan’s wound for two seconds before moving to his face. The look was like a cold dagger, probing through the skin to find the cracks inside.

“Ethan,” Mason smiled, a smile devoid of any warmth. “Long time no see. I hear you’ve been very active lately. From the Wanderer Shelter to the archaeological site, and now a clinic. Are you weaving a web, or do you just want to drown yourself in it?”

“I was seeking medical advice, Mason,” Ethan’s voice was calm. No defiance, no submission. “My forearm got injured. Dr. Grace advised rest.”

“Rest?” Mason let out a light laugh. He turned to face Ethan, hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed to the point of arrogance. “Under Article 42 of the Copperhorn Town Community Order and Maintenance Regulations, any suspect involved in cultural relic smuggling or illegal excavation is prohibited from leaving the jurisdiction during the investigation and cannot participate in activities that might interfere with evidence. The ‘searching for signatures’ and ‘dealing with Bert’ you just mentioned sound exactly like interfering with evidence, don’t they?”

Grace frowned. “Mason, that’s an internal investigation report. You haven’t issued a formal arrest warrant or injunction. You can’t conduct a private interrogation of my patient here in your capacity as a judge.”

“I am exercising preventive oversight, Grace,” Mason dismissed her protest, his eyes locked on Ethan. “Ethan, I gave you a chance. When you left last year, I told you: leave Copperhorn Town, forget the past, and you could live a normal life. But you chose to come back. Since you’re back, you have to follow the rules. If you keep entangling yourself in the Bert Grey case, or try to access illegal evidence by contacting Lily Hale, I will personally file a lawsuit. The charges will be ‘obstruction of justice’ and ‘illegal intrusion into private archives.’ I have time, Ethan. I have resources. You have a rain-soaked wound and a past that will devour you.”

Mason’s last words were like poisoned nails driven deep into Ethan’s sore spot. He was betting that Ethan would either shrink from fear or lose his temper from anger.

But Ethan just glanced down at his arm, then looked up, his eyes clear.

“Mason, you’re citing the old regulations,” Ethan spoke, his voice low but cutting through the clinic’s silence with crystal clarity. “That’s the 2018 revision. After the Digital Evidence and Archive Protection Act passed in 2021, Article 42 was split. The clause you’re quoting now falls under civil disputes. Unless you have a federal investigation warrant, you have no right to threaten a citizen’s legal activities with ‘obstruction of justice.’”

Mason’s smile froze on his face.

“You’re spouting nonsense, Ethan,” Mason stepped forward, trying to bulldoze him with sheer presence. “I am a judge. I know the law better than you. You think you can play word games with me just because you flipped through some outdated codices?”

“It’s not word games, it’s a logical flaw,” Ethan took a step forward, closing the distance. He stared into Mason’s eyes. “You just threatened to sue Lily Hale for obtaining ‘illegal evidence.’ But according to the 2022 precedent in Grey v. State Archives, if a document is marked as ‘urgent access’ and goes through the official authorization process, even a former convict has the right to access public records via application. Lily is the director of the shelter; she has legitimate reasons to apply for background check assistance files. Your accusation that she acquired them illegally is premised on her not following the process. But you wouldn’t dare check her process because you’re afraid you’ll find out she acted legally.”

Mason’s pupils contracted for a split second.

“You’re setting a trap, Ethan,” Mason’s voice dropped to ice, the humor entirely gone.

“No,” Ethan shook his head, the corners of his mouth twisting into a weary arc. “I’m dismantling your hand. Mason, you’re too arrogant. You think Bert Grey is your ally, but you’re just his tool. What Bert wants is the original signature on the tombstone. You haven’t even figured out which stone it’s on. The statute you just cited got the basic fact-finding wrong. You’re not protecting the law; you’re covering up your own ignorance.”

The clinic was deathly quiet, save for the rain tapping the glass and Grace’s rapid breathing.

Mason’s face flushed purple. He stared at Ethan, trying to find any trace of mockery on his face. He couldn’t find any. Ethan’s gaze was calm, bordering on indifferent—the look of a man who had seen too many lies and had been ground down by them.

“You will regret this, Blake,” Mason said, his voice barely a whisper. “You will pay for your cleverness.”

He turned and left, the hem of his overcoat slicing a resolute arc. The door slammed shut behind him, the vibration rattling the window glass.

Ethan stood in place until Mason’s engine sound faded into the rain.

Grace stepped forward and patted Ethan’s shoulder. Her grip was strong, carrying a silent warning.

“You mentioned a 2022 precedent,” she said in a low voice, her brow furrowed. “Ethan, that case is two years old. Bert Grey’s archives were only digitized last year. If you’re right, Lily does have the right to access them. But if Bert finds out about this…”

“Bert doesn’t know,” Ethan cut her off, his voice rough. “Bert believes the relics choose him. He acts on his own timeline. He thinks Mason is helping him clear obstacles, but Mason is actually sealing the roads. Mason doesn’t know that Bert has marked the location of the western tombstones as a ‘danger zone,’ because he doesn’t have permission to access Bert’s private satellite map.”

Grace’s eyes widened. “You have access to Bert’s private satellite map? That doesn’t make sense, Ethan. Bert never uses civilian network services.”

Ethan didn’t answer. He walked to the window, watching the rainwater stream down the glass.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

A new message from an unknown number.

The screen showed a single photo.

The background was an old printer, the paper edges slightly curled. The title of the printed document read: Bert Grey's Collection Log (Copy).

On the last page of the log, there was an enlarged photograph.

In the photo, Bert Grey stood before a massive tombstone, holding the wolf head paperweight.

On the tombstone, a clear Latin inscription was carved.

Ethan stared at the inscription, his heart slamming against his ribs.

He recognized the handwriting.

It was his own.

The mark he had carved with his own hands on the night the cemetery collapsed, ten years ago.

But he had always believed that tombstone had been buried by a landslide, lost forever in the depths of the earth.

Why was it in Bert’s log?

Why was he seeing it now?

The rain outside stopped.

A crack appeared in the clouds, and pale, sickly moonlight spilled down, illuminating the wet streets of Copperhorn Town. It also illuminated the black sedan at the clinic’s entrance slowly turning its wheels. It hadn’t left. It sat silently in the shadows, lights off, like a beast lying in wait.

Ethan slowly pulled out his phone and dialed Lily’s number.

The call rang for a long time before someone picked up.

“Lily,” Ethan’s voice trembled, but he forced himself to steady it. “Listen to me. That tombstone. The third one on the west side. It didn’t disappear. It’s with Bert. And my writing is on it.”

Lily’s breathing came through the line in short, sharp gasps, followed by the sudden, deafening crash of heavy objects toppling in the background.

The doorknob slowly began to turn.