Hedi lifted the receiver; the line was winter-still, no whisper of breath, a pond without ripples.

Matching that frost, she slowed her own breathing, a leaf settling in still air.

By common sense, a call shouldn’t be this quiet, like a bell under glass.

Soon, a single “Hello” slid through, flat as a windless sea, neither asking nor testing, just cracking the suffocating calm.

Hedi covered the mouthpiece, voice polite but cool as shade: “Who are you calling?”

She trusted her ear like a hawk’s eye, yet this was a stranger’s voice, a man’s tone with no color.

“Five minutes,” he said, clipped like a blade skimming ice.

“What?”

“Only five minutes.” Slurping echoed, water gliding like reeds in a stream. “Tell me, is this Melvina’s house?”

“Sorry, I’m waiting for a call—” Her patience folded like paper in rain.

“No one calls in the afternoon,” he said, dry as dust.

“Including you?” Her words flicked like a pebble across a lake.

“Four and a half left. Is this Melvina’s house? Did I reach Hedi Melvina’s phone?” His pace was a metronome, steady as a drum.

Hedi didn’t rush; she turned to Selina, who crouched by the phone table, lips shaping silent wind: It’s the caller from the file drop.

“Are you with the Institute?” Hedi asked, voice light as mist masking steel.

“Don’t pry into my background!” His reply snapped like a twig.

“Did Stratford tell you to call?” Her question pressed like a thumbprint in wax.

“Stratford... yes...” His words broke apart like dry leaves, a flat voice without a wrinkle of feeling. “Did you receive the Dark Realm Erosion files?”

“Received.” Her answer was a stone dropped in a well.

“Mm.” The pause was a cold room with no window.

Silence swelled, a cloud that wouldn’t rain.

Hedi covered the mouthpiece, a palm over flame: “He’s not Institute.”

“How do you know?” Selina’s whisper was a moth’s wing.

“He doesn’t say ‘Deputy Director’ like you do, the way a badge catches sun.”

“Could he be the Director?” Her doubt hovered like fog at dawn.

“If he were, he wouldn’t say ‘pry into my background,’ a clumsy shield like a broken umbrella.”

Selina nodded, an arrow barely twitched in the bow.

Hedi released the mouthpiece, her tone smooth as river stone: “The line’s acting up. What did you say?”

“Apology,” he breathed, a word dropped like ash.

“The files are for an apology?” Her brow lifted, a crane’s neck.

“Mm.” His agreement was a dull bell.

“And then?” Her question stretched like a fishing line.

“When you calm down, call back and cooperate.” His offer drifted like smoke.

“Only cooperation?” Her voice tested the fence like rain testing clay.

“With conditions. Discuss them with Stratford,” he said, a lock clicking in the dark.

“You know what happened between us?” Her words moved like a blade under silk.

The other end fell into weird silence, a field after lightning.

He’d probably hit mute—some toy from Juno Workshop, a curtain that blocks sound, so operators can confer or spit out their venom, rain behind thick walls.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Still waiting, like a shore counting waves.

Then sound returned, tide stitching itself back together, the sea split and healed: “I don’t know.”

“No problem. I can tell you.” Hedi anchored the receiver to her ear, a shell to the surf. “She tried to seize my body.”

“Sending the files is to apologize.” His tone stayed bone-dry, like chalk.

“Sounds like you know.” Her suspicion flared, a fox’s tail in brush.

“...I want your answer,” he said, reaching like a hand through fog.

Hedi refused to cooperate, her words iron in cold rain.

“Why?” he asked, surprised, a tone snapping from frost to flame.

“Because I’ve already conceded, and you haven’t shown real sincerity,” she said, a door shut against wind.

“Don’t you want the Dark Realm Erosion data?” His lure glittered like fish-scale.

“Did you read it?” Her gaze sharpened, a needle pointing north.

“Read.”

“Really? You sound like—” Her doubt crept like ivy.

“Say it again: I read it,” he cut in, a knife on bone.

Hedi rolled her eyes, gathering a storm of words into a spear: “Are you acting behind Stratford’s back?”

“Why?” His echo was empty as a hollow tree.

“Because if I were Stratford, I wouldn’t use those files to negotiate. And if you read them, you know what’s inside.”

“Surgery,” he said, the word cold as steel on skin.

“And?” Her voice pressed like a bootprint in mud.

“Academic jargon, perfect for someone like you,” he tossed, dust in the wind.

“Then you really don’t know what’s between me and Stratford—or you’re playing dumb,” she said, the line taut as a bowstring.

“The king prepared five big chests,” he pivoted, a hawk veering mid-flight. “You must open them one through five. A hungry lion waits in an unexpected chest. Which one do you open?”

“That riddle’s a knot with broken ends. I won’t open any,” Hedi said, a hand withdrawing from a snake basket.

“Mm.” His assent fell like a pebble.

“Does that relate to our talk?” Her question skimmed like a swallow.

“Stratford believes it tests wisdom; there’s no lion,” he said, a teacher’s chalk tapping slate. “But when she opened the second chest, a lion appeared—unexpected.”

Hedi wiped sweat from her palm, dew on bark, nerves humming: “What does that mean?”

“Cooperation,” he said, the word a hook.

“I want to speak to Stratford,” Hedi replied, her tone a lantern held high.

“She—” his voice stalled, a cart in sand, then crawled on, “isn’t convenient.”

“You don’t sound like it,” she shot back, a spark in dry grass.

“Five minutes are up.”

Hedi had barely drawn out her watch when the line began to beep, rhythm steady as a metronome.

She exhaled deep, a bellows emptying, and dropped to the floor, a reed loosened in the wind, sorting the talk before its fine threads faded like ink in rain.

She closed her eyes, stood at the shore of her mind, and walked toward a fog of thoughts, a delta swallowing light.

Her thoughts were a swamp, a dark mire sucking at the heel.

Shards lay scattered like wreckage after a storm, bone-white and half-buried.

Bubbles burst, viscous and sticky, powdering her skin like ash from a cold fire.

Orders under duress, words like banners in a gale.

The lion in the chest, a shadow with teeth.

Experimental surgery, a scalpel glinting like winter sun.

Cooperation, a bridge hanging over mist.

Hedi trudged through the bog, mud climbing from ankle to calf to thigh, breath caught like a fish in net, strength leaking like rain through clay, and the path refused her feet.

“Stratford,” she said, voice low as an evening bell, “made a deal with outsiders, but the cooperation broke; the deal failed.”

Selina listened, quiet as a lantern under snow, and added, “Dark Realm Erosion.”

“Who was eroded?” Hedi asked, a finger tracing frost.

“That—” Selina faltered, a thread slipping the needle.

“Could it be Stratford herself?” Hedi’s thought cut like a cold blade.

“You mean it?” Selina blinked, eyes like startled starlings.

Hedi shifted, pressing one cheek to the cool floor, stone against skin. “You said Dark Realm Erosion is common among Investigators; as Deputy Director, she could be infected.”

“The Deputy Director hasn’t shown discomfort,” Selina said, steady as a clear sky.

“Yes.” Hedi’s agreement sat like a pebble.

“I lean toward an outsider being eroded, pushing her to search for a cure,” Selina offered, a path through bracken.

“If that’s the case, there’s no reason to kill her,” Hedi said, a shield raised against rain.

Selina’s eyes widened, disbelief a flare of lightning. “Where did you hear that?”

“What does the hungry lion mean?” Hedi’s mind moved like an abacus. “If you open the first four in order and find nothing, then the lion must be in the fifth, which isn’t unexpected. By that logic, the lion can’t be in the fourth, third, second, or first.”

“The Deputy Director opened the second, and there was a lion,” Selina said, the word pouncing like a cat from grass.

“You’re telling me she thought too much?” Hedi bit her thumb, teeth like a small trap. “Faced with a fatal choice, why open the chest?”

“A gun to her head?” Selina’s guess flashed like steel under moon.

“Right—orders under a gun. That’s the most reasonable frame,” Hedi said, a compass settling north.

“You said they needed the Deputy Director alive to save someone,” Selina reminded, her tone a soft rope.

“The hungry lion means power, threat, survival instinct, and a hunger that never fills—it’s a crisis ready to erupt, a dangerous figure, or an irresistible force,” Hedi said, symbols circling like crows. “Here, it likely points to an unforeseen event or betrayal. One thing is certain: the caller isn’t Institute, but he’s tightly tied to Stratford. He pulled top-secret files and delivered them—that’s proof carved in stone.”

“Could the Deputy Director have taken them?” Selina asked, a needle testing cloth.

“I don’t know, but they want to work with me,” Hedi said, her thought a blade sheathing.

“Because she and you fell out,” Selina said, the words like dusk falling.

“If they strap me to an operating table, will I learn more?” Hedi murmured, curiosity a moth against a flame.

Selina pressed Hedi’s face gently, a cool palm like river stone, stopping her drift toward knives.

The room fell quiet, a lake under moon.

A long quiet, stretching like winter shadows.

Quiet long enough to forget time, a clock drowned in snow.