𝙎𝙪𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙘𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙎𝙚𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙨

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟖

That night, after the conversation with Dini had left him feeling unsettled, Giran stood in his room, staring at the door. The silence of the mansion around him felt suffocating, the weight of the mystery and the strange tension between him and Filan pushing him toward an inevitable decision.

I need to know the truth. I need to find out what Filan’s hiding.

His thoughts raced as he grabbed his jacket and slipped it on, trying to ignore the growing sense of anxiety in his stomach. He quickly made his way out of his mansion, his footsteps echoing in the empty halls. He hadn’t told anyone about his plan to visit Filan’s mansion tonight, but something inside him told him it was the only way to get the answers he was looking for.

The cold night air greeted him as he stepped outside, and he made his way toward the direction of Filan’s mansion. Every step felt heavier than the last, as if the darkness itself was pulling him deeper into this twisted game.

When he arrived at Filan’s mansion, he stood outside for a moment, contemplating whether this was the right choice. But the nagging feeling that something wasn’t right pushed him forward, his hand reaching for the doorbell. He pressed it, the chime echoing through the large, empty space.

The door opened shortly after, and there stood Filan, dressed in casual clothes, his expression unreadable as he looked at Giran.

“What are you doing here?” Filan’s voice was cold, his eyes narrowed slightly, but there was no hint of surprise.

“I... I need to talk to you,” Giran said, his voice shaky but firm. “I need to know what’s going on, Filan. There’s too much I don’t understand.”

Filan stepped aside, motioning for Giran to enter. "Come in, then," he said, his tone still sharp, but there was a trace of something softer in his eyes, as if he, too, was hiding something.

Giran walked inside, the heavy wooden doors closing behind him with a quiet thud. The mansion felt eerily quiet, the kind of silence that made Giran’s skin crawl. Filan led him to the sitting room, and Giran sat down, feeling a bit out of place in the grand space.

“Spill it, Giran. What’s going on? Why are you really here?” Filan asked, his gaze not leaving Giran’s face.

Giran hesitated, unsure of how to phrase the question that had been on his mind all day. “I think someone at the school is responsible for the deaths. And... I think it might be you.”

Filan's expression didn’t change. He didn’t seem surprised or angry, just calm, almost detached. “You think it’s me?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Giran admitted, his voice low. “There’s something off about all of this. And I keep getting this feeling that you’re hiding something. But... I don’t want to jump to conclusions. I just need the truth, Filan.”

Filan looked at him for a long moment, and for a moment, Giran thought Filan might not say anything at all. But then, with a slow, deliberate movement, Filan walked over and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms.

“You’re smart, Giran. You know I’m not the killer. I don’t even know why I’m wasting my time trying to explain this to you,” Filan said, his voice laced with frustration.

“But—”

“No,” Filan cut him off, his tone sharper than before. “You’re asking questions, but you’re not ready for the answers. I’ve told you before: stay out of it.”

Giran stood up abruptly, the frustration that had been building inside him boiling over. “No! I can’t just stand by while people are dying. I can’t just ignore it. Something isn’t right, and I’m not leaving here until I get some answers from you.”