Innocent Until Found Dead

Chapter Fifteen

"We read each other through our eyes, and anatomically, they are an extension of our brains. When we catch someone's eye, we look into a mind." –Sir Hudstvedt

The upstairs hallway stretched before Saint, dim and oppressive, the faint light from a dusty window barely cutting through the shadows. Doors lined either side, their chipped paint and rusted knobs leading to rooms long abandoned, cloaked in dust and decay. The air was thick, carrying the faint scent of mildew and time.

The group moved in silence after dragging him upstairs, claiming to be "scoping out the area" to assess the cleaning effort ahead. Each step was punctuated by the low groan of the ancient floorboards beneath their weight. Despite the thin excuse, their intent was clear.

Scythe led the way down the narrow hallway, her black bob swaying with each confident stride. Her boots barely made a sound against the creaking floorboards, moving with a deadly grace that fit her name. She cast a glance over her shoulder, her dark eyes cutting toward Saint—a silent warning that brooked no resistance. The dim light overhead flickered, and for a second, her sharp gaze seemed to slice through the shadows like a blade.

Without a word, Scythe halted at a door on her right, her hand hovering just a moment before she pushed it open, stepping inside as if she owned the place. Saint followed, his broad frame nearly brushing the doorway as he ducked into the room behind her.

The space was suffused with a dim, almost oppressive glow from a single tarnished chandelier that hung above, its crystals cracked and grimy. Fractured light spilled across the cluttered room, illuminating mismatched furniture and strange artifacts scattered in disarray. The wallpaper was a patchwork of faded patterns—roses, stripes, geometric shapes—each peeling corner a testament to the house's forgotten history. It looked like someone had tried to redecorate a dozen times and given up on each attempt.

Old trinkets littered every available surface—an antique globe with continents barely visible through flaking paint, a haphazard collection of porcelain figurines that seemed to watch from every angle, and a brass birdcage hanging from the ceiling in the far corner, its door hanging slightly ajar, as if whatever was inside had long since escaped. Against the far wall leaned a large, ornate mirror with a gilded frame. Time had chipped away at the gold, revealing darkened wood beneath. The glass reflected the room in a distorted haze, making it feel even more surreal, like they had stepped into a place that existed slightly out of phase with the real world.

Scythe paused in the center of the room, her gaze sweeping over the surroundings before settling back on Saint. The others filed in after them, their presence shifting the atmosphere—an unspoken tension brewing like an incoming storm.

"What was that?" Scythe asked, her voice low, laced with an icy edge as her eyes locked onto his. There was something dangerous beneath her words, a challenge wrapped in a veneer of calm.

Saint raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. He leaned casually against the doorframe, his towering presence seeming to fill every shadowed corner. "What was what?" he echoed, his tone sarcastic but casual. His dark eyes flicked between the group, taking stock. He wasn't stupid—he understood why he was being cornered; it was just a little more fun if he played it off as nothing.

Bullseye hovered nearby, his face impassive but his stance tense, a coil wound tight. He stayed close to Saint, his unreadable gaze scanning the room. Teller, on the other hand, slinked into the room, his hands buried deep in his pockets. His eyes darted around the space, restless, as if he expected something to happen—or someone to jump out. He shifted on his feet, his unease palpable.

Vix glided into the room and brushed past Saint, her blonde hair catching what little light filtered through the cracked window. She positioned herself near the sill, her expression seemingly relaxed, though her sharp eyes betrayed her vigilance as they flitted between Saint and Scythe, anticipating the inevitable confrontation.