"An unidentified van was found burnt after exploding near an abandoned warehouse at Northern Dogson, killing three: Julian Warner, Highlife; Jules Warner, Lowlife; and Alexa Warner, Lowlife. Authorities are still identifying the cause to rule the case as a technical problem or suicide bombing, since there's a milk tooth and some grenade shards at the scene," Channel Four's bald news anchor drones on, barely coating his words with emotions. This news doesn't differ much from weather forecasts.

Like the victims are just like ants with names to him.

While Mrs. Sybil leans weakly on the cave's wall with tear-stained clothes and without her glasses, Grand-Mad is crumpled under the looming shadows. No tears nor sobs accompany her, but one look at her steeling gaze, entwined fingers, and silently chanting lips is enough to translate her emotions.

Roy has been sitting on his desk for hours. He has been scribbling furiously as if each word from the news anchor is an essential clue for his independent investigation. Sometimes he takes several minutes to bury his head between on his arms on his desk, and the softest of sighs will be heard.

He had lost his mother once, and now three of his colleagues. How does it make him feel now?

I clutch my head between my palms, tasting the faint heat through my fingertips. After all, our states aren't much different, since I once saw a dying man too...

This wouldn't have happened if we were more careful and wary.

Miro snuggles inside his blanket, but his face still pokes out from within. His sneeze must be an excuse to snivel without drawing unnecessary attention.

This wouldn't have happened if we were more careful and wary.

Xin-Yo doesn't share our grief, but it's tolerant enough to book a private corner and toy around with Roy's chest of weapons.

"That shows how vain your efforts are," Jorge repeats in my head, blowing out the fire I've raised since my parents' arrest. The smoke from its remnants smothers my lungs.

This wouldn't have happened if we were more careful and wary.

If fighting for justice is this depressing, no wonder no one has stepped up for the role.

🐾

I'm already in a comatose-like sleep when someone rattles me awake. "Argus wants to talk to you." The husky voice belongs to Roy, and as he shoves his phone to my face, I stifle a yawn, careful not to exhale my stale breath.

"What? Why?" I groan, blinking sleep from my heavy eyes. Roy slips back into the night, untraceable. Grumbling, I press the device to my ears. "Who?"

"It's Argus," a raspy voice replies, sounding as groggy as I am. "Sorry for disturbing your sleep, but Roy asked me to do this—"

But didn't he say Argus wanted to talk to me?

Muffling my stream of questions, I retort, "It's fine. What is it?" But reality slaps me like a bucket of ice water at my own question. The three unnecessary deaths burn back in the crannies of my mind, spreading pain to my heart. Argus' silence chokes me more. "Look, if you're going to tell how sorry you are—"

"I'm sorry," he clips in smoothly. "Roy called first. He talked about many things. And we're kind of worried about you—"

"Why would you?" I snap back.

His voice booms like a cannon through my eardrum. "You let Jorge drag you down, which is exactly what he wants—"

"I'm too tired of all this." I massage my temples in hopes of keeping my temper at bay, but with exhaustion poisoning my veins, it's useless. "If that's all you'd like to say, please let me catch some sleep. Who knows what might happen next to another part of my small, trusted social circle." He's about to stammer something, but I quickly bite through his words before they sink in, "Return to The Office and work your night shift, Argus. Leave me alone."

"Well, too bad, I've quit."

"Yeah... wait, I mean—what?"

"I've quit," he repeats in a firmer tone. I'm yet to spurt out my questions when he continues, "Since the explosion. Today's Dogson is different from the way it was years ago. In a bad way." He sighs heavily. "Not only it was the police's fault for being so laid-back and ignoring their daily patrols... like, how could they let that suicide bomber wander around?"

"Suicide bomber?" I scratch my scalp with sharp claws.

"Some of my friends—Migos, too—quit after we worked the pieces ourselves. You see, the Warner couple—with the lost children—was wandering around The Office lately. They kept on insisting to meet Jorge, and he finally agreed two days ago. After that, we heard them saying about filing a report to Biliya's Human Rights Enforcers. They're notorious folks at Lizare City with... uh, abilities to find every evidence they need in clever ways. But they'll only handle reported cases."

"So someone didn't want them to file a report?" I shrink further while bearing my thundering pulse. "And that someone exploded their van?"

"Yeah. That someone didn't want further complications in his region. Killing them, along with one of the hostages—"

"The suicide bomber was one of the children?" Burying my face in my sweaty palm, I choke back a gasp. The back of my skull thuds with tremors, blurring my words. "Why... why were they kidnapped?"

I jerk from my position at the dragging silence. But soon, each of my nerve spike in alarm at an exploding bang from the other side. Blinded and anxious, I fidget with my mattress.

"What have you done, you headless donkey?" Another bang. Something wooden creaks, followed by a storming pair of feet against floorboards. "We shouldn't have done that. I should've prevented you—"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Argus puts a distance between the phone and his mouth. "How could you know—"

"They're tracking us, alright? I told you, pal, quitting isn't the best choice." Chaos blooms in the form of more creaking wood, solid slams against the wall, and scrapes of a chair. There's an ear-splitting commotion before the speaker continues, "Whose burner phone are you calling? Not many people have them... wait, don't tell me it's him. Only wealthy geeks have access—"

"Stop blabbering, Migos, or I'll shove my golden tooth down your throat," Argus grumbles softly. "Fine, let's pack up if they are tracking us. Besides, it isn't him I'm talking to. It's his friend."

"Don't tell me it's the fugitive boy." A monstrous rumble pipes out of Migos' throat. "We've just quit for a few hours and you already spread the news everywhere... wait—do you hear that?" The line drowns in a spine-chilling silence, drawing goosebumps all over my skin.

As if sensing trouble, Roy returns to my side. "Let's grab some fresh air." 

Scooting out of the darkness, I pin my breath in my chest as long as the other line barely responds. Their heavy exhales sign that they haven't closed the call yet, and it makes the wait more torturing.

Once the moonlight-drenched vines beckon us outside, I whisper, "Have Argus told you he quit The Office?"

"Of course." He frowns. "Have he told you what's wrong?"

I fumble around for a speaker button when a loud clatter buzzes from their side. Are they still packing? "A—Argus? Is everything alright?"

"I don't think so." I freeze at the stiffness of his usually fluttering voice. "I'm sorry about this, but please keep the phone on. Take shifts with Roy if you need it. We have to go," he says, barely catching his breath. More thumps and violent slams resound from the speaker before the call dies, now as silent as a graveyard.

"Would it kill you to tell me what's going on?" Roy grits his teeth.

"I'm not sure," I stammer once his arched eyebrow comes to my view. "But Migos came and... well, things went bad since then. Migos warned that they were being tracked."

Roy grips his face with frustrated fingers. "I told him to stay aware of it. There were no mentions of further tracking when they resigned, but you know who runs The Office." He sighs, slumping outside of the cave and morphing into a pretentious boulder. "Where are they going?"

"Argus told me to keep the phone on." His eye sockets are glaring darkly behind his palms, urging me to mutter, "Let me take the first shift. You didn't sleep, did you?"

He scoffs. "Not a chance. I've failed them once, and there won't be any second time." He pauses as if contemplating his next words. "Sandra might've told you this, but I lost my best friends thanks to my recklessness." When he releases his fingers from his face, pearly tears are reflected in his eyes. "But no matter how much I try to change for the better, I still am. Now three people are dead... adding the death toll to four, after Mom. All of them thanks to my wrong expectations." The tears grow more prominent now, like dew glinting against leaves at the first strike of sunlight.

I try to search for consoling words in my brain, but with my equally crushed state, it's tedious. I end up crouching next to him, placing a shaky grip on his shoulder. "You know how much you've changed."

"But still... four lives could've been spared. Or five... including the suicide bomber." His aimless glare turns into furious blinks. "Migos could've had normal eyes for his entire life. Argus could've lived without a false tooth. If I didn't tell Mom how Dad had an affair with a colleague, she wouldn't have gone to his office and... rode the cursed elevator."

"You should try to not look back." My chest is heavy with tension, resulting in my awkwardly-timed gurgle. I sound like a drowning swimmer after my own words slap me back.

This wouldn't have happened if we were more careful and wary.

Roy's demeaning snort drives me out of my muse. "You're in no state to say so. Look at you. Only a few catchphrases from Jorge and you're as dead as lamb steak."

"They were... meaningful," I stammer while shaking my head. Why did I let Jorge's words affect me in such a brutal way? How could a few words strip my defense bare, causing me to lose my purpose—stopping more brutality to fall upon Dogson's Lowlifes?

"And so were their deaths," Roy spits back. "They affected more than my mental state."

In desperate need of distraction, I count the minutes while looking at the star-sprinkled sky.

Soon, when he nudges my arm, his small—or forced—grin clears away the fragility he displayed earlier, like they were just my imagination. "Somehow, we aren't that different, are we? We both lost someone meaningful in our lives... and now several at once."

I chuckle, releasing bits of tension from my chest. "Someone said that before, I think." It might be Sandra... or was it Mr. Julian? "But I truly agree."

"Enough grieving, I guess. We've done it all day already. If Sandra was here, she would've spanked our brains." His smile trembles. "We should do our best, right? She counts on us too. Vice versa."

"What is... veversa?" My questioning tone barely reaches its peak when the phone rattles in my palm. Roy puts it on the speaker. Buzzes and steady breath drift from abroad, filling me back with dread. "Argus?"

"Treehouse in three for five." Barely a second later, the call blurs with static beeps.

"Does that mean they'll meet us at the treehouse? What is three, and what is five?"

Roy nods, his grin wilting like a sunflower during winter. It's like he barely hears my words. "If Argus and Migos ever seek my place for help since that incident, they must be in a life-and-death situation."