The threshold bit colder than the rain outside.
Not a chill from poor insulation; something heavier, pressing against the skin like a breath drawn and never released. A thick haze clung to the floorboards, visible only where the hallway light caught it, curling and writhing as if alive.
Hans stepped inside first, deliberate, measured.
Marcus followed, coat pockets stuffed, shoulders stiff. Behind them, Sergeant Bastrava and three officers lingered in the doorway, pistols holstered, retention straps clipped. Every eye flicked to the corners, to the shadows, to the fog at their feet.
"Tension," Hans thought. "Thick enough to choke."
"Call out if you need anything, Inspectors," Bastrava murmured.
Marcus smirked, humorless.
"If something jumps at me, oh trust me, this whole neighborhood will hear it."
"Marcus," Hans said softly.
"What? Transparency," Marcus replied.
Hans let the silence stretch.
The hall seemed ordinary; faded paint, framed family photos, carpet worn thin. Normal. Too normal.
But the air… it was wrong.
Still.
Tight.
The house itself had held its breath since the night the Delacourts died.
Hans crouched. Thick. Dense. Dangerous. Yet contained.
The ward pulsed faintly, a translucent membrane hugging their bodies. The miasma pressed, recoiled, hovered at the edge; curious, almost respectful—but insistent.
Not enough to break it. Not enough to push them back.
A subtle ripple moved through the fog, deliberate, almost sentient. Hans felt it. The haze made way, guiding them forward, coaxing.
"This… isn't normal," he murmured.
Marcus's jaw tightened. "Yeah… I don't like it."
Bastrava's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, not normal?"
Hans straightened. "Miasma this thick usually overwhelms the ward. This one… steps aside. Almost inviting us in. Variables I don't yet understand."
Marcus's fingers twitched. "Variables? That's your polite way of saying 'shit's fucked.'"
Hans ignored him.
The feeling of being watched pressed from all directions; not a single point, but the house itself.
They moved forward. Holstered pistols bumped lightly against hips with each step, ready but untouched.
The kitchen emerged from the haze. Fog swirled along counters and cabinets, curling against the ward's invisible barrier.
"Stay tight," Hans whispered.
Bastrava's team followed the shimmer, careful to stay inside.
Marcus scowled. "Feels like walking inside a damn soap bubble."
"Better than losing your lungs," Hans replied.
The kitchen looked ordinary. Half-chopped vegetables, a pot soaking in the sink. Life frozen mid-motion.
The miasma moved along the tiles like smoke trapped beneath glass, never breaching the ward.
One officer pointed. "Meal in progress."
Hans nodded. "No panic. No attempt to flee."
Marcus leaned toward the counter, fingers twitching at the ward's edge. His eyes caught on subtle black markings across the walls. "Residue… but not divine. Not out of pact either. Something else. Something that shouldn't exist without a catalyst."
Hans met his gaze. Unspoken: How can there be miasma with no pact?
Hans exhaled. "Whatever happened, it didn't start here."
The haze thickened slightly as they advanced. It curled along walls and corners, pulsing in rhythm with their steps, yet the ward held, shimmering with each cautious movement.
The living room appeared ahead. Temperature dropped sharply. Their breath fogged inside the ward. The miasma thickened into a dark, shadow-like swirl, clinging to walls and ceiling like roots seeking sustenance.
At the center lay the Delacourt family.
Father.
Mother.
Son.
Daughter.
Bodies piled together, grotesque and still. Untouched. Unmoved.
Marcus exhaled sharply. "Shit."
Bastrava's jaw tightened. "No sigils. No runes. Nothing indicating a pact."
Hans crouched, observing the scene. No ritual circles. No chalk residue. No scorch marks. Not a trace.
"This isn't a rogue pact," he said quietly.
"You're certain?" Bastrava asked.
Marcus answered first. "Rogue pacts leave traces; blood, burns, smears. Cult idiots love theatrics. This? Too clean."
Hans nodded. "A proper pact leaves regulated energy. A rogue pact leaves chaos."
Bastrava's voice tightened. "Then what leaves… nothing?"
Hans didn't answer.
Marcus exhaled, eyes narrowing. "Well… we're about to find out."