After a long and largely silent drive that stretched nearly seventy-five minutes, the black rental car finally began to slow as a lonely house appeared in the distance. The road had long turned from paved city lanes to winding gravel paths, and now even the gravel was giving way to uneven patches of hardened dirt.
The area surrounding them was largely empty, just dry shrubs, slanted fences, and distant clusters of dying trees that looked as if they'd given up on thriving. There wasn't another building in sight, only the flickering mirage of the small, isolated home looming on the horizon.
Inside the vehicle, Tom had been uncharacteristically quiet for most of the drive, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the glass. Arms crossed and eyes distant, he looked less like the cocky, smooth-talking schemer Gregor had come to know and more like someone deep in preparation for a confrontation he wasn't entirely sure how to handle.
Gregor, hands on the steering wheel, glanced at him from time to time but said nothing. He understood the weight pressing on Tom's shoulders, even if the younger man never voiced it aloud.
They drove for another few minutes in that heavy, thoughtful silence, until Tom suddenly straightened in his seat, alert as a hawk catching movement in the grass.
"Stop the car," Tom said abruptly.
Gregor blinked, taken aback, but instinctively hit the brake. "What's wrong?" he asked, pulling off to the side of the desolate road.
Tom leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed ahead. "This place is too quiet. Too still. If someone lives in that house, they'd hear a car engine from a mile away out here. We drive up to his door, he might panic, think we're after him. Worse, he might bolt. Or prepare to shoot."
Gregor nodded slowly, glancing ahead toward the house that now seemed much more suspicious than it had moments ago. "You think he's that jumpy?"
"Wouldn't you be?" Tom said. "A journalist who knows things people want hidden, hiding out in the middle of nowhere? I'd be jumpy enough to have landmines outside my mailbox."
Gregor snorted, but he understood the logic. It wasn't just paranoia, it was the hallmark of Tom's attention to detail. He never left anything to chance. Even something that felt simple, like approaching a house, became a calculated decision with him. That was why he was dangerous. That was why he was respected.
Without further comment, Gregor turned off the ignition and opened the car door. The moment he stepped out, he felt the quiet.
Not just silence, but oppressive, swallowing quiet. No birds chirped. No wind rustled through the sparse brush. The whole place felt… abandoned by nature.
They left the car by the roadside, its dark body blending into the lonely backdrop. Together, they began the walk toward the house, footsteps crunching lightly against the gritty earth. Tom moved with a deliberate calm, his head turning left and right in slight, precise motions as his eyes scanned everything, the path, the fence, the windows.
It was subtle, but intense. Like a soldier heading into enemy territory. Gregor followed closely, instinctively quieter than usual, drawn into Tom's unspoken tension.
"This place gives me the creeps," Tom muttered under his breath after a moment, his voice barely audible. "I don't know if it's the house or just the silence. Either way, I don't like it."
Gregor glanced sideways. "You sure you want to go through with this?"
Tom didn't answer immediately. He just kept walking. After a moment, he spoke, his voice low and steady. "I don't have a choice. This guy, Jhel Habib, he might be the only one who knows anything useful. If there's even a shred of a lead in that head of his, I need it."
The closer they got, the stranger the house looked. It was small, maybe two rooms, with pale peeling paint and warped wooden siding. A crooked antenna jutted from the roof like a metal limb. The front porch sagged, the steps slanted as though they'd give way under the weight of a stiff breeze.
Yet despite its rundown appearance, the house didn't look completely abandoned. There were signs of life, a patch of swept dirt at the entrance, a recently nailed window frame, and faint but distinct tire tracks leading toward the back.
They reached the front door, and Tom held up a hand, stopping Gregor. His posture changed, head tilted, body tensed. He closed his eyes for a beat and focused, activating his heightened hearing.
He listened, first to the wind, then deeper. His ears searched through the house's stillness. Nothing. No footsteps. No shuffling. No voices. Not even breathing. It was almost too quiet.
He opened his eyes and gave Gregor a small nod.
Tom slowly reached out and tested the doorknob. It was unlocked. He twisted it gently and pushed the door open with deliberate slowness, revealing a darkened interior.
The house smelled of dust and stale air, mixed with something faintly metallic. They stepped inside.
The living room was dim and shadowed, curtains drawn tightly shut. Furniture was minimal, a torn couch, a rickety table, a shelf half-full of books. Papers littered the floor in clumps. It looked like the remnants of someone trying, and failing, to leave in a hurry.
Then Tom's ears caught it. A sharp, distinct sound.
Click.
He barely had a second to process it, but it was enough.
His eyes widened. That was a gun cocking.
"Gun!" he shouted, just as his body reacted faster than thought.
He lunged toward the sound with raw instinct, crossing the room in a heartbeat. He collided with a figure emerging from the shadows, Mr. Jhel Habib. The man had been hiding behind a crooked doorway, revolver raised.
The gun went off.