The Chief Inspector's latest visit bore an unsettling air of deviation from the usual routine. This time, I was quietly separated from the others, escorted down an unfamiliar corridor without explanation. A gnawing dread began to take hold, with the worst possible scenario unspooling in my mind.
They were sending me back.
Instinctively, I began mapping potential escape routes, my thoughts racing—until the Chief stopped outside a door. Mildew's office.
The Inspector turned, crouching to meet my gaze. His steady eyes bore into mine, an uncharacteristic gesture that rendered us equals—adult and child, a rare equilibrium. Despite my efforts to remain impassive, the unorthodox nature of the moment caught me off guard.
"Hiccup," he began, his voice low and deliberate, "you're about to be presented with a choice that lies beyond the confines of conventional law. Whatever path you take, remember this: there are forces out there ready to aid you."
Though questions stormed my mind, I merely nodded in acknowledgment. My silence seemed to satisfy him. Rising with deliberate precision, he opened the door.
This was not my first time in Mildew's office, though it was the first time I had been invited. On the day we arrived, Camicazi and I had broken in, driven by curiosity and suspicion. Any information we could uncover about our so-called trustworthy caretaker might prove invaluable.
Now, however, the stakes felt far more dangerous, and the room itself was steeped in foreboding.
The office, shielded by a thick layer of dust, was a disorderly remnant from a bygone era. Outdated furniture, worn and weathered by time, seemed barely capable of supporting its own weight, as if on the brink of degeneration. Each piece of furniture—once perhaps grand in its prime—now wilted with age, its once-polished surfaces dulled to a faded memory. The walls, lined with a chaotic collection of framed black-and-white photographs, displayed portraits of the Mildew's three wives.
Their appearances were so peculiar and indescribable that they produced an instinctual reaction of nausea. The whole space felt like an old, forgotten archive, precariously holding on to its existence, as if one more breath of air might send it all to dust.
Speaking of the so-called room, Chief Oswald and I weren't the only ones in it. Seated on the caretaker's main excuse of a chair was another police officer. A dark, close-cropped-haired man with a goatee in a different uniform approached, the intricate details and polished fabric setting him apart from the officer behind me. The richness of his attire, more refined and adorned with subtle decorations, left no doubt—he was someone of higher rank. His broad frame towering over radiated his sense of cold authority.
The man gestured to the Chief to stand by the door and ordered, "Take a seat."
His cold, piercing eyes—dark as storm clouds—that seem to hold an intensity to make others shrink under his gaze, met mine as I got seated. A deep scar ran from his temple down to his cheek. Probably a souvenir of past violence. Separating me from my thoughts, he introduced himself,
"To enlighten your queries, my name is Krogan. I'm the Chief of Police."
I noted that every word he spoke was measured. It was as if it was conveyed by a strategist who knew how to bend situations and people to his will. The tight clench of his jaw showed a man who wielded power, not just through brute force, but through sharp, calculated decisions.
Every fiber of my being urged caution—I could not trust this man. Growing up on the streets, where every decision carried the weight of survival for my family, I had honed an unerring instinct. My gut had never betrayed me, and I wasn't about to doubt it now.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Hiccup," I offered curtly, my tone measured, the greeting devoid of warmth.
He did not respond. Instead, his piercing gaze swept over me, a silent, calculated appraisal that seemed to peel away layers, leaving nothing concealed. Finally, he spoke, his voice cold and deliberate:
"As the name suggests, it's hard to believe you survived the streets."
Rookie mistake.
"Appearances are often deceptive," I countered, my voice steady but laced with a sharp edge. "Take yourself, for instance. You strike me as someone more suited to being behind locked bars than the one enforcing them."
Behind me, Chief Oswald shifted slightly, his brief startled movement betraying his surprise. My words, however, only drew a raised brow and a quiet snicker from the cold-eyed Chief of Police.
"Ah," he murmured, his voice tinged with amusement. "Now I see the family resemblance."
The confusion that flickered across my face did not escape him. He leaned forward slightly, his tone dripping with a mix of revelation and mockery as he elaborated:
"You see, Mr. Haddock, we are fully aware of your connections—particularly to the Chief stationed in Berk. However, such ties must remain undisclosed. The public's trust in the police force is already on tenuous ground, and we cannot risk further erosion. After careful deliberation, in conjunction with child protective services and the jury, it was decided that your parental figure would not be informed of your whereabouts. You will remain at the orphanage, progressing through the standard adoption system unless another living relative—capable of providing a safe, stable home and the financial means to ensure your well-being—steps forward and passes the required evaluations."
The prospect was grim. From what I knew of my so-called "living relatives," the best-case scenario would see me back on the streets within a day; the worst, locked in a cupboard to be forgotten. Fortunately for me, those arrogant fools had never been adept at drawing the attention of men like him.
"To think," I remarked coolly, "the Chief of Police would travel all the way to a simple orphanage just to personally deliver such news."
You're only here because of my connection to individuals of interest to you.
"You have no clue," he replied, his words laden with subtext, the unspoken message clear: You have no ties to them.
"Then please, enlighten me," I pressed, my gaze unwavering. What is it you truly want from me?
The man's eerie smile hinted at a strange familiarity, as though conversing with me was second nature to him, "To put things into perspective, crime is on the rise—thievery, smuggling, trafficking, homicides, and so-called 'suicides.' Despite their frequency, a peculiar pattern connects them all. Yet proving this remains elusive, tangled in a web of misunderstandings, disappearances, and falsely accused offenders.
"One crime syndicate pulling the strings, using others as pawns in their game—the very syndicate my so-called living relative is entangled with."
"Congratulations."
Given what I know about my family tree—his claims simply don't add up. It's not just implausible—it's as if he's weaving a tale meant to deceive or unsettle me.
"Based on what evidence?"
The man arched an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, his gaze silently mocking,
You don't trust me.
"Genetic evidence," he responded, "Imagine my surprise; The DNA, we obtained from the primary suspects, which led us to a dead end, bears a striking resemblance to yours—the sample we found... well, from nowhere."
So they're deeply entrenched in the crime syndicate enough to not leave traces.
For the time being, I will accept his word without personally verifying the physical evidence. Given the circumstances, it appears that such an option is not presently available to me.
"You want a personal messenger; to spy, monitor their movements, and report, while remaining ensnared and cut off from any ties to the outside world, without getting killed," I concluded.
"You made your choice then."
"It is rather surprising that you assume I have a choice in this matter."
As the conversation drew to a close, I could sense the exchange of information winding down. Each word, carefully chosen and weighed, had served its purpose, and the dialogue was nearing its natural end.Though the dialogue seemed casual on the surface, there was an undercurrent of something more—both of us aware of the stakes, yet neither fully revealing the depth of our intentions.
"Your social workers have swiftly reviewed and approved your relatives, along with their credentials, to take on the responsibility of your care." —an approval that seemed almost too quick, too seamless.
"When will the social workers be arriving to collect me?"
The phrasing underscored the implication that it would not be the relatives themselves who would be coming, subtly reinforcing the theory that this arrangement was being kept deliberately low-key, perhaps for reasons of importance or reputation. The Chief, with a unsettling grin, confirmed my suspicions with a simple statement: "Tomorrow at noon."
So soon
"Anything else?"
"No. I have all the information I need."
My statement seemed to have caught him off guard, as he regarded me with a thoughtful expression. No doubt he was pondering why I had yet to inquire about the names of my so-called relatives. Then, with a smile that barely reached his eyes, I heard him murmur, "Clever boy," before rising from his chair and exiting the room, leaving a trail of unspoken words in his wake.
Part of me wished our paths would never cross again. Yet, with my unyielding streak of rotten luck, a deeper, nagging part of me whispered otherwise.
The conversation with Chief had left me reeling. After talking with Chief Inspector Oswald, I excused myself, retreating to gather my thoughts in solitude. There was too much to process, too many fragments to piece together. My observations, my theories—they needed to align, to form a coherent picture, if I had any hope of navigating what lay ahead.
The Chief claimed I had relatives, people I had never known. If his words were true, the most plausible connection was through my mother's side of the family. My mother—whose death was a mystery to me—and my grandfather, Old Wrinkly, long gone himself. He had succumbed to old age, but my mother's fate was a closed chapter no one ever dared to open.
Old Wrinkly was an enigma, a man of few words and endless secrets. He revealed nothing of his past or his origins—not even how he met my grandmother, let alone the cause of her death. When questioned, he responded with riddles, deftly throwing others off the scent. Most chalked it up to grief, but there was always an undercurrent of something... darker.
There were peculiarities about him, whispers of forbidden love. He never wore a wedding ring, as his hands bore no sign of one ever being there. The townsfolk of Berk often remarked on his overprotectiveness of my mother, a vigilance that seemed unusual, even obsessive. Yet Berk was no ordinary place. For all its underdevelopment and narrow-mindedness, it boasted an unusually high number of police officers—making it the least likely place for anyone to search for hidden truths.
And now, these so-called "relatives" enter the picture, members of a family whose prestige shields them from suspicion, their reputation gleaming and untarnished in the public eye. A family so revered that refusing to take in a teenager like me would risk a dent in their carefully polished image.
But their search for me has already begun. It no longer matters whether I choose to stay or run—they will find me. The thought alone chills me, but one fear burns brighter than the rest: they must not find my family. I would not let them be dragged into the chaos that follows me. Whatever these people intend to do with me, my family will remain far away, untouched by their schemes. My absence will devastate them, but it is a small price to pay for their safety. They may grieve, but at least they will live, free from the shadows now closing in around me.