Chapter 20

Aren bursts out of his house, boots crunching into the snow as he tears down the path, his breath puffing out in frantic clouds.

“Holy shrimps! Please tell me nothing happened to her!” he blurts.

Hijgerta bounds at his side, paws kicking up powdery snow, keeping pace as they plunge into the dark.

The only light comes from the pale moon filtering through the trees, shadows stretching like claws across the ground.

Aren’s heart pounds in his ears―until, out of nowhere, he slams chest-first into someone. His legs tangle, and he crashes into the snow with a grunt.

“What the―?!” he yelps, scrambling to his knees. “You worm-sweat-drinking fart-eater! The fork you doing in my jungle?!”

His voice echoes through the quiet woods.. and then he freezes.

The figure across from him groans, also struggling to sit up. Her sunglasses are askew, bangs plastered against her face with melting snow. Brown hair spills over her shoulders as she lifts her head, brushing the frost from her coat.

For a moment, they just stare at each other―both breathless and surprised.

Then the woman suddenly lunges at him, throwing her arms around his shoulders in a crushing hug.

“AAAGH!” Worman shrieks, thrashing wildly as his limbs flail like a trapped goose.

“Don’t touch me! You’re so unholy! The umbilical cords will punish you! I’m gonna plant a tree in your ear!”

His voice shoots into a high-pitched squeal as he kicks at the snow.

“Stop―STOP―you stink! Did you fart?! I swear I’m gonna lay a shit on you!! MOOOM!!”

Hijgerta darts around them, barking hysterically―and eventually she leaps, clamping onto the stranger’s rear with a hard bite.

The woman jerks violently, stumbling back with a cry―except the sound that escapes isn’t light or feminine at all.

It’s rough, deep, guttural, the unmistakable voice of a man.

The sound freezes Worman in place, his brain short-circuiting.

For a tense heartbeat, he can’t move, can’t even think. Then, a high-pitched, panicked scream rips from his throat: “BY THE HOLY UMBIBLICAL CORDS FROM THE UNDERGROUND OF THE PREHISTORIC CAVEMEN TIMES! That ain’t no lady squeal! Were you attempting a fart exorcism on a man and accidentally got his voice instead?!”

Fear overtakes him, and he scrambles backward, cupping his rear. “No! Not me! Don’t come near me!” he cries, crawling frantically away. 

“Aren, chill! It’s me! Hans!” the stranger shouts, voice strained as he tries to pry the dog off, who refuses to let go of his rear. 

Worman freezes, confusion flashing across his face before his frown deepens and twists into panic.

“NO WAY! You stole my cousin’s voice?!” he screeches, clutching his head.

“I AM YOUR COUSIN!” Hans snaps back, his voice cracking with both pain and frustration. “Now make your damn dog stop, she’s gonna tear my whole ass off!”

Desperate to prove himself, he hurriedly claws at his own face, and with sharp, frantic motions, he rips away the brown wig, tosses the crooked sunglasses into the snow, and begins peeling off the thin, rubbery mask, revealing the sweat-soaked, all-too-familiar face beneath.

Worman freezes again.

“She.. she gave birth.. to my cousin..” he whispers. “Teleportation.. through.. birth..”

Hans groans, tugging harder at the mask. “What the hell are you even saying, Aren?!” he barks.

Worman blinks, his wild thoughts suddenly snapping together again. Then it hits him; the reason he bolted out into the snow in the first place. His heart lurches.

“Yuki’s in danger..” he mutters, his voice barely more than a breath, and without another thought, he scrambles to his feet.

His eyes blaze with urgency as he darts into the dark forest, completely ignoring Hans and Hijgerta.

“AREN! WAIT!” Hans yells, tugging futilely at the dog and waving his arms. “Yuki is home! She’s safe!”

Aren halts in his tracks and spins around to face his cousin, eyes wide and searching.

Hans, still struggling to free himself from Hijgerta’s grip, manages to pull out his phone from his pocket and holds it up.

A photo flashes on the screen―the same photo pinned to Aren’s detective board. “This girl, right?!” Hans shouts over the chaos. “She’s home! I saw her go inside! And Dori left!”

Aren sighs relieved, though confusion knots his thoughts.

How does Hans know all this?

His eyes narrow slightly, suspicion prickling at the edges of his relief. He signals Hijgerta to release, and the dog finally lets go, whining softly as Aren pats her head. 

Hans hisses as he rubs at his sore rear, cursing under his breath.

“I was worried, since my father told me about your plan,” he eventually explains. Then he holds up his phone once more, displaying a photo of Aren’s detective board―likely taken by his uncle during his last visit.

“You can’t do that, bro.”

Aren exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair.

“I know.. I’m working on a different plan now,” he mutters a little frustrated.

Hans limps closer through the crunch of snow. His voice softens, though determination underpins it.

“I’ll help you.”

Aren’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing. “No. Absolutely not.” His words cut firm, his stance defensive. “It’s dangerous. I’m a detective. I’ve got this handled.”

Hans straightens up despite his limp, his face tightening with a seriousness Aren rarely sees in him.

“Two years, Aren. Almost two years you’ve been chasing this Santa dude, and what do you have? A wall full of scribbles and a dog that bites asses.”

His eyes flick down at the golden retriever, who sits panting proudly in the snow.

He sighs deeply. 

“I know the streets, Aren. I can move where you can’t, talk to people you can’t approach.. I could get info you literally can’t anymore because your face is known. I can cover your blind spots, handle the risks you can’t take, and keep you in the shadows where you belong.”

Aren frowns slightly, weighing Hans’s words. The idea settles in his mind, and he can’t deny it―having him on this could make things a lot easier.

His gaze lifts, locking onto Hans, his expression hard and unreadable.

Hans meets it with equal seriousness, the two holding each other’s stare in the frozen silence. 

Then, a sudden, thunderous fart rips through the quiet.

Neither of them moves. Hans doesn’t flinch, doesn’t crack a smile―he just holds that same stone-faced stare and, in the gravest tone possible, mutters, “I sharted.”

Aren nods slowly and sighs, turning away, and just as flatly, he replies, “..So did I.”

That’s it. No more words.

Aren gestures toward the house. Wordlessly, Hans follows, Hijgerta trotting behind with her tail wagging.

That night, the two cousins spread the maps, notes, and photographs across the table, leaning over them with furrowed brows and intense focus.

Words fly back and forth as they argue, connect clues, and sketch out possibilities, each idea sharpening the plan.

Aren feels a small sense of relief he hasn’t felt in years. The weight of doing this alone starts to lift, replaced by the comfort of having someone who understands and can help. He still feels some worry about the dangers ahead, but for the first time in a long while, he feels capable―and even a little hopeful.

Meanwhile, in the hospital, Mei lies unconscious in a quiet room, her breathing steady but shallow. Her fingers twitch every now and then―a small, almost invisible movement.

Two bodyguards stand nearby, watching her closely. Her father made sure they stayed by her side, and they do exactly that.

Then, outside the door, a person dressed in black peeks through the window.

He mutters under his breath, “F*ck..”
   
 
TO BE CONTINUED…